I am and have been a huge fan of Henry Thoreau since college. His journals are a fascinating read of his meticulous observations of nature in Concord, Massachusetts. When I miss nature and its quietness, I always revisit his writings.
I imagine meandering the grounds of Walden Pond and peeking into the simple cabin that Thoreau built himself and called home for just over two years, alone and apart from the general public. I would stroll though the forest, feeling the warm sun’s rays on my back, and hearing branches crunch on dried berries with each step. Perhaps we’d have coffee together sitting on a log outside his abode and talk endlessly about living counter cultural and ehat it means to march to the beat of our own drummers.
I have too many favorite quotes from his writings about nature, the creative mind, and how to live a simple life. But the one below is the most recent one I discovered: It’s simple but abstruse. I hope you can play with its meaning.
“The art of life, of a poet’s life, is, not having anything to do, to do something.”
April 29, 1852