Henry David Thoreau had nothing on Doc Paskowitz. Thoreau lived in a cabin walking distance from the town of Concord. He wanted to live on his own (for a couple of years) to see what it was like to be personally responsible and outside of society.

Doc Paskowitz is and was a practicing Jew. Is it OK to remove yourself from society and live on your own? Is it OK to make your kids live that way? Is it OK for one family to do this? How about if 2 families wanted to go off of the grid but live together? At what point are you not doing what is asked of you in Judaism?

Much of Jewish tradition and rituals revolve around life cycles and the calendar. These traditions require the community to be involved. Many mitzvot require living in a community to be performed. Study, worship and repair the world -- how do you do this by yourself or with only your family?

I took the first step on September 11th 1999 when I set out, like Thoreau, to live my life in the woods. I had set up my tent and supplies in the far NW part of a major US city. For the first six months, I lived in a state of constant fear. Anytime, I thought, I would be discovered by the Sheep Police and thrown back into society. Those six months passed and nothing happened, I thought then that I was free, however, the anchor of the world, still kept me down. Now nine years have passed. I still live in a tent, only a couple of miles from my original location and finally I am going to attempt to break totally free from it all.

I like my tent. My surroundings. Every time I am away from it for a couple of days, when I get back and lounge on my sleeping bag, and hear nothing but silence, a state of euphoria engulfs my being. Sadly, this has always been shortlived because, when I awaken the next morning, I hear the cacophony of vehicles driving on the nearby freeway, people on their daily commutes to jobs that they hate. Jobs that have no other purpose other that to line the pockets of the sickos that exploit them, so they can have the money to buy stuff that they really do not need. Oh the maddening perils of capitalism. There has to be a better way! Right? Sure I buy stuff. Beans, rice, soda (my sick addiction), batteries etc. But these are essential items for me to exist. Is $4.00 a gallon gasoline essential for you to exist? You will insist that the answer is yes. You will jump up and down until you are blue in the face. Ha! I say. In reality, the car is as essential as your toaster, but the toaster is better. It makes toast. What does a car do? It wakes me up in the morning and pollutes the air. Sure it might get you to WalMart, a movie, or to some other distraction, but next time, how about walking. Or as Thoreau put it, sauntering. I bet you (and I) need to saunter a few pounds away. Can't hurt to leave that car in the garage just once. Once.

Tent life has its challenges, of course. It isn't all puppies and sunsets. There are heat, bugs, rains, floods, and animals to contend with. The Jehovah's Witnesses have yet to find me, but I do feel them closing in. That is why I move from time to time. Recently I have acquired human neighbors. They live about four hundred yards from me. They means more than one. Most certainly two, perhaps three or four. I haven't taken a census yet. One is harmless, you're garden variety bum. A "I Will Work for Food" toting miscreant. He has a limp, a crutch, a bike, a dog and is always reading a cheap mass produced novel. We chat on occasion. He asked me if I liked John Grisham. I tried to frame my answer as politely as possible. I did not want to make an ememy of him. He has been around for years. We can co-exist. His running mate is the one I am not sure about. He is bi-polar, dirty, and would ask Jesus for a dime. He is a talker, but has yet to say anything. He disappears from time to time. Often a guest of the county, in their jail or more likely in their psychward when he is not taking his medication. Soon, lets hope, he will disappear again. I wish him no ill harm, but he is bringing attention to where I live and I do not like that. I go to extremes to stay hidden. Those guys have flashing neon signs saying "Bums Needing Handouts Live Back Here" out near the road. These people are products of our sick nation. Stockbrokers and corporations are looking for handouts, why shouldn't those who are less than fortunate? I could easy follow their lead and just sellout in this manner, however I do like to bathe and these people generally travel in herds. I am a lone wolf. I like it that way. I have learned to make do in more subtle, unique and craftly ways.

That wasn't always the case. I used to steal. Alot. I first started shoplifting as a means of protest. Abbie Hoffman once wrote " To steal from a brother or sister is evil. To not steal from the institutions that are pillars of the Pig Empire is equally immoral." The first thing I took was a gallon of Minute Maid Orange Juice. I thought by liberating a large grocery chain store of their overpriced OJ that I was really sticking it to the man. I did not want to let Abbie down. So then came a theft, then another theft, then another theft and soon I was a one man crime wave. Soon I was taking baskets of stuff out the door. Groceries, videos, clothing, rollerblades, books, you name it. It was no longer a revolutionary act, it became the way I made my living. That is true withmost things in live. You start something withgood intentions, but as it snowballs, it becomes a cry for help. Looking back on it, I couldn't believe I got away withit for so long as I did. But being a average looking middle aged white man has its advantages. If I were of color, or had long hair and tats, they would have caught me for just thinking about such an act. I was quite brazen withit. Always testing what I could get away with. Once, Barbara Bush was signing her book at this particular store. There were at least 10 uniformed cops there, not to mention the Secret Service. That didn't stop me. I wheeled a basket of goodies right in front of them, then out of the store. I even waved. Eventually, I did get caught. Three times. It was just getting too easy so I got stupid and sloppy. The first time I was busted, though I took a stupid risk, it was sort of a surprise. I thought I was bulletproof. The next two, I knew if I walked out of the store I would get busted. Previously I would had walked out leaving the ill gotten booty behind, but shrinks would say I wanted to get caught. So I did. All total I spent roughly 200 days in the county pokey for my transgressions. I sort of liked jail. I got caught up on all of the Simpsons episodes I had missed and it was all-you-can-eat Little Debbie's Snack Cakes. I have a particular fondness for the Goo Goo Clusters. Millions of people who haven't shoplifted once are in jail and they don't even know it. Self made prisons. Many are doing hard time. Are you?

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I always wonder where all of the Christians are? This is a Christian nation, right? Where I live, they have churches as large as basketball arenas. One, in fact, was converted from a basketball arena. You know the guy. He says, screw Heaven and the afterlife, you can live your best life now! Religion in the USA is worse than our politics. Of course, it is often our politicans that find new and creative ways to screw up any chance for a true religious life in America. The only way to God here is in a monastery or a convent. I have a theory that all mainstream US pastors and other forms of clergymen are raging atheists. They are just a cut above the homeless people that I described earlier. Instead of holding up a sign on a corner, they panhandle from the pulpit. I have talked to 100's of preachers in my travels. Sadly, I can count the ones who truly love their God on one hand. A few have been downright sinister. Don't believe me? Turn on you TV or radio and listen to them speak for five minutes. That is all you need. Sure, there are exceptions. Of course, finding one is like finding a needle in a haystack. I like churches. Big ones, small ones, round ones, red ones. Baptist, Catholic, Jewish, Muslim... no matter. They have always fascinated me. I often sit in them for hours at a time when nooneis around, which is often the case except on Sunday mornings when everyone pretends to be Godly. I will not pretend here. I am not godly. I am agnostic. I just love the silence. The larger the church the better. The silence is larger. I especially like the older churches. They have a special smell. Old moldy hymnals and candles as old as my grandmother. I used to pretend that I was a Christian during my visits. I have since deemed that silly. Why be like everyone else? I think I may have believed when I was a child, but now that sensation has become fuzzy. I did have a rude experience with an Associate Pastor of the church that I was attending when I was 13, but that really did not have a lasting impact on me. I have, in the past, used that as an excuse for my agnosticism. Not the case, so I will now forgive this man for his dasterly deed, for this is the Christian way. In hindsight, he was really just doing his job. Today, if I feel a negative vibe during a clandestine visit to a place of worship, I simply walk out and find a new church. They are everywhere. I have several favorites that I go to time and time again. They are like old friends. I have even given some names!

I admire Ted Kaczynski. You may know him as the "Unabomber".  Let us forget that he murdered three people. Well, that is hard to overlook, and in my opinion was a miscalculation on his part. He was a Math Professor, afterall. He had likely figured out as well, in all of his equations, that the odds that he would not be apprehended were good. However, he almost certainly overlooked that his squirrelly brother, David, be on to him and would turn him in. I wonder, if I someday turned evil, would my family do the same? My relationship with my family has cooled in recent months. They have grown tired of my act. One has actually suggested that I "grow up". Great. Especially coming from the source. They do not understand my lifestyle. Never will. I should not expect them to. I do, however, understand theirs, because it it almost exactly like yours. They are worldly people. Ted and I are not. They believe that I am mentally ill. I very may well be and it is a diagnosis that I will not refute. But if it is to live a life like theirs or be mentally ill, I choose, without hesitation or prejudice, the latter! Let us all be a bit bonky. The world will be a better place. Kaczynski believes that it is runaway technology that will be the end of us all. He wrote about this, in length, in his manifesto (Link in My Blogroll) I tend to agree. Technology has made use fatter and dumber. He lived a spartan, and except for the pipe-bombs, a technology free life as a hermit in Lincoln, Montana. He had a small cabin, sans running water or electricity. His contact with others, including his family, was on his terms. He took walks, read books and plotted his revenge. Unlike Ted, I have no axe to grind. Society is what it is.. doomed to fail. Who am I to stop it? Ted couldn't and others in the past with intellects that would make Kaczynski look like the town idiot threw there hands up in the air and just walked away.  Can you explain how people like Bill Clinton and GW Bush became president of the so-called most powerful country on Earth? Those few people with real qualifications want nothing to do with the office. I cannot blame them. It has become nothing more than a dog and pony show. All of this has the makings of a bad Ayn Rand novel. I will live out my life soon, like Ted, in a desolate place, with no neighbors. I am now halfway there. I have learned that one can live without the creature comforts of a Sleep Number Bed, an I-Phone or a HDTV. I have told some acquaintances that if I ever had $20,000 in my hand, they would never see my again. With all that has gone on this year, and my new outlook towards things, maybe it is time to lower that to $2000.

MORE LATER....

One of today's quotes is by the American philosopher Henry David Thoreau, who is best known for writing the book "Walden".

The quote is: "Men have become the tools of their tools."

By this I think he means that our possessions come to possess us, that we become slaves to our cars/iPods/laptops.

Because if by any (unlikely) chance he meant anything else, the word "become" implies that men weren't always the tools of their tools. Which is just untrue. We are simple souls, as any woman will tell you.

You'll notice there's no picture accompanying this post. I just haven't the nerve.

This power we have is strong and depending on our current state of mind depends on how affected by it we are. It manifests itself even more when we are in a state of uncertainty ourselves or are looking for a guide, someone to put us back on a path. Sometimes we happen upon the positive path which can change our state for the better, sometimes the negative - often when this happens if everything else aligns it can be the start of a downward spiral; in a most severe case the start of clinal depression.

Have you noticed though how there are some people who remain positive in the face of adversity, can seemingly bring out the sun on a rainy day? That is because not only are they acting positive but they believe in their thoughts. It is all very well and good looking on the bright side of things but if you don't believe them then those negative thoughts are always there in the back of your mind playing a tug of war with your state. That's not to say the believers in the positive don't have these thoughts but they very rarely enter the focus. The more time you spend focusing on the positive and being around people with the same mindset, the more ingrained it becomes; think of it as positve peer pressure! I'm sure many of you have heard the manta 'success breeds success' - well positivity breeds positivity! It's why team environments and training camps foster people to step up a level when the chemistry is right.

Now I won't profess to being a full believer yet - I don't know if anyone can say 100% they are but every day I try more and more to believe and that is the importance, striving everyday to be a step closer than the one before. If you can gradually move into a positive belief system then over time you will become that person, the one who brings light into the darkest of days. So instead of trying to put a positive 'spin' on things, start to find the real positives in life, believe they can happen and live by them.

"If a man has faith, he will operate with equal faith everywhere; if he has not faith, he will continue to live like the rest of the world, whatever company he has joined to." -  Henry David Thoreau

Hay un éxtasis en la costa solitaria,

Hay compañía, allí donde nadie se hace presente,

Al lado del mar profundo, y música en su rugido:

No amo menos al hombre, sino más a la Naturaleza,

A partir de nuestros encuentros, a los que asisto sigiloso,

A partir de todo lo que puedo ser, o que he visto antes,

Para fundirme con el Universo y sentir

Lo que nunca puedo expresar aunque me sea imposible ocultar.

(Lord Byron)

Anoche vi una película que me llevan recomendando desde que salió hace poco. Leyendo la sinopsis, la probabilidad de que me gustara era considerable. Viendo la fotografía, viendo la persona en quien está basada (Christopher Jhonson McCandles) y viendo las referencias que toma (Thoreau, Tolstói, Byron, London...), esa probabilidad se convertía casi en seguridad.

La película, dirigida por Sean Penn, es la adaptación cinematográfica de la novela homónima de Jon Krakauer. La recomiendo a todos.

Written at Sunrise campground, Bryce Canyon National Park, Utah

“It is something to be able to paint a particular picture or to carve a statue, and so to make a few objects beautiful; but it is far more glorious to carve and paint the very atmosphere and medium through which we look, which morally, we can do. To affect the quality of the day, that is the highest of arts. Every man is tasked to make his life, even in its details, worthy of the contemplation of his most elevated and critical hour.” – Henry David Thoreau, Walden

In the spirit of the excerpt above, that’s it for the day. No pictures, no writing, I’m just going to sit back, read, and savor life.

We must learn to reawaken and keep ourselves awake, not by mechanical aid, but by an infinite expectation of the dawn.
—Henry David Thoreau

For an all too short while yesterday afternoon I sat on my back deck and looked at the trees.  The sky was cloudless and the sun had already moved to the other side of the house which left me in a cool shade.  The leaves whispered above me; below burbled Glen Creek.  Together they made a white noise which, if not quite masking the nearby traffic, offered me a pleasant, alternative sound track.

As I sat there musing about nothing in particular, I found myself awakening from a slumber I hadn't even realized I had been in.  I found myself quietly returning from a relentless elsewhere and elsewhen into the nowness of Now.  For a few fleeting moments I felt truly present; there was no nagging past or pushy future, only me, the trees, and the creek.  It was enough.  Actually, it was profusely enough.  I was what I was and it was very good.

The moments passed, of course, and I soon shuffled to the waiting contingencies and, I'm afraid, once more to the sleep of the distracted.  Yet I can still recall that ephemeral alertness and wonder why it's so hard to hold onto it.  I've stumbled into it from time to time before, but my times in that sacred grove are infrequent and transient.  The tyranny of productivity surely has a lot to do with it.  The Gospel of Attainment.

I need more Zen.  I need a lot more Now and a whole lot less Next.

]]> http://pickem139.wordpress.com/?p=161 Fri, 29 Aug 2008 18:29:58 +0000 The APT http://pickem139.wordpress.com/?p=161 A haiku about each song for the uninitiated...

2080 by Baltimore own's aptly named Yeasayer

"In 2080,

we'll surely be dead, but we're

glad to be here! Yeah!"

Salt of the Earth by the Rolling Stones

Kieth Richards, Thoreau

and Baumer know, poverty

by choice is noblest.

Winged / Wicked Things by Sunset Rubdown

We may disagree

'bout religion, but Pick 'Em

brings us together.

Muscle 'n Flo by Menomena

"I love the sound of

Menomena in the morn,

it sounds like victr'y."

An early-morning walk is a blessing for the whole day.
Henry David Thoreau

Nothing is more beautiful than the
loveliness of the woods before sunrise.
George Washington Carver

It's not what you look at that matters, it's what you see.
Henry David Thoreau

There is always Music amongst the trees in the Garden, but our hearts must be very quiet to hear it.  ~Minnie Aumonier

We can learn a lot from trees:  they're always grounded but never stop reaching heavenward.  ~Everett Mámor

"The most I can do for my friend is simply to be his friend.  I have no wealth to bestow on him.  If he knows that I am happy in loving him, he will want no other reward.  Is not friendship divine in this?"

- Henry David Thoreau

Henry Thoreau suffered with Tuberculosis over his life.  During a thunderstorm in 1859, he was compelled to walk into the rain to count the rings on a tree stump.   From that excursion, he fell ill and never recovered.  Bedridden, he accepted the terminal nature of his condition.  Those around him were amazed at his tranquil nature as death approached.  At the end of his life, a friend asked him if he had made peace with God.  He simply replied, " “I did not know we had ever quarreled.” 

Romans 5:1  Therefore, since we have been justified through faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ,

WWW.BIBLEDONATE.ORG

Em geral, temos o hábito de confundir verdade com sinceridade. Verdade, em uma definição livre, seria tudo aquilo que é puro em sua essência - seja bom, seja ruim. Sinceridade é muito mais que uma extensão de sentido. Ela pode vir a ser a exteorização daquilo que aceitamos como verdade - seja igualmente boa ou ruim.

Para algumas pessoas, a verdade e a sinceridade formam algo incivil. De fato, verdades costumam machucar, mas o que efetivamente as agrava é o modo como elas são exteorizadas. Se uma pessoa aparece com um relógio novo e outrem, de supetão, diz "com toda a sinceridade" que o achou feio, o que dizer? Ela foi apenas sincera, como se diz.

É evidente que a falta de sensibilidade anuvia o brilho de ser verdadeiro e sincero. Uma ação edificante, aniquilada por outra irremediavelmente destrutiva.

Deveria uma pessoa, em dado momento, falsear para não ferir alguém? Não. Devemos, sim, aprender a nos comunicar mais respeitosamente. Devemos aprimorar e evoluir moralmente, mudando, quiça, nossa índole. Ser verdadeiro e sincero são atributos louváveis quando aliados a condutas dignas. Assim, podemos evitar verdades desastrosas, omissões desfiguradas e mentiras descabidas.

Certas verdades continuarão incomodando, ferindo e modelando nossa moral. E nem por isso (ou talvez justamente por isso) devemos sacar do nosso dia-a-dia toda sinceridade de que pessoas livres necessitam.

Como disse Thoreau, "mais que amor, dinheiro, fé, fama, justiça, dê-me verdade", sem parcimônia, mas com polidez, respeito e educação.

Você embarcou no ônibus-esquife sem

pneus e sem destino, e desde então

os motores do mundo rugem como

nunca, sutis engrenagens lubrificadas

pelo suor e por tudo o mais que se extrai

dos homens, lúbricas formas de estar na

vida como nas fábricas, nos escritórios,

nos bares, nas ruas de sonho acordado

trocando vísceras as próprias vísceras

pelo papel mais aclamado, por exemplo

o de mocinho, o de bandido, o de

vítima inocente, o de encarnação

do mal. Você deixou o cinema numa

tarde qualquer, largou o carro

de manhã cedinho, queimou dinheiro

foi ver o que se passa no extremo

da terra, ziguezagueando por estradas

à margem da margem da margem

da margem pois foram poucos os

que se deitaram extenuados em

vigília absoluta em lugares vagos

como o ônibus-esquife e, sozinhos

com a morte, lhe disseram certo,

vamos em frente, vamos ver

o que se passa em outros extremos,

para além das cadeias de montanhas

cobertas de neve, para além da neve,

das nuvens, da novidade breve

de mais um dia. Você foi e combateu,

como Quixote combateu a idéia da

máquina, máquina, máquina

de moer a natureza e vomitar de volta

pedaços dela, peças utilitárias de

quebra-cabeças, destituídas no entanto

do segredo impalpável que faz a graça

deste mundo.

(Alex Supertramp é o nome adotado por Chris McCandless, um garoto americano que saiu de mochila pelos EUA depois de se formar e, embalado pela leitura de Thoreau, Tolstoi e Jack London, ao final de uma aventura de quase dois anos na estrada foi viver no Alasca uma experiência radical: jogou fora o mapa e, tendo levado apenas um saco de quatro quilos de arroz, alimentou-se por quatro meses do que caçou e coletou no mato.

Seu corpo foi encontrado em setembro de 1992, dentro da carcaça de um ônibus deixado na trilha para servir de abrigo a caçadores. Inanição foi a causa da morte, aos 24 anos. A história real é contada no filme “Na natureza selvagem”, dirigido por Sean Penn, que baseou-se no livro homônimo de Jon Krakauer.

O filme é muito bom. O livro, que acabei de ler, também. Concordo com Krakauer que foram injustos aqueles que viram em McCandless um suicida, um aventureiro incompetente: sobreviver tanto tempo no mato, no Alasca, não é pra qualquer um, e além disso a sua trajetória é, de fato, de uma vitalidade absurda. Quixotesca, a meu ver – naquilo que o Quixote de Cervantes tem de mais profundo, sua ironia com o idealismo, seu carinho com o idealista.

Detalhe: Supertramp/McCandless morreu provavelmente no dia 19 de agosto, exatos 16 anos atrás).

P.S: sobre neoludismo, confira aqui. A associação é minha: não há menção ao movimento no livro ou no filme. Assim como não há referência ao Quixote.

Well, heck, that sounds simple enough.

So why doesn't it work?

Because to succeed, a person must have the tools to succeed and the attitude that the goal is possible. In other words, a person needs a good work ethic, something to do and the means to do it.

Easy again.

But most people settle for less than what they are capable of, then either overwork to benefit their employer or underwork in the mistaken belief that only partial success at work does not equal only partial success in life.

If the original statement is correct, then why are most people not feeling successful, fulfilled and personally complete?

We don't teach to success of the individual. We teach success for the nation. We teach that success for corporations is good. We teach that our working to keep corporations successful is good. We teach that spending every bit of income we get is good, that it should make us happy and keep the economy rolling.

But we don't teach to individual success. That is, we don't teach to success of the individual on a massive, nationwide scale.

What we do teach individuals is that they should have the skills to satisfy employers sufficiently that they will keep us employed. We almost never teach entrepreneurial skills because that would be counter to the benefit of corporations.

Ask most teens why they will continue with their education past high school and you will hear "so I can get a good job" more than any other answer. In other words, "so that I can get a good paying job." Hopefully, one that will not disappear when the employer downsizes because it has not forecast future markets correctly and has lost money, so needs to cut staff to show more profit or minimize losses to satisfy its shareholders.

We don't even teach our children what it means to be successful, other than that they will be happy being constant consumers. Which few are, really. Again, ask a teen what it means for an adult to be successful and the answer will most likely be related to a secure job with good income (with which to buy lots of stuff).

It's not my purpose to teach you what success is. I know what it is for me. But it took me a few decades of searching to learn.

You need to learn what success is for you. What it really is. What it really means to lead a fulfilling life.

Then teach it to every kid you know.

Schools don't do this. Their purpose is to train employees to be good workers and consumers.

Corporations control the curriculum. If you doubt this, check the name brands on all kinds of products in today's high schools and even in grade schools. Including in text books.

First you must learn what success in life really is. Then teach it to others, both adults and children.

How many people, on their deathbeds, have claimed that they should have worked harder or that they should have spent more of their money in order to make their own lives and the lives of their family members better? Corporations want us to believe that we should follow that line of unthinking.

Learn, then teach. It's what we are supposed to do. Corporations took that responsibility from us because we walked away from it ourselves.

When you teach children what is meaningful in life, don't report it to your employer. The employer won't like that. Just do it in private.

A recent study (actually several of them) showed that large corporations were set up to be sociopathological (amoral, capable of violence or spreading fear without feeling guilty). It's part of their corporate ethic.

This is the power that will control the destiny of your children unless you change what your kids believe.

If you don't like it, do something about it. Talk it up. Social change happens only when enough people believe that children should be taught differently. Every socially acceptable norm of today was once a radical idea. Then people talked about it.

So talk. It's easy.

Bill Allin
Turning It Around: Causes and Cures for Today's Epidemic Social Problems, a guidebook for parents and teachers who want to have a time scale, content and methodology for teaching children what they need to know to lead successful lives.
Learn more at http://billallin.com

Merriam-Webster Online defines a hermit as "one that retires from society and lives in solitude especially for religious reasons." The word originates in Christianity - from "eremites" - those 40-years-wandering-the-desert types. I'm a spiritual person, but not religious. The only deserts I wander in include air-conditioned casinos. But I do consider living in nature a form of meditation, and I do spend a reasonable amount of time contemplating the "big themes" especially while walking or doing chores. Perhaps what it comes down to is this: I am not actually "hiding" in the woods, I'm simply choosing to live here buffered from human population. Clearly, Thoreau was also "choosing" not "hiding" - my kind of hermit.

I guess it could be said that Ted Kaczynski withdrew from society for religious reasons - his own anti-technology zealotry. As a sociopathic, serial killer he also elected himself "God" and started arbitrarily sending other people "toward the light." Zealotry as an excuse to commit murder is, sadly, nothing new or unusual. But one reason the "Unabomber" remained unidentified for so long was because Ted was hiding.

Therefore, from here on I'll be more careful about use of the term "hiding in the woods ." "Choosing" vs "hiding" is an important distinction. Choosing solitude seems more in keeping with the dictionary definition of a hermit and it's more consistent with my motivation. I think most of my long-term friends (and yes, I do have one or two) know that I was easy-going and peaceful before moving to the woods - I'm just happier in the quiet of nature.

But even some who retreat to the woods motivated by anger, or hiding from misdeed , are ultimately rewarded by the discovery of peace, forgiveness, and redemption. Such is the transformative quality of meditation in nature. One's initial motivation for retreating may be less significant than those ultimate discoveries.

here's the essay anyways

N. Scott Momaday once said that “there is great good in returning to a landscape that has extraordinary meaning in one’s life.” Mr. Momaday may have had the right idea. There are certain landscapes, or environments, that help define us in who we are as people. The landscape that, I think, most shaped me is my childhood neighborhood.

My childhood neighborhood was not the typical American cul-de-sac, street, nor was it even near a town. I lived in a forested area in El Dorado County called Swansburrow. There were lakes surrounded by trees, roads shrouded by dark forests, houses buried deep in he woods, and hills covered in vegetation of the tree variety. In short, there were trees, of all kinds and sizes surrounding me and my home. I look back on those years of my life and just remember the life that those trees provided, the safety and comfort that the trees provided for the inhabitants of Swansburrow. With our houses hidden behind a veil of pine and Manzanita, people felt they could be more themselves in a haven of solitude.

Solitude, that’s what people moved to Swansburrow for. The families would have get togethers on holidays like 4^th of July at the firehouse, but that would be the only time the adults would really interact. There were a few families that were intimate as friends, but mostly the adults kept to themselves and let the kids create the bonds. Every person under the age of 21 knew each other, and were considered kids in Swansburrow. Those without cars went around the miles of road on foot or upon bicycle. Even amongst our friendships and adventures, however, we were alone. We had the solitude of a community spread out and disconnected. We learned how to fend for ourselves during the long summer months while our parents were away at work. The older kids watched us, as long as they wanted, but let us go off on bike rides away from them, away from rules and expectations.

That environment truly taught me how to make decisions on my own, and take care of others. I was the oldest of the younger kids, so I was the one they turned to in the midst of a problem. I learned how to make fair decisions that benefited everyone from my experiences in the forest of my childhood. When I moved away from there, into town, I took those lessons with me, but I couldn’t take the solitude, or the trees that kept me shielded and safe.

I agree with N. Scott Momaday in his quote:  “there is great good in returning to a landscape that has extraordinary meaning in one’s life […] they define us, and we say: I am who I am because I have been there.” Having lived in Swansburrow when I did really shaped who I am today. I have revisited the area since I moved away from it, and have since learned that I had a singularly unique experience that no child will ever relive. They have torn down my trees and built houses up to the edge of my lakes, but they have not taken away the Swansburrow in my mind’s eye, or the memories I accrued there.

In other news, I'm reading Vegan with a Vengeance (yeah, I know it's a cookbook, but the writer's got great ideas!) and laying on the floor of my sister's unfurnished apartment (besides a small tv on the floor in front of me). She's got this great view of a nearby pond, and trees all over the place, which makes it even better that she has a huge glass sliding door with a patio. Of course, I have the bug screen closed, but still. It's so nice outside, I have the air conditioner off.

Anybody feel like sending me a care package filled with snacks? Anything but beef jerky would be awes'. I've eaten two boxes of instant mashed potatoes over the last few days, and let me tell you, it has not been fun on my digestive system. TMI? Not for me, it's not! I'm the one stuck with it!

Buuut anywho, I've broken my addiction to that World of Warcraft thing. (Anyone unfamiliar with this can just peruse the blog archive.) And I'm on a computer that doesn't have my videos files, so I have nothing to do but read, either the cookbook, Walden, I am Spock, or The Tree of Culture. Seeing as the cookbook and Walden are nearby, they're probably going to be read first. Of course, with Walden, it's not so much a read as it is a study. I open it up to a random page and just start reading; I know it won't take much to find a passage to deeply identify with.

But back to the cookbook to see if I can find anything to make with the scraps she has around here.

Love ya!

The job hunt continues. I discovered something the past couple days during this process however. I found out that there is a certain job that I really want. Years ago(10 to be exact), I used to teaching programming and computers at a tech college in Memphis, TN. Well, I found a similar job here and have submitted my resume. They haven't responded yet. However, a bunch of other companies have - mostly programming jobs. Nothing wrong with that, except, I really, really want this teaching job. I'm going to go ahead and do the interviews with the other companies, but I'm going to continue to try to get this teaching job. Wish me luck.

For now, it seems I Can Only Imagine, as MercyMe so passionately sang.

Positive thought of the day:

The world is but a canvas to our imagination.

Henry David Thoreau

So we went to Boston for a conference, which means that I was there as a tourist, a rare thing for me indeed.  I had been there a few years before for a conference of my own and had seen the Freedom Trail sites, so I needed to find something else to do with my time.  Since I read a good deal of Thoreau for fun as well as insight, I decided to take a day to go to Concord and see what I could while on foot.  The trip involved using the subway to get across town and then the commuter rail to get out to Concord, which will play heavily later on. 

Upon arrival at the Concord train station I got oriented and then walked into the downtown, which was choked with tourists and little shops that while scenic seemed to offer little more than random tourist fare.  Following the signs posted almost everywhere I made my way out to Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, stopping along the way to see some of the monuments along a shaded avenue.  It was probably a good mile at least out to the second cemetery entrance, and I then followed the path up to Authors' Ridge.  Cresting the hill, it's surprising that the foot path immediately leads one to the Thoreau family grave.  I had expected a long search among the graves for the few names I wanted to find, and here was the most important, to me, right at the top of the trail.  One thing that strikes you on the Ridge is that, with the exception of Emerson, these are all simple monuments and family burials.  Four other family members lay next to Henry David in front of a simple red granite family stone, only a white marble marker a foot tall allocated to mark where H.D. returned to the earth.  Fifteen feet away lies the huge Emerson plot, with Ralph Waldo's mortal remains marked by a huge white boulder and a bronze plaque, mawkish and overaggrandized in this sea of simple slate and granite.  Standing there, contemplating the difference, I could not help but think of the entry in RWE's journal a year after his first wife died where he wrote that he walked to her grave and opened the crypt.  Creepy and all gothy.  Today's youth could learn so much about the maudlin by reading a little Emerson.

Authors' Ridge was awe-inspiring in that so many great American writers lay within a thirty yard square of each other.  Emerson, Thoreau, the Alcotts, Hawthorne, all within the bounds of sight, all on this quiet knoll in wooded New England.  But time was short, and I'm not the sort to stand at graves in quiet contemplation for too long, not even at my own father's final piece of real estate, so I headed down the hill and back into town.  The Pond was next on my list.

A mile later I'm back in town, sweating like a fiend because in New England they don't believe in public drinking fountains or selling water (apparently a Calvinistic notion of water being unnecessary) I found the visitors center and after talking to one of the nicest volunteers ever, lifted my foot towards Walden Pond.  This was to be the nadir of the trip, the reason d'etre.  I was going to my Transcendentalist Mecca, the place where lived America's greatest thinker (in my simple opinion) and where our need for simplicity and honesty was lived out and committed to paper for the first time (in his journal and notes, not the book.)  This was a pilgrimmage in the old sense, a push to find and sit in the presence of something bigger than myself. 

Map makers and road builders of New England and the users of these maps need to realize that not every one moves as the crow flies, and that when told a certain place is a mile and a half outside of town, one expects to only walk a mile and a half.  Well, seeing as straight lines are apparently offensive to the New England sensibilities, the mile and a half felt like two, maybe three.  I'm sure that the road must be beautiful in the fall, that leaves of gold and crimson making a curvy hall through the country must be a glory to the soul; in June, when the humidity is high and there's little breeze, the road felt like a little bit of hell, twisting and turning and crossing and recrossing, all while dodging cars and a major state highway just a short bit before rush hour.  The one bright spot was the gorgeous public garden set aside by the town for the locals to set up there own small garden plots.  Sunflowers and beans and every manner of vegetable graced my sight as I turned one corner.

The hardwoods of the road turn to pines as I crossed Route 2 and walked into Walden Pond Reservation.  A few steps later and there, on the left side of the road, stood that little shingled cottage that I wished to find.  Thoreau's cabin has been rebuilt in a spot more hospitable to travel and car culture, perhaps a little nicer than that which the philosopher knew first hand.  A statue in bronze of HDT stands a few yards from the door, short and striding away towards the road, contemplating something unseen in his hand.  Behind the statue stood the open door to the cabin!  I entered the room about the size of my apartment's living room and there they were: the bed, the desk, the fireplace and stove, the three chairs for company.  And that was it.  No feeling, no emotion.  Maybe I was too tired, too spent from the walk around Concord and the walk to the Pond.  I went outside and sat under a pine facing the door and simply contemplated the cabin.  Shortly, a man in period clothing walked to the cabin and began to busily prepare it, moving furniture and bringing a stool outside on which to sit.  Turns out that the park has an interpreter that does a really spot on first person of HDT, and I got to talk to him for a bit.  When told that I was from Iowa, he asked if we had problems with the Indians in the territories, and I told him no; he then asked about the Mormons and made my freaking day. 

I left yound Mr. Thoreau and proceeded to the original cabin site along the banks of Walden Pond.  What no one tells you until you get there is that the Pond is still a public bathing site for the locals.  I spent the next fifteen minutes stepping over swimmers on the beach and seeing some very unfortunately hairy men as I wound through the paths to the cabin.  When I got to the clearing, aside from the huge pile of stones placed there by well-wishers (forgot the one I was going to bring) and granite pillars marking the site of the cabin.  It had a beautiful view of the pond and surrounded by pines, an idyllic place if ever I saw one, and again, no magic.  I sat there an hour, thinking, contemplating, relaxing before my walk back to the train, and nothing.  Perhaps I was cursed, perhaps there is no magic.  No emotion tied me to the place, not even the beauty surrounding me.  I wanted awe, inspiration, the spirit to dance within me, and there was nothing there.  And then it dawned on me...Thoreau achieved his ultimate wish.  He wanted to be no role model, no great teacher.  He walked his own path, for that was all that he knew, and could not tell anyone what path they should walk in life.  Here are my words if you choose to read them, but walk in your own world in your own way.  Here's the guide, now go find the path right for you.  Thoreau got his way.

Got back in to town, hopped on the train, and then sat for an hour and a half at Lincoln after the train broke down.  I got to spend twelve hours in the Massachussets countryside, seeing only two cornfields (what do they do with all that open ground?) and then made it back to the hotel room.  The rest of the trip was just as anticlimactic.  Once the newness is gone from someplace, it's hard to find new joy in the old.  It made me a little sad, to be honest.

Oh, and I forgot my camera, so I have nothing to show you for all of this.