"I went to the woods," Thoreau wrote, "Because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived."
Ever since reading that line for the first time, those words have been hanging on the wall of my mind. Embroidered in cross-stitch letters, framed in barn wood, it's one of the first things you'd see if you walked into my mind and looked around. To live deliberately--that's the best bit, the three words you can still clearly read after all these years.
Some rumors have it that Henry David wasn't a hundred-per cent hermit as he might have you believe.
Maybe he visited his mama in the village every once in a while, maybe every day.
Maybe he "never found a companion that was so companionable as solitude," but he did admit to having three chairs in his house: "one for solitude, two for friendship, and three for society."
Here's what I picture: Henry David wrote only when the one chair was occupied.
But that was at the end of the day, after Chair Two was vacated by his friend who'd been there conversing all afternoon, and after their mutual friend--who showed up and brought cake--decided it was time to pack up and head for home, too.
Some of Henry's writing is almost curmudgeon-like, asserting over and over how much he prefers his own company, leaving posterity with the impression that he devoted his time in The Woods entirely to reflection and hard work. We can wonder about the accuracy of his account of his stay at Walden Pond, what he did, with whom--but actually, bottom line, it doesn't matter.
What matters to me is that he found his Woods, his place to "live deliberately."
I'm among the throngs of readers who've been inspired by him to find my own. That inspiration wouldn't be sullied one bit if I discovered that he had the equivalent of a cell phone call with one of his friends at the end of the day, or if he met another in the village pub, both leaning back in their hard wooden chairs, smoking and conversing until dawn.
Everyone has a woods of sorts.
Mine is in the car, alone, on the road.
Though comparing a road trip, in a cushy-enough Mini Cooper, to a cabin in the woods would be ludicrous to a purist, we're not going to enumerate the obvious points of difference right now.
Most days, I wonder if I'd ever tire of driving around, looking out windows. pulling over with notebook and camera at some place in the middle of nowhere, writing, smoking, and eating whatever I can find on the floor of the car. (Usually you can find at least one smushed Reese Cup in the crack beside the driver's seat.)
Every once in a while, I feel a tad lonesome, imagining sharing a remarkable view or hour with someone who'd love it as much as I do. On those days, I'm particularly happy when the cell phone rings and I hear the voice of a friend from BackHome.
Road trips shared with a friend or friends--hardly anything is better than that. These are the trips you need two chairs to talk about in years to come, the ones that begin with "Remember when...." and both of you laugh exactly the same, remembering.
The Solitary Road Trip is the Woods--even if the driver happily answers the cell phone whenever it rings and enjoys talking for forty or fifty miles to a friend from Town. Solitude is my woods, my place to "live deliberately" in a different way than I do in town.
I wouldn't love it half as much, though, if I didn't know that back home I have a whole roomful of chairs and friends who will be there after this sojourn, this time apart.
Thoreau kept his journal; I'm keeping a blog.
Thoreau, with his three chairs, couldn't have imagined the hoards of us who would be his followers--not to mention Liking him on Facebook!
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