​

Walden, Amended

Introduction (continued)

​

 

For many years I rented a cabin in Wellfleet, a small town on the outer reach of Cape Cod, and lived there by myself for a few weeks each summer. My nearest neighbor was a hundred feet away and the one beyond that was out of sight past a stand of trees. I was on the edge of protected land, by a sandy meadow and tall woods that would never be cut. The cabin was tiny but still maybe three times larger than Thoreau’s. Every morning I would bicycle into town, buy a local newspaper then bicycle back to read it on the front step with a breakfast of yogurt and blueberries.

​

Formed by ancient glaciers, this part of the Cape, at its skimpiest, separates the Atlantic Ocean from Massachusetts Bay by only a mile. During the day I hiked the nearby marshes and white cedar swamps, and in late afternoons would walk the Atlantic-side beaches, lulled by waves crashing against the sand, endlessly withdrawing only to crash again. On the placid Bay side, dead horseshoe crabs littered the wrack line and I would collect the largest ones to bring home.

​

Come nightfall a myriad insects whirled around the cabin’s glowing porch lamp and crawled across its gray cedar shingles. June bugs bobbled and bounced against the windows as if confused. If the skies were clear, I would walk to the meadow where I gazed up at the Milky Way. The darkness was quiet but not silent. Oaks rustled in the breeze and the high-pitched calling of peepers—tree frogs that seemed both nowhere and everywhere at once—filled the clearing. Sometimes a faint salt tang drifted inland from the nearby ocean, becoming stronger as the humid atmosphere cooled before dawn.

​

Though not close in time or circumstance to Thoreau’s experience, I was also not so distant. My solitude on Cape Cod was part of an American tradition, perhaps originating with him, certainly now exemplified by him, of seeking enlightenment in the natural world. Walden is worth reading because Thoreau has always been our strongest voice against the narrowness of conformity. He stands before us, still, urging us to broaden our senses, to open ourselves to the truths around us—if only we could see, if only we could hear.

 

​

​