October 25, 20113:30-4:00 P.M.

I had passed this way a hundred times.  Again, I was up to my neck in commuter traffic, on my way home, and sitting at the traffic light at Concord.  To my left was the sign, which read, "Walden Pond."  I had a choice to make: to move with the traffic toward home, or take a pause in my day, to rebel, and stop.  But there were obligations to fulfill.  People were expecting me to arrive at an appointed hour. 

I put my turnsignal on, and decided to follow a sign.

A one-minute drive, and a one-minute walk from parking lot is Henry Thoreau’s cabin. My mood turns casual—unrushed. I resist the urge to rush up to the door. I pace myself, a saunterre.

In a barren grove, of oaktrees, Thoreau stands and looks into his palm. Is he thinking of the blood-life rushing through his veins? Does he see the universe within his hand?

I kneel below and contemplate his form;

It blends in with earth and tree;

Human form and natural form are one;

Flesh, bone, bark, water, and blood, the same.

I approach the cabin with anticipation. I feel at home, as if I were going home. I had not expected these feelings. I am in the presence of something new, something natural and real.

I am filled with anticipation.

Light filters in upon the floor, and invites me in.

I walk slowly toward the door.

I am standing in the doorway to the cabin. Here is where, on a day like this, that Walden was written. Here is where a man has time to reflect, write, and live life deliberately. I stand silently serene and reverential. I never want to leave this spot.

The proper stove will heat our home and cook our food. What more do we need?

I have my notebook and a pencil.

I have one good book.

On a cold night in the fall or deepest winter, all Thoreau needed to do was stoke the stove, crawl under the covers, and fall peacefully asleep.

The rush hour has begun; but I am off-road now.

I retrace my steps, back up from Walden Pond. A friend that I had seen before, says “Hey,

Halloo!” I smile, say nothing, and move on toward Thoreau’s cabin, my car, and the road. I start up, and put the car in gear. Careful not to go too fast, I pass Slowly, and with reverence up the drive And to the road, and to the light, and home.