Category Archives: Literature

Sitting Morning

Sitting the Morning

Deep summer. Something seasonal stirs: light slants, a leaf turns, cool pools. And yet…on this morning, I lose sight of oncoming change and sit by the window in a shaft of sunlight; the day gains immediacy.

I am reminded of Thoreau’s stoop-sitting morning at the start of “Sounds” in Walden:

I sat in my sunny doorway from sunrise until noon, rapt in revery, amidst the pines and the hickories and sumachs, in undisturbed solitude and stillness, while the birds sang around or flitted noiseless through the house, until by the sun falling in at my west window, or the noise of some traveller’s wagon on the distant highway, I was reminded of the lapse of time. I grew in those seasons like corn in the night and they were far better than any work of hands would have been. They were not time subtracted from my life, but so much over and above my usual allowance.

We are, I think, born to grow on the edge, or in the margins, whether of seasons or in the doorways of the various constructions we make. Thoreau sited his tiny house at Concord’s margin, and, on the morning described above, set himself in between the tiny house’s interior and Nature’s ‘big house.’ The birds recognized the seamless presence of the house as they equally “[sing] around or [flit] noiselessly through” it. Not so easily done by a human, however, and Thoreau must be “rapt in revery” to “[grow] in those seasons like corn in the night.”

Photo on 8-24-14 at 10.14 AM

By this window, the jay squalls; the cardinal whistles; I sit. May your deep summer contain like moments.

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Filed under General, Henry David Thoreau, Literature, Nature, The Roost, Thoreau Quote, Walden

Down Came a Spider

By Corinne H. Smith

Ask anyone who knows me. They’ll confirm that my main priorities in life do not include housekeeping tasks.

So I wasn’t completely surprised one morning when a spider appeared in front of me as I was standing at the kitchen sink, washing the dishes. (Yes, every few days I wash the dishes by necessity, by hand.) She had dropped down from her nearly-invisible web at the place where the wall meets the ceiling. She just hung there, by a thread in mid-air, right at my eye level. “Hello,” I said. “How are you? Is your name Charlotte?” I laughed at my joke. If she responded, it was in a way or in a language that I could not decipher.

What could I do? My hands were wet and soapy. I didn’t want to hurt this spider. But I did want to discourage her from landing on the counter, where she could get accidentally crushed. So I came up with the idea of disturbing her lightly by blowing in her direction. My breath made her sway toward the window. After a few seconds, she got the message. She hoisted herself back up to her ceiling perch. Quite quickly, too. Spiders are amazing creatures.

A few days later, when I was washing the dishes again, Charlotte came down to visit me a second time. Now I gave her a good look as I talked to her. I saw that her two front legs were longer than the other six, and they looked as if they had little hooks on them. She was so tiny, though. She was smaller than the fingernail on my pinkie. When I blew in her direction this time, she dropped down to the edge of the cat’s water dish. Oh no! Had I drowned her? Evidently not. She sat there for a bit, then once again hoisted herself back up to the ceiling. I was still amazed.

The third time she dropped down in front of me, I decided to get an even closer look at her. I wanted to figure out what kind of spider she was. So I wiped off my hands and went into another room to grab a magnifying glass. When I came back to the kitchen, Charlotte was close to the counter. I moved the magnifier gently over her and leaned down to get a peek. Well, she was having none of this. She must have seen my action as an intrusion of privacy or even an outright threat. She nearly flew back up to the ceiling, seemingly in a rage. I was disappointed, but I understood. I put the magnifier away and finished washing the dishes. Every once in a while, I looked up and spied Charlotte sitting in her web near the clock. I sensed anger and a feeling of betrayal. I apologized to her for my arrogance.

Charlotte II

Charlotte II

As I thought about these encounters, I wondered if Henry Thoreau had any similar meetings with spiders. I searched his journal entries and didn’t find any appropriate passages. Then I realized the obvious secondary connection: E. B. White, renowned essayist and author of the children’s book “Charlotte’s Web,” had been a devoted fan of Henry Thoreau. Perhaps it was this inclination toward a close inspection of nature that drew him to study and to write about a spider in “Charlotte’s Web” and a mouse in “Stuart Little.” I decided to follow this diversion and briefly revisit White’s Thoreauvianism.

Elwyn Brooks “Andy” White (1899-1985) first read “Walden” as an undergraduate at Cornell University. It became his favorite book and the one that affected him the most. In an essay simply called “Walden,” White shared the details of his pilgrimage to Concord in June 1939. He drove into town on MA Route 62. (MA Route 2 had yet to be built.) He walked to the pond via Main Street, Thoreau Street, and MA Route 126. He passed the Golden Pheasant lunchroom and the Walden Breezes trailer park before heading downhill for the shoreline. He spoke of bathers, boaters, and the litter lying around the park. Thoreau’s house site was marked, but not as exactly as it is today. And White didn’t think very highly of the cairn, even though he found a rock to add to it. “It is a rather ugly little heap of stones, Henry,” he wrote. He walked back to the town center along the railroad. It’s difficult to know if he considered the trip worthwhile or disappointing. His total bill for staying one night and eating at Concord’s Colonial Inn came to $4.25.

In 1954, the 100th anniversary of the publication of “Walden” stirred White to write an essay that was both a tribute and a literary analysis. It was published variously with the title “A Slight Sound at Evening” or “Walden 1954.” Nearly every sentence glows with admiration. Even White found it difficult at times to be so enamored with Henry and with “Walden.” “To admire the book is, in fact, something of an embarrassment,” he wrote, “for the mass of men have an indistinct notion that its author was sort of a Nature boy.” Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

I enjoyed reading E. B. White’s essays, but I had to return to the present day. Naturalists will tell you that you’re never more than three feet away from a spider. Our Charlotte has been busy in the past weeks, catching flies and other tiny insects in her ever-enlarging web. She finally dropped down to see me yesterday when I was washing the dishes yet again. This time, it was just a chance for us to say hello to each other. Then she pulled herself back up to the ceiling. I think we’re on good footing again.

Charlotte provides a nice little pest-removal service for us. Maybe I don’t need to know exactly what kind of spider she is. She’s a helpful and social one. And thanks to fellow Thoreauvian E. B. White, I can at least give her a first name.

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Filed under Arts, General, Henry David Thoreau, Literature, Nature, The Roost

Return to Two-Boulder Hill

By Corinne H. Smith

I last led a nature writing walk to Two-Boulder Hill at the end of March. Back then, we had to walk around a few patches of ice, but we still had a terrific time. (See http://thoreaufarm.org/2014/04/a-visit-to-two-boulder-hill/ for the whole story.)

What a difference three and a half months can make! During The Thoreau Society’s Annual Gathering in mid-July, three of us took the same walk. Well, it can never be the SAME walk. We followed the same general path, and we witnessed the sights and sounds of Summer this time.

Charles and Lucy and I met at Thoreau Farm and began walking north. After we passed the Gaining Grounds fields and the woods behind them, we reached a little-used access road. Here we caught sight of flowers that like to live in these kinds of disturbed areas: the yellow bird’s foot trefoil, yarrow, tiny Deptford pinks, and Queen Anne’s lace. We watched as the smallest butterfly we’d ever seen lighted upon a small dark log. Upon further inspection, we thought that its perch may have been coyote scat. We had indeed approached Wildness pretty quickly.

On this steamy July day, with no clouds in the sky, the sunlight was too strong for us to stand in one place for very long. We walked along the trail and looked around for a shady spot to sit. We ended up just plopping down in the middle of the path, only an arm’s length away from one another. But we all had writing experience, and we quickly got ourselves into the proper frames of mind. We watched, we listened, and we quietly wrote in our journals.

We were surrounded by a dense forest that the wind brought to life. Breezes fluttered through all of the trees and branches above us. Lucy noted later that it sounded as if we were sitting at the edge of a big green ocean, with waves of leaves cooling us off instead of water drops.

After about fifteen minutes, I caught a hint of familiar flute-like tones. No! Was it possible? Had we been discovered by Henry David Thoreau’s favorite bird, the wood thrush?

I waited a few seconds, and the call came again. I was sitting a little closer to Charles, and I whispered to him, “I don’t believe it.” He cocked his ears and listened, and we heard the song again. Charles understood and nodded. He lifted his binoculars to see if he could see the bird. We alerted Lucy, too. Somewhere in the overgrown thicket in front of us, a wood thrush sang its beautiful tidbit song.

Thoreau called the wood thrush “the finest songster of the grove.” He wrote glowingly of the bird and its music. His journal entry for July 5, 1852, puts the thrush on an especially high pedestal, for the length of a full long paragraph. “Whenever a man hears it, he is young, and Nature is in her spring,” he said. It was true. The temperature suddenly became more tolerable for us. We listened as the bird came and went: always out of sight, but always sharing its music. I scribbled a rough transcription of the thrush’s jagged but magical melody line:

thrushsong

(You can hear the typical wood thrush song on Cornell’s All About Birds web site at http://www.allaboutbirds.org/guide/wood_thrush/id.)

Eventually I glanced at my watch. It was time to start walking back. I told my companions that we had to leave. Charles looked at me and said, “I could stay here all day.” Lucy and I felt the same way. Now THAT’s the sign of a worthwhile nature-watching and writing outing. Reluctantly we got up, brushed ourselves off, stretched our legs, and sauntered back to Thoreau Farm.

Charles was inspired to write a poem about our forest visitor.

Wood Thrush

Sitting in woods listening for sounds –
airplanes the winds shifting in the trees
cicada catbird then the faint
silvery voice, “come to me” “come to me”
the winds blow hard tossing treetops
we wait longer then the bird is nigh
“come to me!” yet closer “come to me!!”
I aim binoculars cannot see him
then silence — only the wind remains
this shy liquid-voiced singer
is the soul of the listening forest
~ Charles T. Phillips

This was indeed a day that the three of us will remember. And all we really did was take a walk in the woods.

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Filed under General, Henry David Thoreau, Literature, Nature, The Roost, Thoreau Quote