Journal of Change

Not so long ago the full moon drew one of our largest tidal swings through the nearby bay. Nearly 12 feet of water coursed in and out, and I went down to have a look. What I found was a journal of change. Its lines were written with light and water and feet; and, as I looked more closely ice too. Such a journal put me in mind of Henry Thoreau and his journals of change.

The whole bay on which I float often was mud to the horizon, and dotted here and there were clammers, who, during this tide, had a chance to dig in beds that are usually submerged. A lot had opened up, even as the season feels devoted to closing inward.

Here are some visual notes from the day, with brief interpretations beneath. You may, of course, read them differently, see different stories. Let us know what you see.

Is not the patterning of the light writing? Can you read it?

Is not the patterning of the light writing? Can you read it?

 

A think line of tracks suggests the ruffled mud is the digging of a clammer.

A thin line of tracks suggests the ruffled mud is the digging of a clammer; the other furrows are the writings of water.

 

Split by ice

Split formatting by ice

 

More words from the long wash of water

More words from the long wash of water

 

Perhaps the thin light lines are the markings of ice sheets of different heights.

Perhaps the thin light lines on the rounded stone are the markings of ice sheets of different heights.

 

Water at slow work wearing away the land; tree persevering.

Water at slow work wearing away the land; tree persevering.

 

And, of course, fall's painting.

And, of course, fall’s painting.

What Edward Emerson Knew

The following is Lucille Stott’s original letter to the editor, an edited version of which was published in this week’s New Yorker, the 11/9/15 issue. Lucille is a charter board member emerita and former president of The Thoreau Farm Trust.

Henry Thoreau as Remembered by a Young Friend

 

“In attempting to offer a provocative rereading of Henry David Thoreau’s life and work, Kathryn Schulz has instead succumbed to hackneyed stereotypes and common wisdom. A closer, more sensitive reading reveals a complex man deeply connected to family and community; an eccentric, to be sure, but a passionate man of genius, without doubt.

One of the lesser-known realities of Thoreau’s life was his warm relationship with the children of Concord, who gathered around him in his prime and brought him gifts on his deathbed. Edward Emerson, the son of Ralph Waldo, became concerned by the misconceptions that surrounded his friend, the kind that Schulz perpetuates in her unfortunately titled essay. He might have been writing directly to her when, in his 1917 book, Henry Thoreau: As Remembered by a Young Friend, he calls Henry “the best kind of an older brother.”

Emerson says he felt compelled to write about Thoreau “because I was troubled at the want of knowledge and understanding, both in Concord and among his readers at large, not only of his character, but of the events of his life—which he did not tell to everybody–and by the false impressions given by accredited writers who really knew him hardly at all. When I undertook to defend my friend, I saw that I must at once improve my advantage of being acquainted, as a country doctor, with many persons who would never put pen to a line, but knew much about him — humble persons whom the literary men would never find out, like those who helped in the pencil mill, or in a survey, or families whom he came to know well and value in his walking over every square rod of Concord, or one of the brave and humane managers of the Underground Railroad, of which Thoreau was an operative. Also I had the good fortune to meet or correspond with six of the pupils of Thoreau and his brother John, all of whom bore witness to the very remarkable and interesting character of the teachers and their school…. I wish to show that Thoreau, though brusque on occasions, was refined, courteous, kind and humane; that he had a religion and lived up to it.”

Schulz has done us something of a service, I suppose, in demonstrating that the transitory buzz of “gotcha” criticism can never erode the lasting pleasure and value of deep, contextual reading.”

Here’s the link to all 5 of the letters to the editor; Lucille’s letter is the 5th: http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2015/11/09/the-mail-from-the-november-9-2015-issue

Lit Days

For me, it’s that month: even as many of us have grudgingly pushed the hour hand back a notch and adopted a hunch-shouldered shuffle to get across the icy months, I find November the month of transcendent light. True, that’s often a tough sell, but let me explain, in words, and also with some photos of remembered Novembers.

Low-angled sun opens expansive vision

Low-angled sun opens expansive vision

Just yesterday, when the whole region seemed afflicted by the form of jet lag that is the time change, I went out into the gathering dusk of 4:00 p.m. A lid of stratus had slid over the low sun, and only the rusty oaks held still their leaves. The few dog walkers I met had indeed pulled in their necks like retreating turtles, even as their dogs knew the real story: they were bounding about open mouthed, sniffing the day’s many messages. But we’ll leave the dogs for another story.

As seems to happen often at this time of year, the clouds had left a low slot of open sky on the southwestern horizon, and when the sun slipped into that slot, the light rushed through it and across the fields, finding there a fringe of oaks. The oaks, all muted russets and yellows, lit suddenly like flares; their light flew up into the sky and back into our eyes.

A few yards away, I heard one dogwalker say, “Whoa! Look at that!” And the canid tribe broke into general exclamation. And their necks stretched out from their upturned collars.

So it is in this season of clear light, which hurries through the thin-branched woods and catches every scrap of color that hangs on or floats in the wind. Its short days emphasize the need to go out, to extend yourself.

Thoreau, of course, was often out in November, sampling its light, stretching its days.

November sunrise at Walden Pond

November sunrise at Walden Pond

 

November forest light detail

November forest light detail

Parisians greet November in the Luxembourg Gardens, 11/1/14

Parisians greet November in the Luxembourg Gardens, 11/1/14