October 1, 2014
September 12, 2013
“They are nearly two inches long by one-half inch wide, with veined inner edges to the wings like green moths, ready to bear off their seeds.”
— Henry David Thoreau, Faith in a Seed
“In all our maples, a thin membrane, in appearance much like an insect’s wing, grows over and around the seed while the latter is being developed within its base. . . . In other words, a beautiful thin sack is woven around the seed, with a handle to it such as the wind can take hold of and it is then committed to the wind, expressly that it may transport the seed and extend the range of the species, and this it does as effectually as when seeds are sent by mail in a different kind of sack from the Patent Office.”
— Henry David Thoreau, Faith in a Seed
June 24, 2013
January 21, 2013
I do think that readers and writers and poets like winter, that quiet contemplative season. (However, I’ve noticed that painting and drawing are more of a challenge because of the lack of light.) Writer Timothy Egan recently wrote an interesting blog post about just this theme of creativity in winter — you can read it here.
“I love the winter, with its imprisonment and its cold, for it compels the prisoner to try new fields and resources. I love to have the river closed up for a season and a pause put to my boating, to be obliged to get my boat in. I shall launch it again in the spring with so much more pleasure.”
— Henry David Thoreau, Journals,December 5, 1856
“Such is a winter eve. Now for a merry fire, some old poet’s pages, or else serene philosophy, or even a healthy book of travels to last far into the night, eked out perhaps with the walnuts which we gathered in November.”
— Henry David Thoreau, Journals, December 9, 1856
Winter is the best time
to find out who you are.
Quiet, contemplative time,
away from the rushing world,
cold time, dark time, holed-up,
pulled-in time and space
to see that inner landscape,
that place hidden and within.
November 11, 2012
“How pleasant to walk over beds of these fresh, crisp, rustling fallen leaves — young hyson, green tea, clean, crisp, and wholesome! How beautiful they go to their graves! how gently lay themselves down and turn to mould! — painted of a thousand hues and fit to make the beds of us living. So they troop to their graves, light and frisky. They put on no weeds. Merrily they go scampering over the earth, selecting their graves, whispering all through the woods about it. They that waved so loftily, how contentedly they return to dust again and are laid low, resigned to lie and decay at the foot of the tree and afford nourishment to new generations of their kind, as well as to flutter on high! How they are mixed up, all species, — oak and maple and chestnut and birch! they are about to add a leaf’s breadth to the depth of the soil. We are all the richer for their decay. Nature is not cluttered with them. She is a perfect husbandman; she stores them all.”
— Henry David Thoreau, Journals, October 20, 1853
Autumn is that elegiac time of year, and fallen leaves are its emblem. I recently read (in a blog I follow called “The Improvised Life“) about an intriguing art installation by Jane Hammond consisting of handmade leaves, each inscribed with the name of a U.S. soldier killed in Iraq. This memorial sculpture is called Fallen, and it seemed fitting to share it with you today, Veteran’s Day, when we honor all service men and women, living and dead. You can follow the links to read more about this piece of art and see it installed in its last exhibition.
October 5, 2012
“Everyone must take time to sit and watch the leaves turn.”
— Elizabeth Lawrence
“Thoreau is a first-class noticer, and he is our most articulate observer. He understood the power of and the need for directed attention carried out with the utmost intensity. He understood that we are what we give our attention to, and, long before William James put it in words, Thoreau understood that “attention and belief are the same fact.” Finally, Thoreau doesn’t just give you one autumn, he gives you the way to see every autumn.”
— Robert Richardson, “Fall Poetry: Why Thoreau Adored Autumn,” Huffington Post online blog, October 3, 2012
Robert Richardson, in this week’s Huffington Post article, calls Thoreau “our finest writer on autumn.” He remarks not only on Thoreau’s gorgeous descriptions, but praises even more Thoreau’s amazing powers of perception: “Like Zorba the Greek, Thoreau saw every thing every day as though for the first time. We all walk out into the same multitudinous world, but who among us sees as much as Thoreau did?”
My goal this year is to see autumn with “Thoreau eyes.” It’s a worthy habit to cultivate, I think.