I was sewing my pants last week using your words as my thread. As the needle moved in and out, I read each stroke as it plunged into the fabric. My haphazard tailoring hid the damage on my second hand corduroys. Instead of new pants, instead of patches, I used you.
The hole is now a shoreline of string, expanding and contracting like the edges of your Walden home. There are woodchucks on its edge, a bean field, and Vedic bliss floating above the pines. Although the fix was plebian, it was sufficient, it was glamorous. The reflection of lamplight sent shimmers of gold into my eye, which swim like fish beneath your clear words. Should I bring a rod and cast it into the waters? I may hook wisdom; I could sear it for diner. I could serve it with a huckleberry glaze and flavor it with the plants around my house.
Can my vagabondage be justified? I could just as easily buy new pants from a mall rather than wrestling with this used pair of pants. There would be no holes, just tubes for my legs made in faraway sweatshops. But your prophetic voice would shun me. “Beware of all enterprises that require new clothes”, and I am. It makes more sense to save a dollar with stitches than to splurge it on fashion.
As you sow your beans, I sew my clothing, and the Massachusetts landscape rises round my thumb. Because there is never need for new. These are your words. This is Walden, and I am indebted to you.