I will admit that reading Walden was not always easy for me. Half-way through “Economy” I found myself getting constantly distracted by my own thoughts about deadlines, social events, and meetings . I would have to read and re-read paragraphs until I finally payed enough attention to comprehend the words in front of me. It was tedious, but ultimately worth it because, once I made it through “Economy”, it was much easier for me to get lost in the rich writing instead of just being lost.

In the following chapters I found much of what Thoreau wrote connected to modern life. Sure he spends a lot of time on a high horse, and sure it might not be possible for all of us to run into the forest as a societal experiment, but there is something to be said for the insight that Thoreau provides in recounting his experiences. In fact, I believe Thoreau made one particularly valuable and applicable point about knowing one’s self in the closing paragraphs of the chapter entitled “The Village”.

Here Thoreau states, in a number of interconnected ways, that you must get lost to ever truly know yourself. Over the summer my mom offered me some advice that I think speaks to a similar idea. She told me that sometimes you will break, but in mending those breaks you will learn and you will grow so that you might not break again. Both her words and the words of Thoreau have helped me put a lot into perspective. In both breaking and being lost you are forced to learn. It might be uncomfortable, but in the end you will be confident in knowing who you are and where you are, whether that be emotionally or physically.

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.

I have always viewed going out into nature as a way to escape. As an only child, I am not quite sure what I have always been trying to escape from, but into the woods, I continued to go. My first solo “hike” I remember distinctly. I was in second grade and decided to venture out into the woods behind my house. I walked back into the woods until I found a spot that just seemed to be calling to me. I sat down and looked up and the giant trees above me. Little did I know in that moment, looking at the maple and oak trees overhead, that one day I would get to stand among the magnificent redwood sequoias. In that moment, second grade me had no idea that this first solo “hike” would start a lifelong passion.

I did not have to read very far into “Desert Solitaire” to feel a connection to it. As Abbey describes being alone in Arches National Park I feel as if he is describing my dreams. His ability to unplug and just sit among nature inspires me. On page fourteen Abbey states, “ I wait. Now raw night flows back, the mighty stillness embraces and includes me; I can see the stars again and the world of starlight. I am twenty miles or more from the nearest fellow human, but instead of loneliness, I feel loveliness. Loveliness and a quiet exultation.” This not only resonates with me because of how I feel about spending time in nature alone but also because of the nature Abbey describes. I have seen the stars he talks of. I have seen these stars in Moab Utah with my own eyes and I understand. I understand how Abbey could feel loveliness. Just thinking about the blanket of stars that encompassed me years ago as I stood in the red dirt soil of Moab I feel a sudden sense of happiness and relaxation.

I also remember how stressful it was to look at the stars at Bryce Canyon and be constantly interrupted by the lights of Las Vegas. This memory makes me grateful for the blunt anger Abbey expresses in his writing. His ability to call things as he sees them makes “Desert Solitaire” interesting from start to finish. Abbey could have just written a book about the beauty of the west and stopped there, but he did not. He called out the evils of men, even those most of us would tell Abbey to shut up about. It is hard to read Abbey’s work without wanting to discuss or debate with him. When he discusses industrial tourism I find myself so conflicted. I understand his distaste for how tourist-oriented the National Parks have become, but I also want to argue that he cannot see the larger picture. The tourism industry keeps the National Parks protected. As prices to enter the park greatly increase this coming year, to pay for infrastructure work, I wonder what Abbey would think. I am also stuck wondering if it had not been for this industrial tourism would I even know what the stars Abbey describes look like?

When I write I often do so in large brushstrokes. I cover entire mountains in a moment and write like I am running out of time. I sometimes feel like I am running uphill when I write. Adding more and more just to reach a word count. Annie Dillard has shown me that writing is more about finding the meaning of the piece and fully understanding what you see. She goes into minute detail when describing the natural world, for example on page 127 of Pilgrim at Tinker Creek when she explains elodea and the chloroplasts inside each cell she describes the plant in incredible detail, sparing nothing. Dillard zooms in on individual cells then keeps going by discussing the atoms inside the chloroplast. However, she still includes the big picture she explains that “All the green in the world consists of these whole, rounded chloroplasts wending their ways in water.” Her writing includes every detail, but it isn’t erratic and hurried. She focuses on the bigger picture by creating it herself. It’s not just a plant, its atoms that have formed into cells that have become a plant. She revels in the details, she makes them important. And when she finally reaches the largest image the reader can understand it because she has shown the journey of how she got there. She creates new meaning and pushes the things we know into strange and beautiful metaphors. This makes me want to do more than reach a word count. Dillard’s pure admiration for nature pushes me to understand and know what I see instead of just observing it.

I notice that everything we call natural is full of a plethora of intricacies that we can relate to. This realization was sparked by Annie Dillard’s Pilgrimage at Tinker Creek. Take the tree for instance, their roots run deep to hold their ground. Their trunks tell  their life’s story and their branches provide shade and habitat for others. They give to all unceasingly by providing oxygen. They change throughout the seasons by shedding all their leaves with immense beauty in the fall. What is most interesting about this change is that they remain stark throughout the harshest winters, continue to hold their ground, and reestablish their leaves in the spring. To some the functions and structures of a trees mean nothing. However is it too daring to relate these traits to our own lives? Our values, morals and experiences, are we not rooted by them? Are they not our foundation and something that we stand by for life or until we are reconditioned? Don’t we have a story to tell? Similarly to trees, some people stand tall without sign of struggle and some are broken yet still standing. Isn’t it interesting that we can be broken and continue to stand, reestablishing ourselves and our relationships, similar to the remnants of a broken tree reestablishing it’s leaves in the spring? Chop a tree down and it’s rings will tell its history, learn and observe a man and his actions will tell you the same. Can we give unceasingly to others regardless of demographics, origin, or wrongdoing? Can we not survive life’s hardships until we reach our goals? Wouldn’t you want to be similar to a tree in these aspects as it relates to your life?

 

An average discarded cigarette butt is 3 centimeters.  The average weight is 300 milligrams. On average, per year, there is 1.69 pounds of cigarette butts that are discarded. Convert the 300 milligrams to the average weight in pounds- .000661387 pounds per butt. Then I did some simple math:

1,690,000,000 total weight

———————————————    = 25,552,361,930 cigarette butts a year.

.000661387 per butt

Twenty-five billion, five hundred fifty-two million, three hundred sixty-one thousand, nine hundred thirty. That’s not even counting all the cigarette butts from previous years. Twenty-five billion, five hundred fifty-two million, three hundred sixty-one thousand, nine hundred thirty cigarette butts! Let that sink in. Twenty-five billion, five hundred fifty-two million, three hundred sixty-one thousand, nine hundred thirty cigarette butts.

This one caught my eye though. I probably pass hundreds a day, littered on the ground and don’t think anything of it. But, this one struck me. Half in the bog, half on the wood. Much like the cigarette, the wood it sits on comes from nature but is manufactured to make the 2×4. The cigarette takes paper and tobacco to make the toxic, man-made cigarette.  Intertwined with the brush, it almost seems like the cigarette butt is part of the bog, much like the boardwalk has become intertwined with the brush. But, a boardwalk isn’t a cigarette butt and a cigarette butt isn’t a boardwalk. Both human made, both becoming one with nature, where does one draw the line of what is litter and what is fine to add to the environment? It’s funny how one cigarette butt; one out of twenty-five billion, five hundred fifty-two million, three hundred sixty-one thousand, nine hundred thirty cigarette butts can strike so much thought.

 

Sources:

 

“Cigarette Butt Waste.” Cigarette Butt Waste, www.no-smoke.org/learnmore.php?id=731.

 

Sydney Water Limited. “Cigarette Butt Litter.” Ark Research Report, Apr. 1995.