I
think that it is fair to say that discovering Henry David Thoreau’s writings
has had a major impact on my life. There has been hardly a week, hardly a day
since, when I have not thought about something Henry wrote.
Of
course, this is, in part, due to the tremendous influence his writings have had
on the world. Someone who influences Gandhi, King and Tolstoy has to influence
the rest of us in some way, whether or not we are aware of it. I remember
reading quotes of his on the subways and buses of Brooklyn and Manhattan. I saw
posters and heard songs about people who were traveling “to the beat of a
different drum.” I was assigned readings
from Walden in community college which I interpreted, rightly or
wrongly, as an encouragement to drop out. When tempted to beat myself up,
psychologically, for never having made it to Europe, I have always remembered
that Thoreau wrote, proudly, that he had “…travelled widely in Concord,” and
remembered, also, that I have traveled widely in New England and North America,
whether or not I have been able to muster the same depth of observation, musing
or recording of those travels.
I
see Thoreau’s influence as a major strand in the cord of my life; much as my thirty
year experience with Quakers has been a major strand. In fact, it’s altogether
possible that, if he had not planted the seeds of “simplicity, simplicity,” in
my high school brain, I might never have appreciated the witness of Friends. I
might not have even discovered them. I see both discoveries as among the great
blessings of my life.
Is
there another strand? I think there are several. But, looking back, I see a lot
of loneliness and a search for love and community.
And,
then, there is my father.
Prologue: from Lonely Road
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