Thoreau's Cabin at Walden

It seemed like a good idea, reading Thoreau’s Selections from Walden. Probably one of my more poorly thought out ventures. I don’t know that I will ever be the same.

Sitting at the window of my office, watching Spring shake the dried leaves from her hair and don the pinkest maple bud and green slippers, I feel an ache. Deep within I long to drop my keyboard, remove my clothing, and walk into the lake or woods and join her.

We have so many chances to do what he did. There are so many place it can be done. No one will stop us. At least no one that matters. No one that really knows us – the Wild Ones.

I challenge myself this time. I will find my Walden. Oh, I may not live there for years writing of the passing seasons and mice underfoot. I will write of my days there instead. My hours, minutes, seconds there. I know I will find it – my Walden.

Sometimes I wonder if I have already been there? Is it Myakka? Where the alligators smile from the muddy shores off the river? Is it Grasshopper Slough? The deep pools and sandy bottoms hosting parties of crayfish. Or is it some unknown wood I have passed through on my way to my supposed destination? Have I forsaken it more than once?

Have I forsaken my Walden for some other destination?

I must know the answer – I must find it. Will you?

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