On Walden Pond
It was different to how I’d imagined. But but once the dead leaves were fished out, the loungers wiped down and the Mike’s Hard Lemonade uncorked, we were able to start living deliberately. When they tried to close us down at nine, the ghost of Henry David Thoreau appeared behind the dwarf privet, reminding us that disobedience is the true foundation of liberty; so we snuck in two lengths of defiant breaststroke before toweling down and calling it a night.
It’s rather nice, this Transcendentalism, even with the caustic scald of chlorine and thunder of the Concord Turnpike rippling the waters like jelly on a plate. When taking the road less traveled, we heartily recommend the lambent W by the luminous B. Because it is Western, and it is Best.
5 am. It took half a century to get here; no point lying on your back watching dawn granulate over the popcorn ceiling. Leaving my literary Dr Watson snoring like a manatee, I Sherlock past the potted palms, out into the car park and up the highway. I’m divining holy water with a Subaru.
5.30 am. Plumbing the Transcendent. Malingering as usual in clam digger pants and pervert hat, I make my way round the north rim to avoid the empyrean exertions of the open-water swimmers and chase the dawn light. There’s one woman bathing alone. I keep a polite distance as she emerges, dries off; and as she passes we smile, say good morning. In her 50’s, maybe she’s Japanese, she moves along the trail with a graceful self-possession blurred by the hesitation of lingering in the tangible presence of beauty. Luminous, a limpid pool. I wade out, take a few pictures, and as I walk back she is waiting for me on the trail. She points out a bird, asks if I know what it is. I guess at a gull, she laughs lightly that no, it’s a raptor of some sort, it had been flying above her while she swam. We chat for a minute; I’m over from the Catskills with my daughter who is still in bed. She comes here most mornings, how sweet it is. Because the next thing to do is to quietly shake hands and part, we do. But it’s a loss. And maybe it’s just the wind, but I thought perhaps I hear a sigh echo down the valley from up on Olympus.
•••
