Thoreau’s Favorite Visitor

A sermon delivered at the Unitarian Universalist Congregation (Blacksburg, VA), September 28, 2008, by the Reverend Christine Brownlie.

This has been a very busy and eventful summer and fall for me, and for many of you. We’ve experienced great joys and accomplishments and great sorrows. The political and economic issues that face our country and the world feel overwhelming. The demands on our time and our energy feel endless. I have to say that when Annette Marquis, who gave such a wonderful sermon for the dedication of our new building and renovated space, told us that it was OK for us to slow down for a few weeks and take care of ourselves, I felt an inner affirmation that nearly brought me to tears. I knew that this was exactly what every one of us needed. Yet I also recognized that our fall calendar was full with events and activities that we had planned for months. We had a great time last night at Jazz Night. I know that it was a lot of work to put this together and that a lot of time and effort was spent on this. That’s fine; I think that it’s very important for us to have fun together. Our Goods and Service Auction is coming up in a few short weeks. This is a big undertaking that requires many hands and creative spirits to pull off this important fundraiser for our congregation and our community. Busy-ness abounds!

And that’s just a fraction of our lives. We have jobs, family responsibilities, and many of us are active in other organizations as well. So it’s easy to blow off Annette’s directive and treat it like one more good idea, like getting more exercise or flossing our teeth. Yet another idea we know we should pay attention to, but that we just can’t find the time for.

Well, maybe. But maybe there are some moments that we can claim for our own and sink into the peace of Solitude — Thoreau’s favorite visitor.

This summer while traveling, I spent some time re-reading Walden by Henry David Thoreau. I’d just spent a very hectic few days with my family celebrating my nephew’s wedding. I was in the Minneapolis St-Paul International Airport on my way to General Assembly, the annual gathering of Unitarian Universalists from all over the country. I expected to be surrounded by people from morning to night, and I was feeling the need for some peace and quiet. This is not something that one can easily find in an airport. The endless blaring announcements regarding security, gate changes, and late passengers grates on my nerves.

A brief search led to a small space with a few chairs and a young man sprawled out at one end of a row. I sat down and inserted the white earplugs of my ipod into my ears and pulled out my book. He had done the same, and I thought how nice it was that people of different generations could find solace in the same way: music (although I was certain that our choices were very different) and books. I glanced over a couple of times to see if I could read the title of his book and imagined that it might be Walden. I couldn’t really tell. But I felt a kinship with this stranger — a moment of connection — until I noticed that he was pulling out his cell phone every couple of minutes, looking intently at the screen and then using his thumbs on the keypad to reply to a message. Time and again, he was interrupted by the siren call of the cell phone. (At least he’d had the courtesy to set the alert tone on low.) So much for peace and solitude I thought.

Whatever would Henry David say?

Quite a lot, as it turns out. Thoreau lived in a time of great change in American society. The 1840s were a time of transformation and new technology. Steam power was a cheap and available source of energy in New England. Factories were being built to provide cloth, paper, lumber, and other goods at a much cheaper cost in terms of human labor and monetary expense. Telegraph wires were strung across the land, and railroad tracks brought faster transportation of people, goods, and mail. Thoreau believed that this new technology and the related changes in the economy and society were destroying much that he valued. Life seemed to be going at an ever-faster pace. He noted, with great disdain, that there was a false sense of what was necessary for a good life. People were turning from the simple to the ever-more complex, from the real to the artificial and distracting. The newly wealthy put on airs of importance over their clothing and their carefully furnished homes. Businessmen complained that they lived with a growing demand to keep up with times to be in touch with the latest news as it arrived by telegraph and newspapers. All of this felt false and offensive to Thoreau. I can imagine what he would think of our 21^st century way of life with our air travel, Internet, and 24-7 news channels.

I doubt Thoreau’s diatribes against technology made any impact on the pace of so-called progress in his day, and I’m sure that the same would be true today. As much as we might claim to long for a simpler way of life, most of us would be unwilling to give up the modern machines and the luxuries that we take for granted. But perhaps Thoreau can remind us that there is a cost to our fast paced never-out-of-touch way of life.

Let’s go back to the young man in the airport who, like me, had sought a refuge from the noise and bustle of the airport and travelers. Yet he was willing to be roused repeatedly by messages from friends and family. His concentration was interrupted again and again. I think I’d hate having to respond to endless messages, but this seems to be one of those “generational differences” that we hear about. I’ve noticed that some of my younger friends and acquaintances make sure that they are always available to receive text messages, no matter where they are or who is with them. I find the back-and-forth between conversation and texting to be annoying, but it seems to be acceptable by their standards. And lest you imagine that I’m focusing on youth, let’s admit that many of us in my generation are loathe to go anywhere without our cell phones — even if we don’t “text.” For some reason, we all feel that we need to be accessible and responsive to others all the time. Given this expectation, how do we make a place in our lives for solitude and the gifts this visitor has to offer us?

First, we should be careful not to think that solitude is the same as loneliness. Thoreau points out the difference, when he tell us that solitude is not measured by the miles of space that intervene between a man and his fellows. It is more truly measured by the distance between the thoughts of our companions and ourselves, and by the regard that we hold for one another. I suspect that many of us have had the experience of being caught up with a group of people with whom we feel that we share nothing at all, and felt very lonely. I think Thoreau must have had similar experiences because he wrote these words in his journal

“I am tired of frivolous society, in which silence is forever the most natural and the best manners. I would fain walk on the deep waters, but my companions will only walk on shallows and puddles.”

I also suspect that many of us have experienced times when we felt the profound satisfaction of enjoying our own company during a solo hike or during an evening we had the house to ourselves for a change.

What did this young philosopher learn from his favorite visitor? He writes quite lyrically about his growing enjoyment of nature. His subjects were not confined to the glorious sunsets or delicate snowflakes, but included the rain, the bullfrogs, and common songbirds.

“There can be no very great melancholy to him who lives in the midst of Natures and has his senses still. While I enjoy the friendship of the season, I trust that nothing can make life a burden to me.”

His love for nature and his study of the natural world around him led him to a sense of equanimity that was almost Buddhist. He accepted both the bounty and the famine that nature can create with a statement that even if the rain should destroy his crop of beans and potatoes, he knew that the same rain would be good for the grass on the uplands and thus be good for him as well.

Solitude brought another gift to its host: self-knowledge. He noted that only when we are freed from the distractions and demands of human society, will the truths of who we are and our place in the world become evident.

“Not till we are lost, in other words, not till we have lost the world, do we begin to find ourselves, and realize where we are and the infinite extent of our relations.”

Thoreau lived at Walden for 26 months. Despite his rhapsodic observations about nature, he spent most of his time writing. He worked on three manuscripts for publication. He liked to visit with friends, especially the Alcotts and the Emersons. His mother and sisters visited him on the weekends, bearing treats from their kitchen. He continued his anti-slavery activities, even holding a community meeting on his doorstep. He made a trip to Maine. He might come off as something of a poseur, in that he tells his reader that he lived alone at Walden Pond, and many people might assume that he was a hermit. But even a casual reader should quickly realize that this isn’t true.

My point is that even while he was living in his tiny house by the pond, Thoreau didn’t escape from the demands and human ties that we all face. Yet he still managed to find time for solitude, to consider his life and character, to think deeply about the truth of human experience and what is most important. This realization encourages me to look for opportunities for solitude that are hidden in my life and to make the most of them.

Catherine de Hueck Doherty, a Catholic writer, tell us that one of the first steps towards solitude is making a departure, stepping away from our daily routines into a place of solitude. She writes,

“Were you to depart to a real desert you might take a plane, train or car to get there. But we’re blind to the ‘little departures’ that fill our days. These ‘little solitudes’ are often right behind a door which we can open, or in a little corner where we can stop to look at a tree that somehow survived the snow and dust of a city street.”

Where can you find your own “little departures”? How can you spot those “little solitudes” that are so close and yet sometimes so invisible to us as we push through all the activities and needs of the day? Are you eager to meet this visitor? Or is it more comfortable to take that possible moment of solitude to tend to the e-mail, the toys scattered on the living room floor, the pile of dishes that is toppling over on the counter next to the sink? It’s so easy to feel pushed and pulled in fifteen different directions and to allow ourselves to get caught up in the distractions of life. I know, because I do it all the time.

I’d encourage you to look for the “little departures” and “little solitudes” that are available to you in your everyday routine, and to make the most of them. You might try turning off the radio when you’re driving alone in your car. Practice some good breathing while you’re waiting in line at the grocery store or the library. I remember hearing an interview with a young Buddhist monk who encouraged people to meditate while sitting at a stoplight. Just watch your mind, he said, and quiet your thoughts.

Maybe you can create some “little solitudes” by getting up ten minutes earlier or by taking a short walk after lunch. Mindless work, such as weeding, doing the dishes, or folding clothes, can also become opportunities for solitude.

Let’s remember Annette’s charge to us, to take good care of ourselves. Let’s give each other permission to set a little time and space apart from our busyness, so that we can get to know Thoreau’s favorite visitor and discover what solitude has to offer us. Perhaps like Thoreau, we’ll discover a depth and truth in our selves that will lead us to a more authentic and satisfying understanding of our own selves and the lives we truly long to lead.

May it be so.