![]() ![]() It started out as a physician-recommended perimenopausal anxiety reducer, but has become - dare I say it?– Thoreauian. I have started a habit of walking on the cross country trails near my house. It’s hard to feel resonance our only walk today might be from the car door to the coffee shop door, as minutes ago mine was, in the frenzied pursuit of caffeine. “For every walk is a sort of crusade,” Thoreau says in On Walking. Us moderns with our even greater speed, gadgetry, lack of stillness, and collective Nature deficit would make his Walden-writing pen ache. Thoreau wrote the essay Walking while he was restricted to bed, dying of tuberculosis. He was discouraged by the harriedness of the early 19th century. If I said aloud, “Farm boy! Fetch me that pitcher!” from the movie A Princess Bride, somebody would step to it, and say, “We only have cream from grass-fed cows, is that okay?” Literally right now between sips of a really excellent cappuccino in a coffee shop that excels in modern barn chic. ![]() I’m reading Henry David Thoreau’s essay On Walking right now. ![]()
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