A Quick Video Summary of the Week

Sizing-Up the Soul with a Beastly Stare

It is amazing to consider how much earth shattering literature was generated in America between a handful of writers who all knew each other extremely well, visited each other often, and for all extents and purposes were neighbors. Such a thing hasn't happened since and was considerably rare in any happenings before. You might have to go all the way back to the Wordsworth, Coleridge, Shelley relationships to find anything remotely similar.

Whitman, Thoreau, Emerson, Alcott, & Hawthorne -- all knew each other. (Later on we add brothers William James, the psychologist and Henry James, the novelist into this mix.) With the exception of Whitman, they were all neighbors. Thoreau used to look after little Louise May Alcott from time to time; he house sat for Emerson when he traveled. This group went to weddings together, funerals together, and they advocated for each other's publications.

Whitman was the lone outsider and although his relationship with the Concord transcendentalists would smooth out over time, he earned the rebuke of Emerson early in their relationship by quoting from a private letter Emerson wrote him in the newspaper, and by using an actual quote from that letter on the spine of Leaves of Grass (2nd Edition) without Emerson's permission. A gutsy move and the critics hounded him for it and it nearly cost Whitman any sort of relationship with the Concord writers.

Walt Whitman and Henry David Thoreau met one time in November of 1856. Amos Bronson Alcott, who I blogged about below, took Thoreau to Whitman in hopes of introducing the two men. Oh to have been a fly on that wall as these two men locked eyes!

Listen to how Bronson Alcott describes the meeting between Whitman and Thoreau in his journal entry:

"I hoped to put him [Walt Whitman] in communication direct with Thoreau, and tried my hand a little after we came down stairs and sat in the parlor below; but each seemed planted fast in reserves, surveying the other curiously, — like two beasts, each wondering what the other would do, whether to snap or run; and it came to no more than cold compliments between them."

Wow, what a description. Alcott's journals don't usually contain much embellishment or over-description, but this particular passage stands out. The meeting must have had quite an impact on Alcott to have described it in such a way. He goes on in the journal entry to wonder if perhaps Walt had met his match, or his equal in the young Thoreau.

Two men in a locked stare, each sizing the other up, neither willing to divulge too much information and so it came to "no more than cold compliments between them." One wonders what each thought of the other. They exchanged not only looks, but books. Walt gave Henry a copy of his 2^nd edition Leaves of Grass.

Three short weeks later, Thoreau had read the entire thing and in this letter to a Unitarian pastor he says:

“That Walt Whitman, of whom I wrote to you, is the most interesting fact to me at the present. I have just read his 2nd edition (which he gave me) and it has done me more good than any reading for a long time… there are 2 or 3 pieces in the book which are disagreeable to say the least, simply sensual. He does not celebrate love at all. It is as if the beasts spoke….

I do not believe that all the sermons so called that have been preached in this land put together are equal to it for preaching… We ought to rejoice greatly in him. He occasionally suggests something a little more than human. Since I have seen him, I find that I am not disturbed by any brag or egoism in his book. He may turn out the least braggart of all, having a better right to be confident.”

Seems as though the old gray poet had quite the effect on Thoreau… six years later Thoreau would die of tuberculosis at the age of 44. We can only speculate what more he would have said about Whitman.

So how exactly did Walt feel about Henry? It would take almost twenty years, but Whitman eventually visited Alcott and Emerson in Concord. In his Specimen Days journal, Whitman would recount visiting Thoreau’s grave and walking the shores of Walden Pond. Whitman, like so many other travelers over time, would place a small stone of remembrance at the cabin site where Thoreau lived during the writing of Walden.

Stones of Remembrance @ Thoreau's Cabin Site
Is one of these stones Whitman's?

 

I think the respect was mutual. And the locked stare between these two alpha male authors was quite real… each sizing up the other, both prepared to acknowledge the human propensity to live as animal and as eternal soul.

 

Of Cages and Cures

"Go build yourself a hut, and there begin

 the grand process of devouring yourself alive.

I see no other alternative, no other hope for you." 

 

~ Ellery Channing to Henry David Thoreau

 

Replica of Thoreau's Cabin

Original Cabin Site on Walden Pond

 

"Self-care" is a term tossed around today in a variety of different ways. As I said in a post below, I am sort inoculated to the term and have no real fondness for it. When you practice self-care, you are generally making an attempt to improve your physical and emotional health, but what that looks like remains up for debate because it varies vastly from person to person.

 

When Thoreau's friend Ellery Channing says "go devour yourself... I see no other hope for you," we are certainly left to wonder if peering through the lens of self-care if this wasn't perhaps some bad advice. Now, we can argue that it worked out alright for Thoreau, tuberculosis aside. But imagine with me that you've just heard a professional counselor give this bit of advice to an intelligent, melancholy man who arrived in his/her office with emotional and intellectual restlessness.

 

Hard to imagine, yes? Go devour yourself? Retreat from human spaces into the cages of your own mind? Isolate yourself to your books and your writing? None of that seems to much like "self-care." The potential to dig oneself deeper into the hole feels completely plausible.

 

One of the reasons I believe a general malaise has fallen across our culture is that we tend to see comfort as a cure rather than a cage. Medication is prescribed to "relieve" the discomfort that we feel, or sometimes that others feel, due to our mental or emotional conditions. The thought of devouring ourselves never really occurs to us and certainly isn't treated as a prescribed course of action.

 

This trip was not only an experience of a lifetime for me, created for me to absorb the thoughts of dead poets and writers in a state of appreciative bliss -- it was also designed to be self-care. Up to this point, I've been trying to blog about my visits (and I have at least two more to do - one on the Poe house and another on the Twain house), but with my trip now complete it seems only fair to address the second half of this blog's title: The Oddities of Self-Care.

 

How is swimming in Walden Pond or reading Leaves of Grass at the tomb of Walt Whitman self-care? In one aspect, I believe my trip has fed my cage just as much as it has fed a cure. Like Thoreau, I often feel as though I have no other choice but to devour myself in musing and writings of great men gone by... in that sense, I've just spent one week feeding my cage.

 

Watching the sun rise while floating on my back in Walden Pond, watching that last star get absorbed in a curtain of light, watching the surface of the lake transform into a canopy of mist heightened by the first rays of sun -- there is no substitute for an experience like that. I was so cold in there, as it was about 55 degrees outside and most of my body was miserable and aching; my wet head jutted upward into the cold mist only heightened the physical discomfort I was feeling. But I didn't want to leave... it certainly felt Divine and I started to wonder if perhaps "there was no other hope for me." I fed the cage and wanted to stay in the woods forever, to turn my back on man and live alone with Nature.

 

On the other hand though, I believe this trip helped to define the kind of pastor I will become. I did leave the pond and will continue leaving a thousand ponds hereafter. The temptation is to believe that I am somehow unique in this regard, but nothing could be further from the truth. All of us have that listless wandering grafted into our souls; all of us look for the tender retreats. We all want a Garden of Eden. Carving out spiritual spaces to swim freely, shameless, and naked before all of God and creation seems not so far fetched a calling. Taking our man-made things, our tendency to hide from both God and ourselves, burying ourselves away in the tombs of our technologies, all of it can often serve as a veil we wear over the deeper parts of who we are and what we were each born to do: to enjoy God and reveal His character, image, and likeness in our own brief lives.

 

I am tempted to list out in bullet form the kinds of things this trip has revealed about me, and I'd like to believe, about all of us as human beings... but I'm not going to. I will blog a bit more and to any who take the time, I think some of that list will appear wedged within the paragraphs. In the meantime though, it will suffice me enough to say that there are many cages and many cures both within our hearts and outside them in popular culture.

 

Sometimes the cures lie at the very bottom of who we are. Sometimes we have to eat our way there; and the sustenance of such a meal is not without cost. But then again, nothing worth having is without cost. And maybe that's the true meaning of self-care.



The Apple Never Falls Too Far From the Tree...

Perhaps the most enjoyable and surprising thing about my visit to the Concord area was the tour of the "Orchard House," which served as the Alcott family home for many years and was the site where Louisa May Alcott wrote the novel "Little Women."

Welcome Sign & Front of Orchard House

I confess to never having taken up with the novel "Little Women." I certainly read it in school, but it didn't stick with me in a way that would motivate a re-reading, although after my tour I may pick it back up. Truthfully, I feel much the same about Hawthorne's work (he was neighbor and friend of the Alcott family to the very end.) I think at the root of it is a general dislike of reading fiction, most especially "realistic" or "historical" fiction. I can deal with fiction that is fantastical or highly imaginative, but reading fiction that basically just mirrors the human condition isn't fun for me. I'd rather go straight to the sources and read non-fiction than peer through that glass darkly.

The tour through the house was packed with non-fiction and I learned a great deal about the Alcott family that I didn't know before entering - that alone was worth the price of admission. The house is very well decorated with both original artifacts of the family as well as original art work by Louise's sister May Alcott. It's an exceptional stop for anyone visiting the Boston/Concord area.

Most curious to me was learning more about Amos Bronson Alcott, Louise's father. Bronson was part of the transcendentalist movement in Concord and close friends with both Emerson and the young Henry David Thoreau. He was mostly a failed writer and educator who chased dreams and ideas which often caused financial hardship on the Alcott family. Louise would lovingly satirize her upbringing much later in life in the book, "Transcendental Wild Oats," which would depict her head-in-the-clouds father and others as being dependent on the women in their life to float off into those heady spaces.

Make no mistake, she loved her father, but Louise May recognized the impracticality of so many philosophical musings which basically failed to put bread on the table. In fact, she was more or less forced to write to help support the family as Bronson's many failures as a provider had left them dependent on the kindness of people like Emerson.

But Bronson fascinates me in two regards - first, was his failed school in Boston, called "Temple School." Bronson's educational strategies were outrageous for the day - he believed children should not be given repetitive work without first having their minds opened. Bronson Alcott would have discussions on the Gospels and ask such questions like "Are the miracles of Jesus literal, or metaphorical?" Teaching students to question at every opportunity, questioning even the most basic "truths" of the day held in Holy Writ got him into loads of hot water. The newspaper was brimming with critics and eventually parents pulled their children out of his school, due in part to all the noise being circulated.

Second, Bronson is a fascinating figure because of the children he fathered: four girls - all of which were highly educated, culturally sensitive, artistic, and productive. He clearly employed his educational strategy at home in the way he raised his kids. Louise May was obviously the most accomplished of the four daughters, but the wealth generated from her books enabled her to get her little sister May the formal art education she'd always dreamed of & truthfully, May was an accomplished artist. Her older sister Anna had both a passion and talent for acting, and while the sister right under her age died young, she was an accomplished piano player. All four girls were strong women, abolitionists, and advocates for women's rights.

I've always believed the greatest life work anyone can leave behind are healthy, productive children. In that regard, Bronson was a huge success no matter how many of his writings failed to garner attention. Bronson also built this:

The Concord School of Philosophy was a summer school that brought in leading intellectuals of the day to teach summer courses in philosophy, art, & history. Although the school only lasted a few short years until Alcott's death, it attracted the likes of Emerson and Thoreau and often utilized a Platonic teaching method of reading and reflection. Bronson was out to change culture by opening up the mind of both young and old alike. He committed his life to this end, despite many financial hardships - quite tenacious I think despite being so "flighty."

That tenacity was an apple that obviously didn't fall too far from the tree as we see so much of it Louise May's life.

I look forward to reading "Record of School" by Elizabeth Peabody which details Bronson Alcott's teaching strategies. Oh and by the way, Elizabeth Peabody? She went on to open the first kindergarten in the United States and pioneered the way for early childhood education, using in part, Bronson's teaching styles.

Author's Ridge at Sleepy Hollow Cemetery

 

A beautiful cemetery holding the graves of Emerson, Thoreau, Alcott, Hawthorne, and many others. The ridge on which the graves are situated is beautiful and the cemetery itself is very easy to navigate. Here's some photos! Finally!

 

The etching is faded and the sun was shining directly on it, but I think you can make out Ralph Waldo Emerson's name. This face plat appears on a giant rock at the top of author's ridge:

 

Emerson, wife, & daughter

Alcott family marker

 

 Louisa May Alcott, author of "Little Women" & much more. I will devote a blog to her specifically very soon, needless to say if you get the chance to visit Concord, don't miss "The Orchard House," which was the Alcott family home for 20 years.

 

 

Henry David Thoreau's grave (top) & family plot (bottom)

 

 

Nathaniel Hawthorne's grave site (directly across from Alcott and Thoreau's)

 

 

 

 

Walden Pond at Dawn

 

"The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation."

 

~ Henry David Thoreau

This morning I rose early and was the very first person at Walden Pond. Yesterday I got there early and "did my thing..." (maybe I will tell that story, but maybe not!), but it was probably 6:00 or 6:30 when I found my way yesterday. Today, I wanted to be the FIRST. I arrived at 5:03 AM because the parking doesn't open to visitors until 5:00. Walden Pond was empty.

I strolled down the paved trail to the pond, a green backpack with a towel and dry clothes tossed over one shoulder and a red folding chair tossed over the other. In my right hand was one huge cup of coffee. I made way down to the pond and chose the same place that I picked for yesterday's "expedition" (hehehe) and set up my station.

It was dark as I entered the water. I swam out to the center of the pond and rolled over onto my back. Even though the outside air was 55 degrees, the water temperature was probably in the mid-70's. It was too dark at first to see the fog lifting off the pond until the sun broke.

I parted the water quickly because it was so chilly standing there in the outside air and when I swam out to the middle turned over to float - I could see all the stars. It was simply gorgeous. Within a matter of minutes they started to disappear as the sun rose. As it grew lighter, I noticed how much fog was lifting off the water. Before long visibility dropped to about ten feet if looking straightway in front of you. That was beyond cool though - to be treading water in the center of Walden Pond and guessing which way to swim, looking up too and seeing the last visible star slowly be replaced with a wash of light.

Truthfully, I didn't want to leave. I can see why Thoreau chose to stay - but this Southerner would be gone at the first ice. :)

Walden Pond at dawn this morning. You know you wish you were there!!!

 

 

O Camden, My Camden!

So I am fairly certain I'm not the first person to satirize Whitman's ode to Lincoln, but I gotta say, after seeing Camden I am certain Whitman would be lamenting in a similar fashion. Unfortunately, photography isn't permitted inside the house, but the curators have done an excellent job recreating Whitman's final home just across the river from Philadelphia.

There's just one problem. It sits in the heart of Camden - and I'm not going to mince words here - that particular part of Camden is thug city. When I pulled in for the tour, the entire block was occupied by several hundred black people (no exaggeration, my guess is 300-400 crammed in one city block) who were selling things, jamming to boom boxes, and running around with their pants halfway down their butt cracks. I thought I had stumbled into another million man march (if you never heard me tell this story, remind me to tell you how I ended up in the middle of the Washington rally - actually in the middle of the marching band driving a big white pick-up truck).

Now I believe my record on race relations is solid in this community. People that don't know me can think what they want about the above paragraph and the rest of this post, but you'd be hard pressed to find a person who's advocated for blacks, especially young black men, as hard as I have. This advocacy record stretches beyond the church walls and into the school district and surrounding neighborhoods. In fact, a HUGE portion of my journey this week is attached to paying my respects to men and women that despised racism. I was raised to hate racism by parents who grew up during racist times... they hated it too.

But let me tell you, Camden was BAD. If it wasn't so bad, there wouldn't be six cop cars parked on the city block. I recognize that many people, maybe even some of the hundreds taken to the streets like Egyptians in the middle of "Arab Spring," aren't all thuggin' out in their $300 Lebron sneakers and pants pulled down to their knees. But a bunch on the streets were "thugged" to the max. The victims, the hungry, the elderly, the children... they were probably all at home behind a locked door holding their Bibles and saying a few prayers.

Worse than any of the "pant-dropping thuggery" was the condition of the area, very run down. I can only imagine what that city block would look like if those 400 wandering individuals picked up a broom and dustpan and cleaned it one Saturday morning. Their property values would double in a single day. If they converted those $300 sneakers into paint, their property values would quadruple in a day.

I'm not unsympathetic to poverty, not in the slightest. I know education is a huge factor; and I know that it is hard if you've been raised a certain way. I'm not beyond my feelings on the problem; hence, the lament: "O Camden, My Camden." It was utterly heartbreaking to see. Doubly heartbreaking to know that wedged in between all that chaos is a historical landmark celebrating a man that would have given one of his kidneys to the most broken, run-down alcoholic on the street - no matter what his/her color.

So I probably started a flame war on this one. That's fine. I know there's a ton of good in this area of Camden. It's just was buried under a hundred sagging jeans and gold chains.

Where Did We Come From... What Are We... Where Are We Going

Sorry for not using question marks in the title, but blogging from a tablet seems to have a ton of disadvantages. One is trying to upload pictures and videos. I should have bought a laptop.

Anyway, I've been needing to blog this for a while. Make no mistake that the impetus for my journey was the Walt Whitman tomb. I've felt connected to Whitman for over 20 years in ways that are hard to describe. I know Whitman the way I know the Gospels, or the book of Genesis. Particular passages are easy to find in my mind & quickly spotted in the pages - that comes from year's of reading him. I'm going to blog more specifically on Whitman, probably when I get home. Seems necessary to do so for many reasons, not least of which is his egotism which wanders a cusp between beauty and tragedy. But most specifically as it relates the faith arena, is Whitman's fascination with the human body - no, scratch that - Whitman's celebration of the human body in all it's sinews, fluids, mysteries, beauties, and stench. This is in stark contrast with the Christian tradition, which has an unmistakable disdain for the human body... but more on this later.

Whitman drew me out on my journey, but I never expected to see my favorite Paul Gauguin painting on display in the Philly art museum. Truthfully, this is my second favorite painting of all time - the first belonging to Salvador Dali entitled, "The Metamorphosis of Narcissus." But this particular painting and I also have a 20-year history with each other. I remember the first time I saw a Gauguin painting - it was "The Yellow Christ." I thought it was brilliant - he was able to communicate more with less in ways that other artists I'd see could not.

A few years after that, I read Sommerset Maughm's "Moon and Sixpence." I apologize for misspellings and failure to use italics, etc. This tablet can only do so much...  Anyway, I read this novel and to be honest with you, suffered through it on my first read. It did pick up, but I left the book with a sense of revulsion for the primary character, who I later learned was solely based on Gauguin. My revulsion for the character became a pre-occupation of sorts and I could not help but eventually re-read it. On the second reading, I started to pity him. Little windows into his soul started to crack open. So, of course I had to read it again. By the third reading, I was hooked.

The tragedy of Paul Gauguin is probably what made him great - and it's something I think I've discovered runs in the veins of all artists. More on that later. But Gauguin was not in the pursuit of the perfect painting - I think it is much more accurate to say that the perfect painting was constantly in pursuit of Gauguin. He knew it too, that's why he ran - abandoned everything - fled to Tahiti - buried himself in all the wrong things - and kept running until the very end. That perfect painting was "Where Did We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going?" There's a calm acceptance of the tragedy of not knowing in this painting, but more than that - a picture into the places that Gauguin finally had to settle.

I never dreamed I would see this painting my lifetime. I suppose at one time I knew it was housed in Boston - but this is the kind of painting that doesn't stay in one place too long. It travels, you get used to it - you know it's out there and that if you really wanted to schedule your life around it, you might catch a glimpse of it sometime. What you don't expect is to turn a corner and see it. At first, I thought it was a replica but then it hit me that it was here... the painting that has haunted my nights, the man who had preoccupied my mind for years, the subject of late nights - questions - agitations - rhapsodies --- that work was sitting right in front of me.

I had no choice but to cry. Fifteen minutes later I was finally able to raise my camera and snap a picture -- just as the security guard walked over to wag a finger. I don't care. It was 15 minutes of overwhelming joy in the presence of one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen.

A Slice of Heaven - from a campers perspective...

I checked into the Minuteman Campground in Littleton, MA which is just minutes away from Walden Pond, my ultimate desitnation for traveling this far north. It's a beautiful campground, well staffed and situated in a great spot for taking in the sights. I highly recommend it.

The WiFi here seems quite nice, we'll see if it allows for video uploads. At least I can attach a few photos and get caught up on my general posts.

I gotta say the drive from Philly up to Boston is simply beauiful. Conneticut is maybe the most gorgeous State I've ever had the priviledge of taking in... lots of green & lots of clean. It reminded me of Tennessee without the miles of garbage on the sides of the interstate. I also cross the George Washington bridge on the lower deck, was able to absorb the NY skyline from the distance as well as take my first real look at the Hudson River -- all amazing to see.

The last campground was just ok - the internet and cell phone connections were tricky and the showers quite cold. This one is a top notch operation....

Tomb of the Unknown Revolutionary War Soldier

I have visited American Philosophical Society this morning and would to post more but WiFi connections are weak. The attached photos are from Washington Square downtown Philadelphia.

Light...

Watch "See Longwood Gardens in a Whole New Light" on YouTube

I am walking in fields of light right now. It is astounding.

Loads of stuff...

Walt Whitman's Tomb

Well it was amazing. Modest by most any standard. Plain, nothing spectacular. Grave keepers digging nearby. Cars and sirens just over the fence in a Camden that's been rundown with poverty. But it was incredible to me. I have a video of some readings there that I can't upload it seems.

As good as this was though, nothing prepared me for what I would see at the Philly art museum... I had no idea this piece was on loan. I saw it and cried for 15 minutes. I never thought I would live to see it....

More later. :-)

Abandon Tent!

First night and it rained like mad. About 3/4 of an inch of water was pooled up in my tent. Everything got soaked and I mean everything. I have pictures but having a hard time getting them updated on the blog using this campsite wireless connection. Will look for a beter hotspot today -- meanwhile off to pull stuff out of the dryer!

For Whom The Road Tolls

There's nothing that says welcome to our great state like a toll road. Not that I ever believed it one bit, now I know why some say Northern people are a little more grumpy than folks in the South... gotta be the toll roads. I would need a full time regiment of psychotropic drugs if I lived here. I seriously paid more in tolls than I did for my campsite.

Not only did the road toll for me, I actually paid money for accesss on roads that were so packed with cars that I couldn't drive much over 5 miles per hour. Seriously, I drove my first 450 miles in 7 hours. My last 150 miles took six hours. And I paid them for the priviledge... hahahaha.

Fugue State Prevention 101

Albert Dadas is the subject of one my favorite philosophy books by Ian Hacking, entitled "Mad Travelers." It details many case notes from the first 'fuguer' - or the first person to suffer from a now "extinct" mental illness in which people would disappear for months on end only to reappear, usually in jail, with no recollection of where they'd been. People suffering from fugue were traveling amnesiacs driven by the compulsion to get out of town and blocked from remembering their journey outside of hypnosis or other methods of reaching the subconscious.

This "disease," oh so mysterious, appeared in the late 1800's around the birth of psychoanalytic practice reached a peak of several thousand 'reported' cases (mostly in Europe)... then for some reason, it suddenly disappeared within about thirty short years (think about the motor engine being created). In fact, by the 1930's it was non-existent and for all extents and purposes the last fuguer wandered about the countryside around 1910.

Interestingly enough, the "disease" was almost predominately suffered by men.

I use the word 'disease' in quotations because debating whether fugue was real is still happens in some circles. The history of men traveling and questing is quite rich, starting with something as basic as Heroditus' writings and easily recognized throughout the Middle Ages in the "questing" motif often exemplified by knights and their squires. The difference of course being the lack of amnesia, but in all other matters Albert Dadas was in many ways a parody of Odysseus, or perhaps Oedipus.

Fugue reached it's height around 1890 or so when names like Charcot and William James were busy writing theses about what the 'disease' truly was. Hacking and others believe the illness was removed from society when popular tourism began and when the fantasy of quests and travels had been more fully explored and distributed to the public in writings by authors like Jules Verne. I think he's probably right.

But that doesn't really address the underlying principles at work in men that have been clearly documented throughout history, even in our earliest recorded works. Nor has it changed the nature of the "pilgrimage," which is to this day is still ensconced at the heart of many religions, such as Islam, Hinduism, and Buddhism.

A man on a traveling quest is in fact a deep-seated, psychological need that is constantly searching for expression. Whether it is a cyclops, a dragon, or a windmill, there is also an adversary in each man's quest - or at the very least - something to overcome.

My journey begins in a few short hours. I trust it will contain no amnesiac quality; and yet, I also trust that it will serve as a reflection to my own subconscious.

Still, I do see this as a spiritual quest. And if history is any indication this is also serving as Fugue State Prevention 101.

A funny thought, indeed, but I feel like I'm probably the only one laughing. :)

Thank you again to my wonderful church family - and especially to wife whose support I could not do without. Her strength is what gives me mine. I trust in my quest I will be bringing her back something much more valuable than a tourist trinket.

____________________________________________________________

 

 

"Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road,

Healthy, free, the world before me,

The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose.

Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune,

Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing,
Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms,
Strong and content I travel the open road.

The earth, that is sufficient,

I do not want the constellations any nearer,
I know they are very well where they are,
I know they suffice for those who belong to them.

(Still here I carry my old delicious burdens,

I carry them, men and women, I carry them with me wherever I go,
I swear it is impossible for me to get rid of them,
I am fill’d with them, and I will fill them in return.)"

~ Walt Whitman, from Song of the Open Road 

Collapsing Light Into Earth

“We fight for men and women whose poetry is not yet written…”

                                        ~ Robert Gould Shaw

On the last leg of my trip, I hopefully reach out and touch the memorial to one of America’s greatest unsung heroes. Robert Gould Shaw was born to a wealthy family in Boston, but enlisted in the Civil War when he was only 23 years old. He went on to command the 1^st all black regiment of soldiers in American history. Gould was killed in the assault on Ft. Sumter along with most of his division. The Confederates buried him in the sand there alongside his men as an act of insult. After the war, many bodies were exhumed and taken home, but his father chose to leave Robert at Sumter, buried among his men. For the Shaw family, being buried alongside the black soldiers wasn’t an insult at all. It was the highest honor imaginable.

Shaw’s memorial was constructed in Boston some 35 years after his death, although most of Boston wanted it built right away. There was some dissension about how exactly the monument would look. Shaw’s family and many other abolitionists repeatedly insisted that Shaw not be depicted in any memorial without his men also being depicted. It finally happened.

There are pictures on the web for people to look at – but if you want to, check back here soon because I will be posting mine.

Of all the many splendid things to do directly in Boston itself, this is the very top of my list. This man fought for a people whose poetry had not yet been written. If you don’t know much about him, rent the 1989 film Glory, which is a relatively close adaptation of his life with usual Hollywood embellishments.

The above video is amazing to me – not just because of the clip selection used which is admirable – but because of the way the music enhances the sentiment. “Collapse Light into Earth,” is the name of the song and although it seems much more like a romantic song shared between parting lovers, it certainly is a metaphor for something much deeper.

Jesus said, “Let your light shine before men so that might see your good deeds and give glory to your Father in heaven.” Such a light spurns us to greatness and may we find the courage to let it shine... to collapse the very essence of light into our earthy beings, then let the best of us out to burn brightly for others -- especially those with no voice.

“Nothing is plainer than the need to fuse the States into the only reliable identity:  a moral and artistic one.”

 ~ Walt Whitman (with some minor embellishments for ease of reading)

Is Ignorance Bliss?

Philosopher’s Hall stands in downtown Philadelphia and I may not have time to blog about it, but I promise to at least post pictures. Established by Benjamin Franklin and now most widely recognized as the American Philosophical Society, I gotta say that peering at the bricks of this 270 year old place is going to be fun.

But what’s the point really? There’s been no shortage of deep thinkers over the bulk of American history, at least not until maybe the last forty years. It’s not like that highbrow stuff has opened very many doors to human progress – and what doors it has opened most find too grueling and tiresome to enter.

One of the most fascinating things about Whitman to me is his constant, absolute refusal to debate the deeper issues. For Whitman, the deepest philosophy was written into his body and into Nature, and their story existed not to answer any question – to Whitman there wasn’t much of a question at all – there was only the need to “be.” It was as if he knew the old Japanese proverb which states that, "A bird does not sing because it has an answer. It sings because it has a song." Whitman is consistent in his debasement of thinking that runs too deep:

“Logic and sermons never convince – the damp of night drives deeper to my soul.”

“A morning glory at my window satisfies me more than the metaphysics of books.”

“I think I could turn and live with the animals, they are so placid and self contained;
I stand and look at them long and long.
They do not sweat and whine about their condition;
They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins;
They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God;
Not one is dissatisfied-not one is demented with the mania of owning things;
Not one kneels to another, nor his kind that lived thousands of years ago….”

Philosopher’s Hall is going to be a real treat for me because I can’t quite side with Whitman here; however, I have to wonder if it isn’t the general malaise from exposure to metaphysics that spurns this trip to begin with. Whitman’s hold on me likely stems from this idea that too much thinking keeps a person from simply “being.”

Doubly fascinating for me is our old recorded story of man’s proverbial fall from grace, which detailed not some violent, unexplained outburst – nor some twisted sexual deviance. It wasn’t man's greed or his divorces or his bad parenting or his failure to build a church and worship… at the heart of it was eating from a tree that granted nothing other than knowledge. And God's warning was clear - that tree will ultimately devour you. Eden for Whitman wasn’t just the absence of suffering and sin; it was a placidity that comes when the mind isn’t overly preoccupied with knowing too many things.

I’m not sure I fully understand this, hence the preoccupation. I am fairly sure no one reading this rambling will understand it either as I have undoubtedly muddied the water. J

“Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself.

I am large. I contain multitudes…”

Walt Whitman

Rough New Prizes

Counting down days to my trip! Tonight I pulled about six military MRE meals out of the freezer and started de-thawing them; can’t wait to blog more about those after I actually eat one. I had a few options in planning this trip that included hotel stays in the center of townships, nice restaurants, and maybe all the “relaxing” elements of a trip to the northeast – even offers to stay in the homes of family and friends in the area.

I’ve opted for something a bit more outrageous, but certainly something closer to my roots. A little two-man tent, a few campfires at night, and a little sideways-tilted chemical cooker packed with dehydrated calories and some mysterious crystals that when mixed with water form something called “Base Beverage Powder,” an apparent electrolyte enhancer. I suppose our military men and woman could tell me more about them, although this certainly won’t be the first time I have turned to an MRE for nourishment. Seriously though, are dehydrated meals self-care?

I do wonder how it is I’m able to refer to my trip as self-care, when I am more or less subjecting myself to conditions and meals that will be less than comfortable. The truth is that I have always been terrible at self-care. This includes a lot of bad habits that need to be dropped precisely BECAUSE they bring comfort and ease. I’ve got to get these things sorted and put in order so that I can be the best pastor I can be.

“Roughing it” can actually be a source of self-care when it’s aimed specifically at a spiritual condition. This is also one of the reasons that Walden Pond is on my trip ticket. Henry David Thoreau once wrote:

“Most of the luxuries and many of the so-called comforts of life are not only not indispensable, but positive hindrances to the elevation of mankind."

I suspect this may be generally true, although I am certain that exceptions apply. It does seem to me that character is produced most efficiently on the other side of difficulty and that most of us pursue comfort over difficulty when given the chance.

Part of my journey has to be centered on questions regarding the comforts I need to select, the comforts I need to reject, and the wisdom to tell the difference between the two. I’m just not certain I can go all the way to the bottom of those kinds of questions in the comfort of a bed, anesthetized by a four-course meal and a couple of glasses of red wine.

I guess I’ll find out between “beef briskets” and crackers that have a six year shelf life. Yummy.

“Listen! I will be honest with you;

I do not offer the old smooth prizes, but offer rough new prizes;

These are the days that must happen to you….”

~ Walt Whitman

The Mystery Whitman Medallion

I've had this 1919 Walt Whitman medallion for so long that I can't remember where it came from or why I ended up with it. My mother and father ran an auction house in Kingston some time ago and I suspect maybe it came from there. The only other place it could have come from is my mother-in-law, though I am uncertain how she would have come upon one of these:

Regardless of where or how I got it, this medal has been sitting on my desk for years along with a pocket copy of Leaves of Grass. I find the image to be soothing for me during times of intellectual or emotional upheaval.

Needless to say, my curiosity led me to research it's origins. If it is authentic - and it very well may be a reproduction - then I suppose I shouldn't hoard it all to myself. The only one I could find using Internet search engines is on display at the Yale University Art Gallery. (Click to see it and note it's exactly the same medal.)

Along the left side of the medallion at about the nine o'clock position are the artists initials. Robert Tait McKenzie is the sculptor. It was commissioned for the Franklin Inn Club in Philadelphia in 1919 on the centennial of Whitman's birth.

My journey will actually take me to the Franklin Inn Club in Philly where I hope to learn more about the medallion's origin and authenticity. Could be that McKenzie made hundreds of them and there are dozens in circulation all around the Northeast; I just don't know.

If it proves to be valuable and rare, it certainly doesn't belong on my desk for me alone to enjoy, so I suppose I will find the appropriate place to donate it. Either back to the Franklin Inn Club, the Walt Whitman house in Camden, or maybe a local art museum.

No matter what happens, at least there is a chance for the mystery of the medallion to be solved.... wish me luck!


"I know I have the best of time and space, and was never measured
and never will be measured.

I tramp a perpetual journey, (come listen all!)
My signs are a rain-proof coat, good shoes, and a staff cut from the woods,
No friend of mine takes his ease in my chair,
I have no chair, no church, no philosophy, I lead no man to a dinner-table, library, exchange,
But each man and each woman of you I lead upon a knoll,
My left hand hooking you round the waist,
My right hand pointing to landscapes of continents and the public road.

Not I, not any one else can travel that road for you,
You must travel it for yourself."

~ Walt Whitman

The Dead Poet Journey

This blog has been created to document my "dead poet journey" although that's not quite fair since I will be taking in some other amazing things -- like this:



Munro isn't dead as far as I know. Still, this is going to be the trip of a lifetime for me... I'll be crawling out from under the disguise of an under-acheiving fisherman who grew up wading the back country streams of Roane County, TN and taking a seat at the gravesides of great men whom I've long admired and spent a lifetime reading.

Along the way, I will document my stops - share with you the people I meet - photos of the places I visit - and sound my "barbaric yawp" over the rooftops of the world.

Thanks to High Places Church for this great opportunity to practice "self-care" as they call it in "The Industry." Lolz. Really not big on the vocabulary of such things, just in the many layers of humanity that we all share, each of which need their own degree of TLC.

"Trippers and askers surround me....
Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am,
Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary,
Looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest,
Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next,
Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it.
Backward I see in my own days where I sweated through fog with linguists and contenders,
I have no mockings or arguments, I witness and wait."

~ Walt Whitman