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....