On Land, Cities and the Space Between

Early this morning, inspired by the reappearance of the sun after a nasty two days of fog and rain, I took off on a little run through Central Park.  A lovely man has been on my mind lately, and I wanted to take some time before work to shake off a little of the jittery, flip-flopping butterflies feelings that his ideas have put in my head. No one should get jealous, reading this–alas, he died young, years ago.  I’m talkin’ about Henry David Thoreau.

Thinking about Thoreau in Central Park is pretty perfect.  Here was a dude who knew well the dilemma I face every time I go somewhere “wild” and return to the very different “wilderness” of New York: how can I live in New York City and yet still embrace my love of land and farming?  To answer this question, I’ve been reading Walden.  Written in 2 years, 2 months and 2 days, Walden takes place in the woods in his one room cabin.  The essays celebrate nature, solitude, simplicity (not poverty), and farming (not entire self-sustainance).  And I eat it up.  It’s really easy to get swept away by Thoreau’s ideas.  I wandered around the mountains of Bolivia pouring over it, living out of a backpack for four months.  It seemed like the ideal life.  But when I made plans to return to New York City, I could feel the its delicate structure quivering with each quake of the City’s strides.  I was going back to grocery stores!  Some of the best ones in the world! And fashion! And friends–and movie theaters–and consumption (oh golly the consumption!)–it was overwhelming.   I felt guilty how much I was looking forward to it.  But I kept reading, and then read a little more on Thoreau.  Turns out Walden Pond and the cabin were about a mile and half from Thoreau’s family house in Concord, MA.  In other words, the woods weren’t as isolated as they seem.  Supplimenting my reading with a little Wikipedia research (love it, hate it; a lot of good scholars post on that thing–), I found the following passage:

“Thoreau neither rejected civilization nor fully embraced wilderness. Instead he sought a middle ground, the pastoral realm that integrates both nature and culture. The wildness he enjoyed was the nearby swamp or forest, and he preferred “partially cultivated country”…After one trip, instead of coming out of the woods with a deepened appreciation of the wilds, Thoreau felt a greater respect for civilization and realized the necessity of balance.”

I read that with a great sigh of relief. 

So, how does a New Yorker find the same balance?  In this last winter of travels, my biggest dilemma was my return to New York City.  I’d just lived several months in a place with 1/10 the ammenities I was used to, but happier–no, more content–than I’d been in years.  In the end, after a lot of hem-and-hawing, I chose to come back to a new position at the Botanical Gardens. Helping friends set up backyard gardens in their apartments, I realized that perhaps I didn’t need a Walden Pond one-room (thought it’d help with rent!).  After all, it was at about this age that Thoreau (and Charles Darwin, come to think about it) busted out from their respective cities (Concord, MA and London) after journeys of their own (Darwin had just come back from Argentina, too!).  It’s interesting to note that neither took off into hermetical existences because they abhorred society, cities or civilizations–they simply decamped to what I like to think of as “nudge nature”–the dosage of “wilderness” that reminds us the EARTH IS MAGNIFICENT, while close enough to a city that we don’t lose its benefits, too.  The most notable gift that living near/among/around/with the nature/city dichotomy is that we’re reminded they aren’t opposites–and in fact, you can live more richly in both by NOT seperating their attributes.  I like books and libraries, so I want to be in a city; I hate excess and consumption, my “nature-loving” habit that I bring back to cities.

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*RLS wrote: “…Thoreau’s content and ecstasy in living was, we may say, like a plant that he had watered and tended with womanish solicitude; for there is apt to be something unmanly, something almost dastardly, in a life that does not move with dash and freedom, and that fears the bracing contact of the world. In one word, Thoreau was a skulker. He did not wish virtue to go out of him among his fellow-men, but slunk into a corner to hoard it for himself. He left all for the sake of certain virtuous self-indulgences.” Oh, snap. Ouch.