For months I waited to see Walden Pond. I safeguarded the visit from poor weather or imperfect health and I waited until the moment was just right to make my pilgrimage. I left early on a Saturday morning, while my neighborhood slept off the fatigue from the work week. Yet when I arrived at Walden Pond, there were already swimmers, already impassioned walkers like myself clutching the beauty of the early morning before it slipped away. Walden Pond is smaller than most people imagine, but no less enchanting, especially on a day in late June when the sun and trees play a game of reflections along the surface of the water. A couple in their sixties led their canoe through them; a sole swimmer let them surround her. And I took pictures.
The trails beyond the pond were filled with the glistening magic of of a New England summer's day, and also a great many bugs that were more than delighted I was there. Like every other visitor I suppose, I thought of Thoreau and his wish to 'live deliberately,'-
which made me ache for Downeast Maine and the time I spent there with my mother and my dogs and the firewood we used to keep the home warm. I am the child of a city, still very much devoted to sky scrapers and cafes and the ideas that swarm in both, but when I can I race away-to the woods and to the philosophy espoused in Walden.