TAKING A WALK TO THE RABBIT HOLE…
0600 by Jeff HessI am a lifelong accumulator, a finder of the trivial and unconnected. In my woke mind I assemble a gestalt of bits and bobs that occasionally reach out to each other in momentarily flashes of synergy to pass for genius. This, perhaps, is why I treasured my first library card and spent whole days in my youth emulating Betty Smith’s Francie Nolan. This is also why the Internet, the greatest unorganized, uncatalogued and unbounded library humanity has yet generated. The Internet is my rabbit hole.
This morning I found an essay, written by Henry David Thoreau shortly before his death in 1862, on walking. I first read the essay some 110 years after its publication in the first hardcover book I ever purchased: Walden And Other Writings of Henry David Thoreau, edited by Brooks Atkinson. The book still sits on the shelf next to my writing desk and was the first book to be added to my list of books that have shaped my world.
(Two side notes—I do love side notes—first, the second hardcover book I purchased, from the same, small, independent bookstore—the only place to so—was The Complete Works Of Lewis Carrol, the primogenitor of all rabbit-hole analogies and second, the Internet came through again when I read at the bottom of the first link above, E.B. White’s—a writer I revere and whose portrait is framed on the wall before the desk where I sit typing this—brief praise for the volume of Thoreau: This book is like an invitation to life’s dance.)
Walking is a perfect way to spend an hour or two in reading on this third day of spring. I’ll leave you with this brief paragraph and encourage you to read the entirely of Thoreau’s words and think on them as you go walking.
It is true, we are but faint-hearted crusaders, even the walkers, nowadays, who undertake no persevering, never-ending enterprises. Our expeditions are but tours, and come round again at evening to the old hearthside from which we set out. Half the walk is but retracing our steps. We should go forth on the shortest walk, perchance, in the spirit of undying adventure, never to return, prepared to send back our embalmed hearts only as relics to our desolate kingdoms. If you are ready to leave father and mother, and brother and sister, and wife and child and friends, and never see them again—if you have paid your debts, and made your will, and settled all your affairs, and are a free man—then you are ready for a walk.
Does anyone not yearn to be free?






