My Walden Pond

I now eat, sleep, and work in my new home, but it still feels as if I am staying at an Airbnb. The unfamiliarity of the new spaces and how I move around in them, the unexpected imperfections and quirks of the home, and the new paint smell that still hits my nose when I walk through the door probably all contribute to my not feeling at home. Although I feel invigorated when I walk outside by the energy of a more urban neighborhood, doubt creeps in when I am inside as to whether I’ve made the right decision in moving here or if the move was just another act of running away. I am going to miss the greenness of nature and the peace I felt whenever I drove into my tree-lined neighborhood and the ever calming and solid mountains came into my view. I will probably miss the howls of the coyote on those dry summer evenings.

I hope to practice my own Walden Pond life in the city. Moving into a small apartment has made me remember the casita in which I stayed when I was in Albuquerque. The simplicity of what I owned as a traveler and what was in the house. The quietness of the humble interior and the desert surroundings of the southwest. What was it about that place that gave me so much peace? The simplicity of the space, yes, but I think also the simplicity of the mind. I was not working. I was not wanting anything for the future or for anything to be different. My mind was engaged in one thing—to experience a new place and the time given to me in that place. The transience of all the places I saw and experiences I had or would have was real. My mind didn’t dwell, fret, or prepare for the worst. Instead, it was open to whatever I would encounter and I saw all things as new. A life that Thoreau lived at Walden Pond required not just a certain  material setting but also a mind that has pared down itself to be free from its constant scheming, grasping, and control.