How "Walden" Ruined Me ... and I'm Glad it Did

I went to Concord yesterday, but I didn't stop by Walden pond. I saw the river where Thoreau paddled, and I went to the museum, where I saw his small chipped green desk with its wonderful slanted top, his simple bedstead that held his rather short frame, and his flute, made simply with carved holes. A few things of his still linger, though the wealth of his life is found between the ears, not in a museum or even at the pond shores. Through his eyes, I find a kinship - not with him, but with a deep vein that runs like solid iron within me. That vein is TRUTH.

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It seems simple to say a book changes your life. Maybe I can't explain how or why I chose to read "Walden" the summer after college, but it was the first book that wasn't assigned and so I was able to interpret it all on my own. Within moments of reading, the words sunk between my own ears, but it wasn't until months later that I realized how insidious his life philosophy had become to me. I couldn't drive down the street without questioning the reason for driving, the reason for having a car, the reason for going where I was going, the reason for needing to spend the money on my debit card, the reason for the house I lived in, the reason for ... simply everything.

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No longer could I sleepwalk through a decision. Why? Henry asked me. Why? He asked again. Why are you doing what you're doing? What is the goal? Do you think that will REALLY bring you what you want? Or is it a social construct ... another's belief ... an advertising ploy you saw on TV ... a long-dead religious idea that holds no weight ... a fear ... a dream? WHY?

To question is to know you're capable of questioning. To question is to feel uncomfortable, to shift from foot to foot, to try an inner dissection. But to truly feel the deep marrow that Henry talked about, I had to feel uncomfortable. I had to question. I had to separate the me that is the real me from the me that is the consumer, the voter, the shopper, the wife, the American, the reader, the audience member, the homeowner, the driver, the Caucasian - whatever other labels I'm supposed to fall under. Because the real me is what remains. A human, with human feelings, human rights, human desires, human needs, and ... most important ... human truths.

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I'm glad I question nearly everything now, though it has cost me comfort, security, passivity, and even feelings of community. Not everyone is ruined by the truth, but those who have been find that their identities have been rebuilt with such personal iron that it can never be toppled again. That metal vein has been tapped, and I will feel it to the core of me the rest of my life.

Why? Henry asked me. So, I answered:

"Because I know it's true. And I can't live any other way."