Tuesday. 10:07 p.m. 82 degrees. Thunder storm passed right over the house. Multiple flashes of lightning with each crack of thunder. Storm front has moved on. Thunder far in the distance. Listening to the patter of the rain, stretched out on the family room floor, reading Laura Dassow Walls’ new biography of Thoreau.
“In later years, he kept a detailed journal to record his observations of nature (including human nature), noting the date each flower bloomed, the date the ice melted on Walden Pond, when eaves turned color, and the dates and depths of the snowfalls. He bragged that from looking at the flowers, he could tell the day of the month within two days. Scientists are now using his meticulous records to track with precision the ever-earlier onset of spring and the lingering of fall, as year by year climate change shrinks winters and alters the composition of Walden’s plant community.”
Rain and wind picking up again. Can’t decide if, lying here in the near dark, reading by the light of my little battery powered lantern, I’m identifying with Thoreau in his cabin at Walden, the fourteen year old me reading Walden for the first time, or me just being me.