Thoreau was much interested in economy. He catalogued and measured with an accountant's care. We know exactly what his house cost: Eight dollars and three-and-a-half cents for boards, four for shingles, and one twenty-five for lath. He spent four dollars for a thousand old bricks, and penny for chalk. Altogether, his expenses came to twenty-eight dollars and twelve-and-a-half cents, and part of this he spent grudgingly. He needed little but what he could see from his door. He would rather sit by himself on a pumpkin, he said, than be crowded on a velvet cushion. I read somewhere that a member of the Kung tribe of the Kalahari Desert owns material possessions weighing an average of twenty-five pounds. I figure that my own worldly goods, excluding dwelling, would tip the scales at something more than four tons. That's a heavy burden to lug through life. The acquisition and maintenance of those four tons are the source of my desperation. Thoreau said that most of the luxuries of life, and many of the so-called comforts, are not only dispensable, but also positive hindrances. I have no velvet cushions, but there are hindrances enough around my house, objects that take more than they give, objects that must be carried about whether I wish it or not. If I had to reduce my load to twenty-five pounds, what would I keep? My first thought would be my bicycle--sleek, black, and mechanically perfect--a prized possession, and surely an acceptable accouterment for middle age. But the trim alloy bicycle weighs twenty-seven pounds, and there are no accessories I can strip off. Besides winter is coming on, and the bike won't take me through the snowy woods. So how about my stereo and few favorite records, perhaps Chopin's Nocturnes, or Mahler's First Symphony? But these, I find, weigh thirty-eight pounds, and that's with the headphones rather than the speakers, and the need for electricity would be still another link to the world of things. Well, then, shall I keep my writing table? That handsome board has given me many moments of pleasure and takes little in return. But my joy in the table is tied to its place in the big bay window with winter sunlight streaming in through green plants and coffee steaming in a mug by my elbow. Add these extras and it comes to much more than twenty-five pounds. So what do I choose? A pair of corduroy pants. A few thick sweaters. Good boots. A woolen cap. A book with blank pages. A pen. Ottewell's Astronomical Calendar, Norton's Star Atlas, and Thoreau's Walden. I put all of these things on the bathroom scale, and they come to twenty-one pounds. They will do. Thoreau's friend Emerson once said: "He who knows what sweets and virtues are in the ground, the water, the plants, the heavens, and how to come at these enchantments, is the rich and royal man." Of course, it is self-indulgent to compare my hankering for a less burdened life to the forced poverty of the Kung tribesman. And, if truth be told, there is little in my four ton pile that I would be willing to do without. There is no way back to the Kalahari, nor do I have the desire to go. So I will add to my pile sweets and virtues from the sky. I will stack on stars and galaxies until my pile topples over. I will be insatiable. No royal vault will be large enough to hold my riches. |
© Copyright 1992 Chet Raymo, The Soul of the Night An Astronomical Pilgrimage
 previous |
||
|
|
