walden on trial

I have begun re-reading two of my most treasured books: Thoreau's Walden, and Kafka's The Trial. Both I read for the first time on the edge of life, when I was perhaps twelve or thirteen. In one I saw the life that would be mine; in the other, I saw the inexplicable tragedy that life could become -- but it wouldn't happen to me.

I held Thoreau's words to my heart: I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life...I did not want...when I came to die, that I had not lived.

A life lived in experiential awareness could not go wrong.

Of course it did, more than once.

Josef K., Kafka's creation, found himself principal actor in a farce morphed into tragedy, which may be entertaining to watch or read but, in this case, it was his life in which "he did nothing truly wrong."

At tonight's bereavement support group, a participant, a widower of two years, challenged me when I said that I do find at least a sliver of joy in each day.

"How is that possible?" he asked. "What do you do?"

Mostly, I said, I don't try to fill the holes with my head. I don't ask questions, and I have no answers.

And I haven't left Walden.

We must learn to reawaken...by an infinite expectation of the dawn, which does not forsake us in our soundest sleep.

Or in our deepest tragedies.

Candace