My Walden

     Since the farm has sold which is just so spelled out for the people that actually read this blog of mine, I have since taken up fishing. To say I am a novice is an understatement ,but slowly I am getting better. This little pond shown below is my little escape from city life. It is ,as I mused today my Walden pond. Henry Thoreau , went to a place called Walden pond for a year to reflect on life; to get away and be quiet. This is my place to be quiet. Thoreau did the same thing." I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practice resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion. For most men, it appears to me, are in a strange uncertainty about it, whether it is of the devil or of God, and have somewhat hastily concluded that it is the chief end of man here to "glorify God and enjoy him forever." Henry David Thoreau. This is the closest thing I have to the farm. It is where I come to think and find meaning. Today , while doing college app's I got so stressed out, that I just slammed my laptop shut grabbed my fishing rod and ran out the door and drove to my Walden. As I drove a soft country song came on and a smile came to my face. The stress melted and I was at the pond. I got out to the soft sound of crickets chirping on the bank ,and the sound of bass hittin bugs on top of my Walden. As I hopped the fence the sound of the street was dampened by the live oaks that surround the pond. I wave across the pond to old Mr. Crouch working in his garden. He is a great man that lets me fish at the pond. A missionary,and true red blooded american Mr. crouch is one of a kind. The pond is quiet as I throw out a couple casts and unwind.