The ability to see

“Here is my secret. It’s very simple. One only sees rightly with the heart. The essential is invisible to the eye.” Antoine St. Exupéry in The Little Prince

In keeping with the theme of this year’s annual gathering of the Thoreau Society — Thoreau’s Environmental Ethos — Aldersgate United Methodist minister Greg Martin proposed a new ecologic paradigm for the 21st century. Using Thoreau’s poetic description of Walden Pond as the eye of the earth for a touchstone, Martin developed the idea that we need to cultivate an essential ecological lens through which we can begin to view the planet as a living, breathing organism, one to be cared for rather than exploited.

As the late Bradley Dean, editor of Thoreau’s posthumously published Wild Fruits, has suggested: “If we can realize that we are mysteriously related to matter, we will act to preserve the world because human beings protect what we love or feel related to.”

“[Walden] is earth’s eye,” Thoreau writes, “looking into which the beholder measures the depth of his own nature.”

In “The Ponds” chapter of Walden Thoreau builds upon this poetic vision of Walden. “The fluviatile trees next the shore are the slender eyelashes which fringe it, and the wooded hills and cliffs around are its overhanging brows.”

Thoreau describes the Walden water as “a vitreous greenish blue…like those patches of the winter sky seen through cloud vistas in the west before sundown.” “Walden is blue at one time and green at another, even from the same point of view…Such is the color of its iris.” (my italics)

In the midst of such poetic prose Thoreau interjects scientific observations. In one paragraph he records the temperature of the pond on a given day (the sixth of March, 1846) as 42 degrees, “one degree colder than the water of the one of the coldness wells in the village just drawn.” He comments on the rise and fall of the water level, noting that it corresponds to that of nearby Flint’s and White Pond. He describes the sandy terrain of the bottom near the shore, and publishes his soundings of its depths.

Thus Thoreau the writer couples his poetic vision with that of a scientist. Each perspective nourishes the other. At times it is difficult to separate the two.

At the end of Martin’s presentation a man in the middle of the audience remarked that he had always been of the same mind. “I am a physicist,” he said. “When I do science, I rely heavily upon my poetic insight. Those of us engaged in scientific research treasure the sense of mystery; it pricks our curiosity and generates a sense of awe for the unknown. Any scientist worth his salt will tell you the same. You can’t do one without the other.”

As I turned in my seat to better hear his remarks, I noticed his head cocked to one side with his chin slightly elevated. Even though we sat in the cool basement of the Masonic Lodge, he wore dark glasses.

As the workshop disbanded and disbursed I noticed this man shuffling along hesitantly behind the woman he had been sitting next to. His extended hand clung to her sleeve.

It was only then that I realized that this scientist who was capable of seeing what Thoreau saw was blind.

Sometimes the ability to see is not dependent solely upon our eyes.

The eye of the thrush

The morning sun throws its light across the tops of the distant pines, turning their tufts a brilliant green against the grey backlit sky. Shafts of sharp light stretch across the expanse of back yard. The flower beds lie freshly edged, their black earth turned up to face the sky.

The same wind that stirs the branches of the distant pines stirs something in me as well. I pull on my boots, grab my old felt hat and binoculars and step outside. The morning air is fresh after yesterday’s soaking rain.

I head out toward the far hills, striding down the street past an idling car. Inside a man bows his head, thumbs flying across the key pad of his cell phone.

Just up the street the call of a phoebe resonates through the crisp morning air. He sits on an overhead wire that leads to the house where the young woman with lymphoma lives.  A light still burns in the vestibule.

Slowly, I track the muddy leaf-strewn path that leads up the hill and around the bend. Spotted violets dot the edge of the trail, shivering in the early morning air.

At the top of the hill near the concrete water tank I turn left and follow the rain-soaked path up the gradual incline of the old carriage road. I pause at the first bend to look out at the stand of decayed hemlocks, their stark broken branches bleached white in the sun.

Two additional switchbacks and I step onto the rock that juts out at the end of the overlook. I train the binoculars on the far ridges, blue across the river valley, filled with mists.

Further along, the rocks lie covered with moss, wet with dew. The cut where the power lines cross the mountain provides a view of the city to the southeast and the Barndoor Hills to the northwest.

Once more I enter the woods, steadying the binoculars to keep them from bouncing back and forth against my chest, lost in thought.

Suddenly up ahead, a brown flash darts across the path. Stock still I stand, feet planted firmly on the small outcropping of traprock. Ten yards before my eyes a small brown bird perches on the bare branch of a birch tree.

Motionless we stand, regarding one another. The bird boasts a limpid eye ringed in white, a speckled buff breast, a white throat and cinnamon rump. He chortles a brief burst, clearing his throat. Silently I wait. Again and again the bird chortles, several times over the ensuing minute, then drops to the ground among the leaves.

I ease a few steps forward, binoculars at the ready; but the bird flits down through the brush and into the forest.

Within the hour I descend the mountain to the sound of cars whizzing down the main road, commuters on their way to work.

Back home I kick off my muddy boots, settle my old felt hat on the rack, and retire my binoculars to their case, carefully wrapping the cinnamon brown leather strap around the center of the twin eye pieces ringed white with tear salt from four decades of use.