“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.