Into the deep

Today I didn't wear make up and let my hair dry curly. The house is back to normal, but I'm still reeling from my trip. I keep thinking about my walk about Walden pond. It was bigger than I thought it would be. It was also more public. People swimming everywhere. I was imagining it a quiet and serene place to be. The woods were, to a point. Everyone walking around lost due to the lack of signs indicating where Thoreau's house was located. The lower paths were flooded and the detour signs were very lacking. At one point, I got lost from J and mom because I decided to take a lower path by the water. In every break in the trees, people set up their little camps to swim. There wasn't a beach to sit on on these side sites, but just rocks that people perched on. It was hot. Steamy, in fact. The entire trip was uncharacteristic of East coast weather. We were worn out from our days gallivanting about. When I finally found my party and we finally found his house site (almost giving up at one point), I focused more on the fact that his cabin was so tiny. It was just enough for a bed, a chair and table and a fireplace. He spent 26 months there I believe. I took a picture of his view. I am starting to read his journal. He wrote it a few years before Walden. Something about this experience is gnawing at me. I'm not sure yet. I'm so curious as to what his day to day was like. I'm wanting to leave my house and go somewhere and read it for days. It makes me want to take a break from people myself. I live with a mini-me attached to me at all times. She is adorable...but the borders of her body and mine are starting to blur. My thoughts are preoccupied with the order of my house and the times of feedings and changings. This is just like every other mom out there, I know this. But, to be in a place where a man just sat and wrote and thought for days on end intrigued me. I realized how many thoughts I don't think. How many meanings I'm not finding. I'm on hold in a way. My intellect is stagnant. We traveled through many towns were artists created their works. We walked amongst their headstones. Their impact on literature...I feel as if I'm now being haunted. I know this seems silly, but I can't shake the feeling that I'm not doing something. There's a thought out there I'm supposed to have and I'm not thinking it. My heart isn't romantic at the moment. I'm not inspired to write poetry dripping with lust and passion. I'm in awe of a little girl. It's just a different part of my heart. Since I was 16, I've felt out of one side and now...the complete sweet and innocent side of my heart has the dust blown off of it and it's odd. I see my heart in chambers. My dream is to make use of all of it at the same time. Did Thoreau do this? I'm curious to find out.

I'm also haunted a bit by the House of Seven Gables. Walking around this bizarre home was so odd to me. Reading about Nathaniel Hawthorne and his dark and recluse life--how did he create? How was he able to really understand a soul? He spent years alone. Why? What possessed to be this way? I keep thinking about how I walked on the same boarded floor as he did. Seeing the bed he slept in as a child. Seeing the chairs he sat in as an adult. It's fascinating to me.

It's late and I need to head to bed. My dreams have been filled with old lovers lately. So odd. I just keep dreaming about times past. Well, of people past. I think I dream about JM because he was the introduction to that side of my heart--the passion side. To have someone unlock that for the first time...young love. Those types of experiences are what inspired the poets back then. I think it's my subconscious telling me I need to write. I need to tap into more than just an account of my daily duties. Maybe I need to dig a bit deeper. I think it's odd that a dream with stick with me for days. I wake up feeling just as I had years before. It's kind of a cool experience. However, it can be painful at times.