...had a brilliant idea this morning…let me share it with you.
For well over twenty years now, it has been a tradition here at the lighthouse for my friends to come over on Sunday nights to play cards. On one such evening, we played much later than was customary as ‘twas well past the ‘bewitching hour’ before they left. Afterwards, I found myself unable to sleep so I got dressed, went to the Lantern Room, and busied myself doing my daily task as the Lighthouse Keeper. I find it rather sad that most lighthouses have been automated and the position of the Lighthouse Keeper done away with. Many of the grand old beauties are in disarray and some completely abandoned.
Finishing my final trip around the Widows Walk, I descended the staircase still full of energy! It was so early that the sun was not yet in the sky, although the glorious promises of a grand spring day gave evidence where the purples and red and orange auroras began their all too brief performance. Can anything be more delightful and calming?
Now in my kitchen, I made some toast and poured a cup of tea while Mokey made a pest of himself running and leaping across the floor, letting me know he wanted to be let outside to begin his day. His antics were comical and I was spellbound with memories of a spring day when I, as a lad and much like that cat, wanted outside. One of my favorite authors, Henry David Thoreau, wrote eloquently of what a spring day meant to him when he wrote:
“Ah! I have penetrated to those meadows on the morning of many a first spring day, jumping from hummock to hummock, from willow root to willow root, when the wild river valley and the woods were bathed in so pure and bright a light as would have waked the dead, if they had been slumbering in their graves, as some suppose. There needs no stronger proof of immortality. All things must live in such a light. O Death, where was thy sting? O Grave, where was thy victory, then?”
I opened the door that led to the garden as Mr. Mokey jumped between my legs hopeful of catching the fairies that may be yet lingering in the dew. As I followed him out the door, I became aware of the air being so pure and fragrant that I surely had to have been suddenly transported to the spot where, living alone, Thoreau had chosen life in a cabin on Walden’s Pond, which was near my ancestor’s homes in Massachusetts. They were fortunate enough to have known Thoreau and many of his compatriots such as Ralph Waldo Emerson, Margaret Fuller, Alcott, and Charming through daily happenstance. I do not relay my thoughts for any braggart’s right but merely to show where my love for reading and writing must have begun.
After a few minutes, the sun fully poked its bright yellow head above the eastern landscape and I spoke to the fairies, should they actually exist, “Welcome to me own wee Walden’s Pond”. I watched as the birds began fleeing from the onslaught of Mr. Mokey and laughing squirrels dared him to catch them. They have an ongoing feud, that cat and his sworn enemies the squirrels, as to who actually owns the trees around the Lighthouse. It has been going on for sometime now and no decisive winner has, as of yet, been decided. Tomorrow the feud will continue as it has since Mr. Mokey was just a wee one and there will still be no winner.
So, what are we to make of such a grand experience as this?
Life, if it is to be worth living, abounds in spite of the circumstances that surround us. Any day may end with sorrow or discouragement in spite of a glorious beginning, but life will go on in your Walden’s Pond.
King (aka Aegan)