My Emotional Affair With Henry David Thoreau

  I must admit, I’ve always been enthralled with Henry David Thoreau.

It started innocently enough—me, looking for an easy book report in high school; him, a man who lived alone in the woods with nothing but a pencil, a pond, and an uncompromising sense of purpose. I thought he was eccentric, maybe a little smug. But oh, he got under my skin.

His call to “live deliberately” struck something in me. Back then, I scribbled those words in the margins, underlined them twice, and carried on with the business of becoming—building a family, managing a career, attending birthday parties, sorting laundry, and worrying (always worrying). His message was a seed, but the ground was too crowded for it to grow.

Now I’m seventy. The noise of life has softened—less urgency, and blessedly, fewer expectations. And that’s when the seed finally cracked open. I find myself returning to Walden, not as a curiosity, but as a companion.

It’s more than admiration. It’s an emotional affair.

He understands me in ways no one else does. He gives me permission to want less. To be alone without apology. To walk slowly, think deeply, and not explain why I turn down invitations or leave my phone unanswered. Following Thoreau isn’t about retreating from the world—it’s about finally stepping into my own.

Thoreau wasn’t escaping life. He was refining it. He didn’t reject the world; he just refused to let it dictate the terms of his existence. That is the affair I’ve been having—not one of romance, but of liberation.

At seventy, I’m more unapologetic than ever. And following Thoreau is my way of saying: I no longer have to follow rules I didn’t write—rules that never truly served me.

“Our life is frittered away by detail… simplify, simplify.”

Yes, Henry. I hear you now. And after all these years, I’m finally in a place where I can answer.