YEAR 02, VOLUME 07
I woke up this morning and found myself at home.
I woke up on the early side. I rolled over on my right side. I sleep on the right side of the bed, so I rolled right. Before the roll turned to tumble I twisted my legs to meet the floor and, leverage swinging my way, my torso upright. The day began the same as any other day. I addressed the morning chores with a blend of dutiful commitment and joy. I’ve found a routine that, for many years, I never believed I was capable of. In fact I spat fire at the very word and concept as I believed routine was most certainly the end, the rut, the death of spontaneity and creativity. full post>
I grew up in Concord, Massachusetts, a town steeped in more seminal national history than just about any other. Fittingly, our many famous local authors and historic sites featured prominently in the schools’ curricula. I always felt an affinity for the Transcendentalists, especially Thoreau, who crafted a uniquely American fusion of mysticism and pragmatism with a love of nature at its core. While it may not stand up to much adult scrutiny, his was a vision that landed well in my teenage imagination. I spent many thousands of hours exploring the Concord woods during my first 18 years, having experiences both profound and mundane, feeling at peace, noticing the minute changes that happen each day throughout the four distinct seasons that New England boasts so beautifully. I learned to swim in Walden Pond. full post>
This is our hill, and these are our beans
from the editor