Walden by Haiku

Solitude

[23] Solitude a delicious evening the whole body one sense over the water note of the whippoorwill borne on the rippling wind fluttering alder leaves take away my breath the lake not ruffled dark now the wind still roars the waves still dash calling cards a willow wand, a name in pencil on a yellow leaf [24] a traveller along the highway the scent of his pipe the woods and the pond the horizon never quite at our elbows my own sun and moon and stars and a little world all to myself fishing for pouts baiting the hooks with darkness why should I feel lonely? is not our planet in the Milky Way? [25] I am driftwood in the stream Indra in the sky looking down on it the student at his desk at work in his field chopping in his woods we meet at meals a new taste of that old musty cheese no more lonely than the loon in the pond or the pond itself Walden Pond the blues in the tint of its waters dandelion in a pasture the north star the south wind [26] intelligence with the earth myself partly leaves and vegetable mould a draught of morning air! it will not keep quite till noon Another of the defining characteristics of haiku is sabi, which roughly translates as “aloneness” or, as Sam Hamill has called it, “existential Zen loneliness” (169). In the sort of paradoxical turn that we might expect of haiku aesthetics, sabi is tied in with the idea of compassion, a kind of sensitivity called aware. It constitutes a recognition that we’re all alone together—not that we’re all together really, but that we share our aloneness, or, rather, that our aloneness is something we have in common with all living things. We are all subject to time, united in ephemerality—or, more to the point, all caught alone in the harsh reality of the temporal. But all this is perceived not with grief or despondency but with tranquil acceptance. Sabi is a frustratingly ambiguous concept, such that one expert, Jane Reichhold, has commented, “The Japanese have maintained for centuries that no one can really, truly comprehend what sabi really is and thus, they change its definition according to their moods” (10). But the gist of it seems to contain elements of beauty, sadness , tranquillity, and loneliness. So here we have Thoreau devoting a chapter to the concept of “Solitude ,” not a far cry at all from aloneness. What is Thoreau’s take on the concept? That there is a quality of delight in solitude, certainly, and a greater opportunity to connect with the natural world—look at his [27] satisfaction in enjoying “a delicious evening,” and in encountering a whippoorwill, alder leaves, a loon, the pond, a dandelion, the North Star. These observations remind us that the concept of “alone” shares etymological roots with “all one.” Thoreau suggests that solitude makes possible a sense of connection to the natural world, reminiscent of Powell ’s definition of sabi as “the loneliness that allows for appreciation of and communion with nature . . . a way of losing the ego, a way of being in the world unself-consciously” (92). The connections Thoreau makes to the natural world range from small to large, from alder leaves to the Milky Way. The encounters with other humans are described not as connections but as near misses—the scent of a traveller’s pipe, a note from a visitor left on a leaf. Or they are unsatisfying—the “musty cheese” that we are at the dinner table. But it’s not quite as simple as saying that real connections are possible only in the nonhuman realm. In the moments of contact with the world outside the self, there are notes of melancholy mixed in with the delight. The hooks with which he fishes are “baited with darkness.” And what is he catching with that bait? Pouts. Little fish—but also snits of dissatisfaction. Moments of contact with nature are draughts of “morning air.” But they are fleeting moments that “will not keep / quite till noon.” ...