I took a walk around the meadow with Thoreau this morning. It wasn't so much that I was invited as I caught a glimpse of him walking by on his way to the pond and cornered him. I see him pass everyday, looking for nothing in particular, always alone.
I waved a feeble greeting as my screen door's creaking prompted a turn of his head, and proceeded to catch up to him through the gnat-infested tall grass. He slowed his pace a bit but kept moving as I skipped up to him. I don't think he's so much the cantankerous recluse that people brand him.
As I stumbled to fall in step beside him, he glanced back and smirked a bit. Normally, this would irritate me with someone; it would appear as arrogance. But he evoked a kind of reverence in the moment, as dispassionate as an individual would be toward others if God were to enter a room.
He had a small hole in the top of his brimmed straw hat. I surmised that, given his reputation around here, he would as soon have a bird fly off with his shade before he would venture into town to buy something.
I found it hard to find a gait to match his, as he moved in a rhythm that I could not find, smaller steps here, then a longer stride there. He seemed to almost taunt me to either delay myself or race ahead. It was a little vexing.
"You don't get out for your own walks often, do you," he said faintly, more to himself than to me, as I finally agreed to find my own pace. From this, I surmised that he was giving me direction on how to go about attempting some semblance of companionship with a loner.
I made the slight mistake of mentioning my activities of only a few minutes before. I asked what he thought of the elections and then of the petty crimes that had recently occurred in the vicinity of our cabins—small talk. I received only a shrug and a wince as replies, respectively. I inferred that I'd disturbed his daily communion with nature so said nothing more.
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