The Caregiver’s Tales: A Blog

I finished the documentary about Henry David Thoreau last night. I may have to go back and reread his work. I first encountered Thoreau in high school with Emerson, but they were simply characters in a parade of characters as we marched through the history of US literature and philosophy.  I don’t recall reading On Walden Pond or Civil Disobedience, but I probably read parts of them. Most of it, like thoughts on transcendentalism, simply became part of my patchwork quilt of a brain.

I’ve spent several days in the last week talking about truth spurred by a documentary on Thoreau and his search for truth. Then I spent this weekend confronting my own truth. I’m dying, not in a specific way such as a horrific diagnosis, just in the general way that everyone dies. Time is running out. I’m entering my eighties, and for the first time, when thinking about a tree to plant, I realized I might not see it through to maturity. That’s a sobering thought.

I bought nine plants yesterday. Four marigolds, three Spanish lavenders, and two prostrate rosemary’s. I planted them in groups because I think it will help them thrive to have a companion of the same species close at hand. After all, they grew up that way. I did the same last year with mealy sage a friend gifted me. I planted them in two groups, and they’re thriving.

The odd thing about the truth is that any claimant can wear its name and once clothed it becomes indistinguishable from the real thing. And we are so in love with the idea of truth that we will die to protect it or kill. So, we’ve done a lot of horrible things to one another and had things done to us all in the name of the truth. It continues because sadly, the idea of truth is a useful tool if you’re selling something or want something from someone like money or a vote.

I’m still on the truth. Partly because it’s interesting, and partly because it’s so elusive. It’s all wrapped up in the verb to be, the usefulness of which I came to doubt in a Victorian literature class when the instructor started talking about Modern Painters, Aristotle, and Plato. I was reviewing music and a great realization swept over me, that what I was hearing was probably nothing like what someone else was hearing. So, where was the truth in that?

I saw a promotion for a documentary on Thoreau yesterday, and during the promotion his search for truth was mentioned. It seems a common goal for writers, they’re always looking for the truth. Lots of people already claim to know the truth, just take a quick gander at all the worlds religions, or anyone trying to sell you something.

Every morning I go out to see what the clouds and the sun are up to. I stand on the end of the south porch and look east. Today’s show was particularly nice. Thin clouds spread across the sky reflecting the coming of the sun in various shades of pink, gold and lavender. The morning air was cool, with a slight breeze. It was idyllic. It was nature at its best.

And today we’re off in search of words, because yesterday was a day of rest. Although, I did go hear two friends play and sing in the company of many other friends. Wine and chocolate were involved as well, which combined with the cool weather made for a lovely day. The singing friends were Tina Mitchell Wilkins and Ron Flynt.