Now Playing: “Take Me to Church” by Hozier
Because Thoreau didn’t mean to baptize me with that one line—but here we are.

It started, as so many of my creative urges do, with a touch of mischief. (My mischief is, generally, affectionate. If I write about you, I care about you, okay?)

I was gearing up to write a poem that lightly roasted Henry David Thoreau—you know, the guy who famously went to live in the woods to find the marrow of life, all while allegedly having his mom drop off cookies and wash his socks. I did a quick bit of research, intending to mine the myth: Thoreau as the original “aesthetic loner,” barely removed from town, tucked in a borrowed cabin, pontificating about self-reliance while living within walking distance of Concord.

Was I being unfair? Maybe. But was I also ready with a metaphorical armful of metaphorical cookies to chuck? You bet. The Word Raccoon (my glittery inner literary companion) was bristling with glee.

Then I stumbled across this line from Walden:

“Nor did I wish to practise resignation, unless it was quite necessary.”

And… it stopped me. Cold.

That was my secret motto. The sentence I didn’t know I’d been living by. The stance I take on bad days when I feel like giving up. The pulse behind all the poems I write when I don’t feel like writing. I hadn’t expected it to come from Thoreau. I hadn’t expected it to come from anyone, honestly.

I am THE LAST PERSON to give up. I work and rework a thing, reimagine, but give up, become resigned?

I don’t think so. It sounds so…civilized. It sounds so passive. Friend, I am not those things. If I seem to have given up, I haven’t. I’m regrouping. Strategizing. (Is that thrilling or unnerving? You tell me.)

So yes—some of the criticisms I baked into the poem remain valid. The privilege. The aestheticized performance of wilderness. The inconvenient softness beneath all the philosophical bark. But alongside that, there’s something else:

truth.
Unexpected.
Unapologetic.
Undeniable.

Here’s the poem I wrote—originally meant to mock, now permanently wrecked (in the best way) by a single line of unshakable honesty:

“Nor did I wish to practise resignation, unless it was quite necessary.” —Thoreau

I went into the woods with Thoreau
to make fun of his delivered cookies
and maybe throw a few at him,
to laugh at his mommy washing his socks,
to explain to the young man,

all of 27 when he went into the woods,
that being a mile and a half outside of Concord,
even then,
was not the wilderness.

I wanted to explain to him
that being male gave him safety,
white male privilege,
that he was merely getting into

tiny house living
before it was a vibe.

But then I read that line
about avoiding resignation,
my secret motto,

and dammit if he didn’t wreck me for life.

END OF POEM. FORMATTING. UGH.

I think sometimes we wander into literature looking for something to skewer, and end up snagged by something that sees us first.

The Word Raccoon was mid-wind-up, cookie in paw, when she froze, narrowed her eyes, and said: “Wait a second…”

That’s how truth works, isn’t it? It doesn’t care if you’re ready for it. It just shows up, uninvited, sometimes wearing a beard and lecturing you from a cabin.

Let’s take a quick side shuffle to discuss the nuances between losing hope and resignation, because I know you’re asking yourself that.

Losing hope = still has a pulse. It’s a cry in the dark.
Resignation = the cry goes quiet, never to resume.

I will leave you to cry in your beer on your own over that. You’re welcome. (But if you invite me out for a beer, we can cry together. We’ll probably end up dancing, too, but whatever. Did you know dancing is the cure for existential angst? I think every film that wants to end with tumbleweed should be required to also include an unhinged dance at its end that signals that’s all in the world we are, a meaningless, glorious life squiggle.)

I guess what I’m saying is: never underestimate where you might meet your secret life motto. It might be in the mouth of someone you were just about to make fun of. Or in a sentence written 170 years ago by a man you thought you’d already (mostly) read.

And if you do find it, maybe it means you’re still living. And haven’t yet resigned. “Never give up; never surrender.” That’s my battle cry. (And please, though I am not usually into Sci-Fi, if you haven’t seen Galaxy Quest, it’s so funny and tender, just DO IT!)

The Word Raccoon, for the record, is still chewing on this.
She’s now wondering why Drema feels the need to tweak the beards of literary men long gone.
She thinks it probably deserves some looking into
just… not by this particular poem or post.

Stay tuned for the next episode of Word Raccoon and Drema shave literature, or some such.