I turned 35 this last August. It’s strange to think of myself as 35, an age that seemed indescribably old when I was a teenager. And yet here it is, and I still feel a callow youth at times, adrift, unsure of what to do next. It somehow makes me feel better to read in Thoreau’s journals and realize that he, too, was once my age. I mean, I’ve always known that he was my age, but reading something he wrote at that age makes it seem more real to me.
In January of 1853, on the 9th to be precise, when he was still 35, Thoreau had this to say: “I thought of those summer hours when time is tinged with eternity, – runs into it and becomes of the stuff with it.” Do you think he was missing summer? I know I am.
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