Contact! Contact!
I sit at my desk aboard Raven, snugged up to a mooring in Burlington harbor. There is a bronze oval portlight above the desk, framing the view of the city immediately to the east of me. The sounds of the urban world filter in – the hammering of new construction along Battery Street, automobiles darting about, sirens in the distance, children playing in the park.
Another portlight frames the view to the west. Juniper Island floats on a watery foreground. The Adirondacks rise from Lake Champlain’s western shores. A squall has wrapped the peaks in cold, wet clouds that have now descended to the lake. They are moving quickly eastward toward Vermont.
“Talk of mysteries-Think of our life in
nature-daily to be shown matter, to come
in contact with it-rocks, trees, wind on
our cheeks! the solid earth! the actual world!
the common sense! Contact! Contact!
Who are we? where are we?”
Ever since first reading Thoreau’s essay, “The Maine Woods”, I’ve thought long about his words.
“Contact! Contact!”
The modern world lies to the east of me, the approaching storm and wildness to the west.
“Who are we? Where are we?”
I’ll climb the steps of the companionway. In the cockpit of my floating home, the views that I now see separately through two bronze windows will combine as one.
"Contact! Contact!"
