“At a certain season of our life we are accustomed to consider every spot as the possible site of a house. I have thus surveyed the country on every side within a dozen miles of where I live… Wherever I sat, there I might live, and the landscape radiated from me accordingly… Well, there I might live, I said; and there I did live, for an hour, a summer and a winter life; saw how I could let the years run off, buffet the winter through, and see the spring come in.” — Henry David Thoreau, Walden
So begins the chapter, “Where I Lived, and What I Lived For.”
Do you ever do this? Look at a house or a building or a piece of land and think, “I could live here.” Or the more tentative, “What would it be like to live here?”
For the moment at least, you do live there, right where you’re standing.
What is home? Home is where you live. But what if you only live there for an hour? Can it still be ‘home’ in some sense? Henry thought so.
Soon after I read this, I was hiking in some woods just outside of town. I couldn’t help but think, This is where I live… right now.
(About “A Year in Walden”)