PRISONER EXPRESS

"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and no, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived." Those immortal words that changed my life were penned by Henry David Thoreau. His thoughts to me are the "true-blue coins from heaven's own mint."

Presently, I am not living in a 10' x 15' cabin at Walden Pond in the breathtakingly beautiful woods of Massachusetts. I live in a 7' x 12' cell in the Texas prison system. You might wonder what a hot Texas prison cell has to do with the crowning jewel of American Literature. Actually it has nothing to do with it until you add a contrite soul that seeks serenity and sanity.

Being in the woods never bothered me. I was raised in east Texas and exposed to hunting, fishing, camping, and hiking at a very early age. Indeed my paternal family was one that bonded best in the beautiful and bountiful outdoors. My happiest memories happened in front of a campfire with my dad and his dad.

For some, however, the dark forest is a truly scary place. Most of the tales of the Brothers Grimm and Hans Christian Anderson include references to the dark woods of northern Europe. Back in the days when pagan superstitions governed daily life, the German word for forest still strikes fear into the hearts of the Hessian children. Imagine Rotkappchen (Ride Riding Hood) without the dark forest. Indeed her survival and subsequent victory (with the aid of a woodcutter) would not have been as dramatic.

Reading a delightful article in a back issue (December 1999) of National Geographic, I first learned the full depth of meaning of the forest in European Folk Literature. Many modern psychologists say that the darkness of the forest is symbolic of our worst fears. It was not until I had read this article that I began to equate the forest to the darkness that dwelt in my mind.

The most dark and dreadful thing that I could imagine in my life was indeed my diseased mind. From early childhood, I have had demons that danced in the Bedlam of my morbid thoughts, trampled on my tortured soul, and cast stinging thorns upon my tormented flesh. At a young age, I found escape and solace in music and work. As long as I had my hands busy at a meaningful job and a harmonica or radio in my spare time, I kept Beelzebub at bay. I was successfully able to duck and dodge my demons and therefore never confronted them in silence. The silence was very scary.

An age old lesson says that if you ignore a problem it will only get bigger. As a tailor, my favorite rendering of this lesson is from Poor Richard's Almanac: "A stitch in time saves nine." No matter your culture, background, or faith, this lesson looms large. It wasn't until I was locked up in a silent concrete cell without music or meaningful words that I was finally forced to face my fears for the first time. I wasn't scared of being locked up, but I was terrified of the Bedlam inside of my mind. For the first time in my heretofore short life I had to make a choice: Bravely confront my demons or continue to cower away. I chose to fight! I picked up a pen, which I know to be the single most powerful weapon, and resolved to valiantly fight. Indeed my pen is more powerful than any sword...or prison cell.

I started keeping a journal that I call "My Tabernacle." In it, I record my thoughts and not the daily events of the temporal world. From the beginning, I firmly resolved to never be a part of the prison culture. Inspired by the late Professor Morrie Schwartz from Brandeis University, I decided to create my own culture. There is very little about prison in "My Tabernacle." It is instead a place for my deepest desires, my unfulfilled longings, my sincerest silent prayers, and my daily battle with my demons. It is also a record of all I read and m thoughts thereon. Finally, I keep track of my poetic ideas, of what I write, and all I wish to one day write. Truly, "My Tabernacle" is my therapist, my best friend, and my greatest aid to living a life of sanity.

I finally had the privilege to purchase a radio after nearly a year in prison. During the year without music in my life, I did much soul-searching before I had the opportunity to make that purchase and plug it into the outlet. Previously, I listened to swing, country, and sometimes symphony. Recovering from depression, I didn't need the depressing nature of country music invading my newfound peace. Besides, country music degrades women and glorifies alcoholism. I also didn't need the blatant sexual imagery of swing that my more mature mind now found offensive. I lastly didn't want modern popular music or hip-hop because they glorify drug culture and hatefulness respectively. My only remaining choice was the symphony music that I loved all of my life. As Mozart's friend and patron Baron Gottfried Van Sweiten said, "(It) represents what is eternal in all of us." Indeed this symphony music edifies me and challenges me to reach higher unto the best part of my being.

Since I possess a natural talent for lyrics and ballads, I decided to develop that talent and use it as a means of positive self-expression. I also decided to expand my writing ability to include essays, short stories, and minor journalism. I even enrolled in college to further polish my ability. Finally, I turned to the timeless wisdom of classic literature and this is where I discovered Thoreau.

Often I have heard my African-American friends quote Martin Luther King, Jr. One day in sociology class, my curiosity got the better of me and I went to the library to find out more. It was there that I found out that he carried a copy of Civil Disobedience on his person. Not being able to find a copy of my own in the library, the librarian told me it was contained within a larger volume of Thoreau's writings. I checked it out and, since I had the book for a week, decided to read the entire volume. This was the crossroads of my life. The solitary moment in time that the culture I had created began to take a firm shape and an unwavering direction of travel.

"How many a man has dated a new ear in his life from the reading of a book." I date the turning point in my life from the moment I opened up this spectacular volume. I devoured Civil Disobedience in a matter of minutes! I went on to read the other short works and finally started Walden a few days later. I had surely arrived home.

I felt like I had found a long-lost friend. Every jot and title in Walden was something with which I could identify. Most of all, the chapters entitled, "Where I Lived An What I lived For," and, "Reading," have implanted themselves squarely in the center of my mind. The spiritual familiarity of those two chapters is bone-chilling. I have read both of these chapters so many times that I can quote from them. My own little culture was there-after complete. I now know the true meaning of Thoreau's little two-year experiment in the deepest part of my heart.

Having read Walden many times since, it has inspired me, changed the direction of my life and writings, and helped me to emerge from the fearful fog of morbid depression. Because of Throeau, I have started practicing transcendental meditation and ergo have found a modicum of peace and light in my ragged life. This small but growing light has dispersed the dark and driven the dark demons away. Forever! I have even started reading the literature of his contemporaries and those they subsequently inspired. There are many who carry on Thoreau's noble experience. Bo Lozoff is my favorite. I only hope I may one day join their ranks with my pen in hand for the betterment of mankind.

Recently, I read the newsletter from Durland Alternative Library at Cornell University in Ithaca, New York. With friends, I was discussing the subjects for future themes that they ask their subscribers to compose. The first subject for 2005 is "My Favorite Place." It was then that someone asked me where my favorite place was. I leaned forward, with my left arm resting on the table, rhythmically tapped the anterior tip of my right temple with my right index-finger and matter-of-factly said, "Right here!!!"

After a few puzzled looks, I described the culture I had created within this dreary place that I find myself existing. Any place where I can have the opportunity to learn and improve myself, to read classic literature, write in and keep my journal, listen to symphony, possess plenty of blank paper and pens, and last but not least, have a copy of Henry David Thoreau's witty, wise, and wonderful words... "the choicest of relics." It's a place that I have affectionately dubbed Walden Mind.

I go to this place often because it is there that I can live deliberately. There to front only the essential facts of life and learn daily the lessons it has to teach. There to regain my sanity, find peace, seek forgiveness, and truly and thoroughly live. And when I come to die, I hope to discover that I have fully and richly lived out my life at my very favorite place... ... Walden Mind.