“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 not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.” – Henry David Thoreau.
I make it a point not to compare myself with Henry David Thoreau, but we could be twins when it comes to why we both took to the woods and left the ordinary behind.
Living deliberately, not reactively, was my purpose; I came in search of the essential facts of life, and to learn, learn, learn whatever the mountain had to teach. I came to make mistakes and grow from them; I did not come looking for advice on finding the essential truths of life.
Like Thoreau, the whole enterprise depended on my learning for me, stumbling for myself, messing up for myself.
I love my blog and the interaction with readers it offers me. Still, I have little doubt that if Thoreau were publishing pages of Walden” on Facebook or Instagram, or Twitter, and received comments from the public, he would have hung himself on the nearest Walden forest tree by Chapter Two.
I once said my blog is a monologue, not a dialogue, but I was wrong. At times, and on certain issues, my blog is very much a dialogue, one whose value and importance I have come to understand and appreciate.
My interactions with my new kinds of readers have taught me a great deal about myself, much of it hard to face.
As a book writer for more than half of my life, I had little interaction with the public.
They could read my books or not; none of my readers expected to have daily access to me or took it upon themselves to give me advice about my writing, life, and temperament.
Once a year, I was sent out on book tours to speak to admiring crowds, be interviewed on TV and radio, and stay in four-star hotels. It was another world from the one I live in.
I would have been shocked and horrified by the liberties people take with me now, and the things they write to me, and the assumptions they make about what I want and need, and the intimacy they presume without knowing me.
But this dialogue has been good for me. It is sobering to see how my words affect people and see how I am perceived. I came to understand the anger that simmered within me and went right back into therapy to deal with it.
Offering me advice was not considered something readers had the right to do to writers; social media has made it a sacred right.
I am told often that if I don’t like it, I can lump it or go away.
I’m not too fond of it, and I am not going away. This is my home too, and I am not a quitter. I know now that I can learn and grow from anything.
Many of you have noticed many layers to me—happy Jon, Angry Jon, Spiritual Jon, Grumpy Jon, mushy Jon, Do Gooding Jon. You wouldn’t want to live in, or under my head, I’m capable of feeling a hundred emotions in seconds.
I am a work in progress, and blessedly, I am doing the work it takes to live deliberately and confront life’s essential facts. I see it this way. I am human, and it is not part of my work to share my humanity, for better or worse.
The other day I wrote about my sadness seeing photographs of my daughter and granddaughter walking on the beaches of Cape Cod, where Emma and I used to walk every summer together.
It was important to both of us, especially me.
Divorce shattered my family, and I don’t want to go to Cape Cod anymore, too many memories for me, too much pain. I miss those walks very much, with Emma, with my granddaughter.
There is no solution to this, no simple resolution.
When you get divorced after a 35-year marriage, there will be consequences, things gained, things lost, and part of my idea of living deliberately is to face up to them and take responsibility, not to complain, whine or blame others.
That’s one of the big lessons that I have learned. Make my own decisions and my own mistakes, take responsibility for both.
Curiously, it was also one of Thoreau’s.
E-mail and digital posts are often misleading. They don’t show emotions.
Nancy wrote me a kind and thoughtful message the next day:
“I haven’t finished reading the above yet, only a few paragraphs in. I have to say… invite your daughter and her family to visit the farm. Robin would always fondly remember that vacation. ? No place beats a farm.”
It was as sweet a message as one can send by social media standards, and I thought it was nice of her. It also struck a nerve. Here is someone else who didn’t even bother to read what I wrote, and yet she has the answers for me to such a complex and painful issue.
I’ve invited Emma and Robin to visit the farm a hundred times, Robin is very busy in her Brooklyn life, and neither one of them is especially fond of the country or the farm with its bugs, ticks, and manure.
I am in my 70’s and am more easily irritated, especially since I get a lot of messages every day, many offering advice I don’t need is patronizing, don’t want, or can use.
I’m also mellower and much more inclined to listen. Some are very helpful.
I learn a lot from these dialogues online – about me, about others, about my writing. I don’t think of myself as being powerful; I hope I never do.
But other people keep telling me I am. All I can do is explain myself. Lots of people don’t like it.
If I write openly on a blog, I deserve whatever I get and should shut up about it.
But it isn’t quite that simple, as Thoreau wrote. People who give advice can get into your head, weaken your resolve, keep you from learning from the best teacher there is, your own mistakes.
Sometimes the advice is good; sometimes, I take it. Mostly I wonder why someone like Nancy would think for a second that I hadn’t invited my daughter and granddaughter to come and visit me.
I do it all the time.
Is it a big deal? No? Was she being malignant or trying to hurt me? No., absolutely not.
I thought she deserved a response, and as I hear from many people, my responses can be brief and abrupt. I like to answer people if I can. I don’t always have the time to do it the right way.
I might sound pissed off, but 90 percent of the time, I’m not.
She deserved an answer.
So I wrote this:
“Thanks, Nancy, I’m not looking for guidance on Facebook from strangers…“By my standards, it was pretty soft.
Reading it now, I see it was brusque. At the time, I was just in a hurry and didn’t want her to wonder if I would do what she suggested.
I was not angry in any way, nor was I offended. I can’t say I love messages like that.
She e-mailed me this gracious and understanding message the next morning.
“Do forgive me for the first text as I am not looking to give you guidance.”
I thanked her for that reply and said there was no offense taken, and that was the truth. That was a good outcome.
Matthew Seng, on the other hand, was offended on her behalf. He followed up with this scolding and extraordinary suggestion:
” Writing a well-read blog will get you guidance on Facebook from strangers.. and reply explaining this to you on your blog from a stranger. There was nothing malicious in her guidance, and your response was interesting. Why not turn off the comments if you wish to receive no comments.”
We are all struggling to cope with the new privacy, hostility, and intrusion that is such a big part of social media; everyone who goes online has this problem, there is a lot of interest in how I am learning to deal with it.
Perhaps I am dumber than I think. Now I was annoyed, and I responded to Matthew with this message. As would be obvious to a five-year-old, I love receiving comments. Why else would I receive them?
That doesn’t make me Mr. Rogers.
Nancy was okay with it, but he wasn’t:
“I agree with a word you wrote, Matthew.
I never said I didn’t wish to receive comments, nor did I suggest she was malicious. I just wrote what I feel about advice. Why would that bother you?
I’m sure everyone who gives advice means well. I don’t do it unsolicited myself, and I don’t wish to mislead people or waste their time (or mine). I’m not looking for Dear Abby here. I’ve often said I admire Thoreau; he would have hung himself if Walden was on Facebook.
He liked to make his own mistakes too. Like me, he made many. In wrestling with this issue, I’m in good company.
But I don’t take that kind of advice from strangers, and people ought to know that it’s just a matter of openness and honesty when they give it. Please explain what is wrong with that to you.
To me, that’s much more courteous than ignoring people.
I don’t much care for messages like this one either – indignity is easy online – but it’s part of having a blog, and I don’t hide from it. Also, I’m quite aware of what publishing a well-read blog is like; I’ve been doing it for 15 years. It doesn’t mean I have to hide what I feel or pretend.
Quite the opposite; in fact, I suspect it’s a reason the blog is well-read. I promised at the outset to be honest, and even on social media, I don’t think that’s yet a crime. I have a Jekyll and Hyde way of responding to the outside world, call it grumpiness or call it a struggle for identity.
I see my obligation here is to write what I feel, not what you think I should feel. For me, that is the beauty and wonder of the blog. And why are you protesting when she isn’t? I presume she can speak for herself and is not made of crystal.
Perhaps a better solution would be that people ought not to post on people’s blogs if they can handle responses. best jon. Matthew doesn’t know that every good thing I’ve done in my life has occurred when I went against the advice of everyone.
My publisher thought my blog was an insane waste of time, no one I knew thought I should end a 35-year marriage, or leave the publishing world to write my own blog and depend on it for making a living.
Nobody suggested a blog with photographs attached to every story, and essays that sometimes ran to 3,000 words. Everyone who knew anything about the Internet told me it would never work.
Here I am, with four million visits a year to bedlamfarm.com. I don’t say this to brag, but to explain. If Thoreau had listened to the people in his life, he would never have spent a night on Walden Pond..
Maria has said many times that if she followed the wisdom and advice in the art world, she would not have last for a month as an independent artist.
The big and best lessons we both learned in life came from ourselves and our own hard work, not the counsel of others, let alone strangers.
So the trick is to listen and hear, but not bend and bow. My new idea is to listen to the advice I get, warily and with skepticism. To sort the wheat from the chaff and do so as respectfully and gracefully as I can.
As many of you know, I’ve been having this dialogue with my new readers for some years now, and I appreciate it; I think it’s an important subject to be addressed online.
To my knowledge, no one has been broken or crippled by my answers to their posts. People who sent me messages are not generally weak.
We are all responsible for our words, not just me.
It’s important to have this conversation. This one is about a lot more than walks on a Cape Cod beach.
I have recognized that I have anger issues and am working on them. I also feel an obligation to be open and explain what I do and why.
I love that people comment on my blog on Facebook and elsewhere, read every single one of them. When I started the blog, I didn’t permit comments for years.
I am glad I finally did, this is the nature of the new world, and I want to confront the essential facts of life.
Being only too human, I won’t run from it or ask others to solve it for me. After all, this is why I went to the woods.
I came across your books quite a few years ago and I think I read all that were published. I lost track of your writing. Have you written anything recently? I loved your books until almost the end when your dog would die. As animal lover I would cry for pages. I’m now without a pet because I promised my husband there would be no more after our last dog died. I still miss her very much. Good luck and I am glad to have found your column.
Melinda, thanks, I don’t write books any more. I’ve decided to focus my writing on my blog. It’s my book now.
Just as you’ve noticed changes in the life of a writer, we live with a changed world too as readers. Gone, for the most part, are the days when we would bring a book home, read it and park it on a shelf or pass it along to the next reader to make room for other books and other ideas. Instead, we, as readers, also largely live in an online world. We find a writer we like and we don’t just experience them in discrete episodes known as books. Instead, we invite them into our homes, through their websites and blogs, where they often become a daily feature of our lives. We get to know them on a more personal level—their settings and families, the things that are important to them as they grow and evolve over time. And when someone shows up on our porch daily and we give them the courtesy of our time as they talk, it’s natural to want to participate in the conversation too.
Do we have to follow you? Of course not. But just like you don’t have to write a blog, we aren’t going to give up our roles in the new order either.
What you chafe at as “advice,” many of us see simply as interacting in an absolutely normal, conversational way, in a way we feel you’ve invited. Instead, I see you time and again bark at readers for presuming to attempt to interact in a way you feel is not appropriate. You don’t want advice from Nancy because she’s a mere stranger. But, should she want to become part of your “Army of Good,” I’m betting you’d be happy to accept her money, stranger or not. If she wanted to send a greeting card to someone at the Mansion or equipment to Bishop Maguin at your request, I’m sure you’d welcome it. But you can’t be bothered to thank her for her well intentioned words, even if you have no intention of acting on them? Why is that? Why do you see Nancy as merely a “stranger” when you could instead presume she is what most of us are—your loyal readers?
You’ve said time and again that you consider your blog your life’s work. I wonder if you would feel that way if you were writing on a pad of paper that you put in your drawer each night and no one ever read—a true farm journal in the historical sense. I doubt it. I’ve seen you embrace the Amish, refugees, Trump supporters, donkey abusers, nurses, teachers, waitresses and even carriage horses with more empathy than the people who are truly the reason you’ve made your blog your life work—your readers.
L.J., thanks for the interesting thoughts, if not the inaccurate assumptions.
I agree and have written that I have often been too harsh in my responses, perhaps an offshoot of being Dyslexic and not always easy with the words I choose.
I would accept donations from Nancy in a minute; they are not for me but for people who need them badly. I wouldn’t turn down anyone’s donation to the Army of Good and never have because I didn’t like their messages. Anyone can contribute whether they like me or not.
I have many wonderful relationships with my readers, many of whom have become my friends and regular penpals. Some send money to the Army of Good; some don’t.
I could never write a true Farm Journal in the historical sense and would never try. First, I am not a farmer, and that would be dishonest to present myself in that day. I often say that I am not a farmer but a writer living on a farm. Also, they were not writers; their journals were mostly stats about buying things and the weather—interesting but not gripping reading.
I don’t see my role as empathizing with my readers, there are too many, and they are too distant for me to know well in most cases. I’m not a therapist or a social worker, at least not on my blog.
And yes, I thank you for the message, even if I don’t like it or agree with it. It’s an important part of the conversation we are all trying to have. Best jon
Jon I’m not going to talk about your divorce or your life, but I wanted to let you know that the plant right at the front of the picture is, I think, a Strotocarpus which, in the UK, considered to be a houseplant, it may be that your weather outdoors will suit it, but thought you’d like to know.
Thanks Clare, Maria didn’t know what it was either…we’ll get it inside before the Fall..
I read recently: “Writing demands authenticity. It demands courage.” I admire these qualities in you, and am grateful.
Thanks Dale, I am grateful for your message…
Thanks for this thoughtful post, Jon. I’ve been toying for years with starting a blog, and the thought of comments is literally THE thing that stops me. Yes, I know I don’t have to allow any, but like you said, you finally did because you wanted to confront the essential facts of life, after all, you’re writing about life and that invariably involves people. I don’t want to dismiss others’ opinions, nor do I necessarily want to defend mine. I’d say you’ve done a stellar job balancing both. I cherish your blog, and look forward to reading it each day!
Karla, Ive read a lot of your posts and you are thoughtful and insightful…You really should have a blog..the comments are not a problem if that is what is holding you back…you can just set up the blog so you don’t receive any or you can read them and approve them before posting…don’t let that stop you…blogs are a wonderful form of expression, you won’t regret having one..
Jon, thank you for your encouragement. I started reading Glennon Doyle’s “Untamed,” just the other day, and between this post of yours, and what I’ve read of Untamed so far, I am finally ready to start that blog! Fear of what could happen is finally less than fear of not expressing myself! Thank you!
Do it, Karla, send me the url..check out Ann’s below..
Jon, I have a friend who gives me advice when we text and it irritates me . Nancy is assuming a lot, she does not know your daughter or your granddaughter and why would she assume you haven’t invited them to your farm? Hello! I live in an old farmhouse in Vermont, my grandchildren live in Brooklyn, they would much prefer to go to the beach than come here. They have limited time for vacations and have to make choices. Your response to Nancy was in no way malicious – Matthew’s response was very irritating – he was making unfounded assumptions about your intentions. People cannot read emotions when you write something. I get very triggered when passive aggressive (well intended?) people offer me advice and often think ‘do they think I’m stupid’? I am not looking for advice I am just commenting! I read your post about Cape Cod and it did not occur to me to tell you to invite them to your farm – you were writing about how you felt not asking for unwanted advice. Sorry to drone on—-
Not droning at all, Jean, thanks for the note. I have that problem also – I really get pissed off when people think I’m stupid or treat me as if I am..The good news is that I am learning to be more patient and also less angry..that’s the gift of it…
I was a fan of your books before you started this blog, and I was so happy when I discovered it. I was even happier when I left a brief comment on it and you answered it. I thought it was cool to be able to communicate with a writer whose work I admired so much. I think the way blogging gives readers a chance to respond immediately to a writer’s work is a very new territory for everyone, and sadly, many readers do overstep the bounds. I appreciate the way your write so honestly about the difficulty of finding appropriate boundaries, and as someone who writes a small blog, I find it very helpful. Thanks for that!
Thanks much Ann, that’s a nice message to get. Good luck with your blog..Please send a link if you [email protected] I’d love to see it..
I’m kind of tech challenged, so I wasn’t sure how to use the new link you provided, but if this works, my blog can be found at: http://www.muddlingthroughmymiddleage.com. If it doesn’t work, I’ll try again! Thanks!
Ann, this is a lovely blog, easy to access, clean, interesting, well written…Congratulations, this is really nicely done..you’ve got the idea
I am afraid that I lost interest in Thoreau at his pond when I learnt that he took his laundry back to his mother. I laughed sourly. What else did he use his mother as a servant for?
I had a very checkered childhood, moving here and there–sometimes with family and sometimes without. What do I remember in detail? The 3 years that I lived with my siblings on a farm. I had a pet goose which enjoyed snapping at my brothers’ ankles if they came too near!
Most times I scan your essays quickly and then come back later to read them carefully when I have time to sit down with a mug of tea and really think about what you are writing. How many of the 5 other blogs I read do I treat in this way? None, only yours. You are a true writer Jon, with your craft in this method, and it really works. It is a new medium for this new century.
Erika, thanks. Thoreau’s mother also brought him food but that didn’t diminish my respect for him a all.
The point of Walden wasn’t a macho survival contest, his home was always close to his Walden house, the point was an individualist seeking to think and consider his life and how he wanted to live it. It’s easy to poke fun at it – I did – but in a way, I did the same thing.
When I wrote RUnning To The Mountain, I was never more than a mile from a restaurant or friend or convenience store, but the trip pulled me out of my life and gave me room to think and then change my life. Thoreau’s words are very powerful to me, and I don’t really care how his laundry got done.
That is, I think, what you like about my blog (and I appreciate that very much.)
Mostly, I decided to come to the woods to think. I l love your line about the new medium for this century, that is exactly what I hope I am doing. I much appreciate your message (give Thoreau a break, if you can, he was brave and original, even if a Momma’s boy :)..best and thanks, Jon
Re your Father’s Day tribute, certainly in a patriarchal culture, the son looks for reinforcement by the male figures in the family. It is not important, however, to be loved by one’s father per se. It is important that a child is ATTACHED to one primary adult caregiver — usually the mother but it can be anyone, grandmother, uncle [John Lennon], aunt — because a healthy attachment (caregiver attuned to the internal life of the child) with a primary caregiver appears to be associated with a high probability of healthy relationships with others throughout life while poor attachment with the primary caregiver appears to be associated with a host of emotional and behavioral problems later in life. See the work of Bruce Perry, Tom Lewis et al, growing out of Ainsworth’s fundamental good and clever science. ——-
As far as being stupid or being so considered why do you care. Secure people aren’t trying to show off or prove something. They at most shrug their showers and move on. Your thin skin reveals deep insecurity and a phony attempt to be superior.
If you would overcome this you might develop a sense of humor which is pretty clear you lack.
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Who has time to read 5 blogs each day? And why?
Michael, thanks, I laughed aloud twice reading your post, a good sign…
Both of my grown sons are Eagle Scouts. I was active with them in scouting and attended two international jamborees. Like you, my long term marriage ended in divorce several years ago. The most important thing I learned from scouting was quite simple. It is the Cub Scout motto: “Do your best”. Thinking on that often has been quite helpful in the difficulties life has thrown at me and the difficulties that are self styled. It seems to me that you, too, are following the Cub Scout motto. All the best.
Jon, I disagree with Michael. I think you can be very funny, especially in today’s blog.
Thanks, Luanne, I can be funny and I can be a pain in the ass as well. I love being complicated. Mark can join our special Association, The Association Of Nasty A…….On Social Media. (TAONAOSM) He is also welcome to kiss my ass. best, and thanks for the good words.
Jon, I think you can be very funny as in today’s blog.
Well, Michael. I am 84 years old. Mainly housebound by poor health, and I have all the time in the world to read 5 blogs–2 of the writers have become good friends and one of them visits even. Does this answer your question?
Jon has a wonderful sense of humor. I don’t think you can have been reading him for very long. Stay with him. He will pull you up short when he thinks you could be wrong (and he is probably right even if it leaves you licking wounds!)
Out of the 6, Jon’s is my #1 blog.
And you get to meet wonderful people like Erika, Michael…
And you get to meet wonderful people like this..
…and I wonder what would have happened if Thoreau’s mother had thrown up her hands and left for the pond? Would he have brought her meals and done her laundry–leaving her free, probably, for the first time in her life? Excuse me while I take a moment to laugh ’til I cry…
Thank you Jon for your compliment–you have pulled me up short many times when I have needed it. Maybe Maria’s input is wanted here. I enjoy your wife’s sparse blog very much indeed. But she keeps mostly to the progress of her art and craft work and I respect this.
I don’t think we can judge Thoreau or his mother (or at least I don’t think I can). It was a different time and a different world, and I didn’t know them. I also try not to judge other people. I admire the person Thoreau turned out to be; he was kind, compassionate, generous, and a brilliant thinker and essayist. His students loved him.
Speaking only for myself, I don’t care a bit who fed him or how far his house was from the pond. Nor do I blame him for softening his year alone in a cabin by accepting some help with laundry. I have a hunch I would have done the same. As to his mother, I know nothing about her and can’t speak for her or judge her.
Thoreau has inspired me all of my life to think freely and learn what I can by myself. He inspired to run to the mountain and learn to think alone.
He was also, in my mind, one of the world’s first bloggers. He wrote every day and spoke his mind (without the advice or input of millions of people.) And he wrote a beautiful book and brilliant essays. He didn’t go to jail to help free the slaves, as some of his friends did, but then he was a mama’s boy. That is not a crime yet.
Maria does not judge other people period, but you are free to ask her – [email protected] I am enjoying this conversation and I thank you for it, sincerely. Thoreau’s mom would make a great column for someone…thank you jon