stillbook

"To read well, that is, to read true books in a true spirit, is a noble exercise, and one that will task the reader more than any exercise which the customs of the day esteem."

It is my feeling and my hope that this quotation, so eloquently written by Henry David Thoreau, applies to the last 10 years of my life. Although I've accomplished a few other, and lesser, things since 1997, I believe that my greatest accomplishment has been the number of great books I have chosen to read.

It's actually a bit strange. While I was completing a graduate degree in Fine Art between 1997 and 1999, I found myself secretly reading Lao Tsu. And, after finishing my official university studies, I found myself reading almost obsessively - diving into the psychological writings of William James, Carl Jung, Abraham Maslow, Carl Rogers, Thomas Moore, and James Hillman; then on to the stoics Epictetus and Seneca; then to poets Rilke, Mallarme, and Gibran; human mythology so wonderfully explained by Joseph Campbell; and finally, on to essays by Emerson, Bacon, and Montaigne.

Montaigne particularly interested me, as can be seen in some of the other pages of stillbook. After spending about two years reading and re-reading his essays, I was always amazed by the intimacy and honesty of his writing. Reading Montaigne's work has been truly foundational, as I have since tried to write in a style completely my own. Or perhaps I should say.... as I've tried to forget my style of writing, so that I may express myself and my thoughts in the most personal, and therefore, the most unique way that I am able.

I suppose you could label me a chain reader - the writing and wisdom of one author always seems to lead me to another. Writers like Yutang and Emerson lead me to Montaigne, who, in turn, lead me to myself.

But, my interest in Montaigne predictably faded slowly, eventually reaching a conclusion back in 2004. Since then, though I've continued to read, I have felt a bit directionless, even lost, intellectually. Perhaps I needed a break, or some time in the darkness, in order to appreciate the next creative awakening.

So now, after a few winding intellectual and business experiments, I am returning to my writing and to the noble exercise I've come to love. Fueled by a growing number of walks through several parks and trails in my hometown, I have been rediscovering my creative energies. Photography and Thoreau have been my most welcome discoveries.

While Montaigne was my indoor cafe' campanion, Thoreau has become my outdoor hiking companion.

In the journal entries that follow, Thoreau will sometimes be quoted and mentioned by name. Other times, however, he will only be represented in spirit. His accute perceptions and uncanny insights into the nature of the world and into the nature of humanity will always be kept fresh in my mind. Considering the extent to which he was misunderstood and underappreciated during his own life, paying homage to his spirit in stillbook is something I feel happy, even honored, to do.

So, happy reading. I hope that in some small way this journal will be uplifting to whomever explores its pages.

"The orator yields to the inspiration of a transient occasion, and speaks to the mob before him, to those who can hear him; but the writer, whose more equable life is his occasion, and who would be distracted by the event and the crowd which inspire the orator, speaks to the intellect and heart of mankind, to all in any age who can understand him."

After re-reading and reflecting on my last journal entry, I've realized that it is simply too difficult to compose a short essay "on reading" and not compose another essay "on writing." The two activities are connected to such a degree that they simply wouldn't exist without one another. Yet, in a very basic way, I think these two activities do have their distinctions.

Reading, which is akin to listening to someone talk, is a receptive intellectual process that primarily requires the reader to be open, or attentive, to the writer's message. Although good reading and good listening can be considered active processes, I would maintain that writing is active, or constructive, to a much greater degree. When a person writes, if gifted, he is essentially speaking in the most powerful way he can.

As Thoreau points out in the quotation above, writing has a lasting quality, and it tends to impact people in a more significant way than a speech or a conversation. A person who is giving a speech must consider the audience. If the audience is falling asleep, the orator must say something to wake them up, and if the audience is too agitated, the orator must say something to calm them down. Often orators are charasmatic and outgoing, and at times their personality and cadence can be even more important than the meaning of their words.

The art of writing, on the other hand, has a different focus. Perhaps it is more of a one-on-one exchange between the writer and the reader. Instead of speaking to a group of people who are all influenced by each other, the writer speaks directly to the individual when he is alone, at a time when he is not easily swayed by his peers. The very best writing may sound like it has actually been written for the specific person reading it. And, as Thoreau also suggests, writing of truly historic proportions will appeal primarily to a select few, since not everyone will be able to grasp the depth of the writer's message or appreciate the nuance of the writing itself.

I find the very best writing to be lyrical and rythmic, filled with hidden meanings and subtext. Varying sentence structures and syntax set the tone. The way the sentences follow each other, often flowing back and forth, like a gentle rocking chair, influence our receptivity. While a young or immature reader might focus almost entirely on the specific definitions of each word, a more mature reader might gravitate toward the subtext. And, a particularly astute reader might feel themselves reading faster or slower at different intervals, being led through a book almost as if it were a river. Some passages may be so wise or vivid that the reader feels like they need to pause and reflect on the power of a certain metaphor.

A gifted writer will have considered all of this. And, a gifted reader, no matter what generation, will be one of the select few capable of appreciating it.

All of this brings to mind the aphorism... "We have two ears and one mouth for a reason."

Shouldn't we listen twice as much as we speak? And when we listen, shouldn't we listen for everything? When we read, have we read the words and felt the tone? Can we comprehend the subtext? And, with regard to writing... can we exclaim something without using an exclamation point? Is it possible to more affectively assert ourselves by asking a question? Or by sounding hesitant or uncertain?

About seven years ago, I read Walden for the first time. I was in my early 30's and was at the beginning of my own personal and unstructured education. Since then, I've read Waldon twice more. I've read two different biographies of Thoreau (twice each), and I've recently finished reading "Letters to a Spiritual Seeker," which is a re-published group of letters that Thoreau wrote to his friend, and desciple, Harrison Blake.

In short, I've been reading a lot of Thoreau lately. And, I think I've been reading his work so much because he practiced what he preached. He walked the talk. He wrote with the hope that at least a few people would take the time to read his work carefully. Although many of his contemporaries didn't grasp the depth of his work, I think he knew, deep down, after being published, that other generations would.

It's obvious to me that Thoreau put his heart and soul into his writing. He carefully considered each of his phrases and sentences; and, this is why his words have stood the test of time. The words of Walden come alive and awaken the convictions in those who are ready to listen and understand them.

Writers like Thoreau often make me wonder.... is being prolific really that impressive? Should we measure the gift of the writer by the number of pages written? Or should we measure the writer by the number of inspired pages written?



"A written word is the choicest of relics," wrote Thoreau.

And, to that, I would like to add,

"The choicest relics are the most rare."

So, by the example of Mr. Thoreau, I will continue to write as carefully as I am able. I will read well and often, and like a plant that only blooms for a short time each year, I will hope that my writing, though infrequent, aspires to the greatest depths.

"How many a man has dated a new era in his life from the reading of a book!"

It perplexes me sometimes, how I can spend so many hours with my head looking down and my eyes burrowing into the pages of a book. They really are curious objects, when you think about it. Made from paper harvested from trees, pressed with ink, held together with glue and sometimes thread, it's amazing how books can impact our lives the way they do. And, there are so many different kinds of books capable of communicating so many different things.

When I was a boy, usually before bedtime, my mother used to read to me. From what I can remember, my favorite book was called "Go Dog Go." It's a classic children's book about all kinds of colorful dogs racing toward a big party inside a huge tree. When we are children, books, with their simple life affirming stories, activate our imaginations and fuel our curiosities so well. And when we share those feelings with a loved one, we come alive and feel connected to something bigger than ourselves.

As we grow older, however, our interest in books and reading seems to evolve. We read burdensome textbooks to educate ourselves in school, then we read fashionable magazines to stay popular among our peers. As adults, we may browse through serious newspapers to stay abreast of current events; and, if we can find the time, we might even read a "gripping" piece of popular fiction during an annual summer holiday.

I wonder if the very first bookmakers and bookbinders had any idea how influencial their invention would become? And, I wonder if they had any idea that the books they would so carefully print and bind would be replaced by a myriad of inexpensive publications that are picked up and thrown away at the drop of a hat.

A few years ago, I worked for a Rare Book Conservation Center. Although I rarely restored any of the historic volumes myself, I did work with and around them every day. I packed books in boxes and shipped them to far away universities; and, I often built custom cases and enclosures for books written and printed almost 500 years ago. Many of the books were falling apart, but surprisingly, many of them were not. In fact, some of the oldest volumes were often in the best condition, as they were usually made with the highest quality paper, ink, and leather. To hold a book of this stature in your hands was truly a gift. Somehow, you could feel the love and care of the original bookbinder in the book itself.

Sometimes, I wish more books were made the old fashioned way. But, then again, mabye that's not very realistic. Maybe the best binding should be reserved for the best writing. And, maybe there just aren't that many historic writers out there. Perhaps the current publishing world is as it should be. Cheap paperback books for quick and easy reading. No need to read substancial works, when there is money to be made and shopping to do.

Considering the ammount of reading I do, I don't own that many books - probably under 200. Most of them are hardback editions, although I do own a few of the lesser, paperback variety. I think if I ever generate any extra income, I will update my collection a bit. I'll likely replace some of the cheaper volumes with better hardcover editions. I'm not sure how many new books I will continue to buy, however. Lately, I find it more valuable to re-read a classic a number of times, instead of forever expanding my collection.


I think certain objects take a long time to appreciate. Like a close friend, a good book takes time to get to know. The more the author of such a book has in common with you, the more you feel at ease; and, the more you feel at ease, the more a part of yourself the book becomes. When you read a book that begins a new era of your life, a dormant part of your spirit wakes up.

Yet, perhaps all good books foster a feeling of closeness and familiarity within their readers. The closer the book hits home, so to speak, the more closely we hold it near. My literary friend Thoreau is someone who has walked a path that feels similar to my own. And, for this reason, my copy of WALDEN has become a book that will remain with me, either physically or spriritually, for a long time to come.

In the end, I suppose that I am just thankful for the books that have helped me to grow and evolve; and, not only will I continue to read them and handle them with care, but I will also acknowledge them as important extensions of the person, and the writer, I am slowly trying to become.

"With a knowledge of the name comes a more distinct recognition and knowledge of the thing."

In 1837, at the age of twenty, after having just finished his schooling at Harvard, Thoreau moved back to his hometown of Concord, Massachusetts. With the encouragement of a new mentor, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Thoreau began to keep a daily journal, and he began thinking of himself as a writer and poet. He did something else as well.

Just as he was about to begin a new chapter of his life, he decided to change the order of his two given names. Instead of David Henry, he decided to call himself Henry David.

Although it may seem like a small thing at first glance, I believe that a decision like this signifies something much deeper. A decision like this reaffirms that our names, and the language we use to describe ourselves, impact our perceptions in powerful ways. Perhaps our names, and the words that we feel define us most specifically, are more important than we realize. Or maybe we do realize it, and that's why we tend to change or amend our names at certain points in our lives. We shed one identity and grow into another. Maybe at certain crossroads, we wonder who we are and where we are going. We might even draw new conclusions about our unique purpose in life.

For whatever reason, lately, I've also been trying to dig a little deeper and uncover more clearly who I am. I've been wondering where to work, how to live, and who to spend time with. I've been examining my creative habits and mediums. In short, I've been wondering where I belong. I've also been wondering about where I came from, which has led me to do some research in order to find the meanings and origins of my own name.

So far, this is what I've learned.

My last name CREAN was originally spelled O Croidheagain. It originates from the Gaelic word "croidhe" - meaning "heart". Apparently, some of my very earliest ancestors held a family seat near Donegal, Ireland. It's also come to my attention that many CREANS have lived and continue to live in County Sligo in the northwest portion of Ireland.

The traditional Irish pronunciation of the name CREAN sounds like "crane".... similar to the Irish poet Yeats, who also lived in County Sligo. The English pronunciation of Crean sounds like "kreen". And, although both pronunciations are perfectly acceptable, my own family uses the traditional pronunciation. So, my last name is pronounced "crane".

My first given name is BRIAN and it also originates from Ireland. It is related to the old Celtic element "bre", meaning "hill" or "high". Other extended meanings of the name BRIAN are "noble" or "strong".

My second given name, or my middle name, is PATRICK. Although most people currently think of Patrick as an Irish name as well, it actually originates from ancient Rome, derived from Patricius, meaning "nobleman". In ancient Rome, citizens were considered either Patricians (noblemen) or Plebians (commoners). We only think of Patrick as an Irish name because a British missionary, named Sucat, changed his name to Patrick when he became a priest. After traveling throughout Ireland and converting the island to Christianity, he became known as St. Patrick.

When I was about 13 or 14 years old, as part of a Catholic ritual, I chose the name JOSEPH as my confirmation or spiritual name. Although I'm no longer Catholic, I suppose I still think of Joseph as one of my unofficial names. Derived from the Hebrew Yosef, it means "he will add." This meaning came about due to his life story. Apparently, Yosef was the favorite son of the biblical figure Jacob. However, Yosef's brothers became jealous and sold him into slavery - telling their father that he had died. After being enslaved in Egypt for many years, Yosef eventually rose to become a chief advisor to the Pharaoh. Eventually, the family was reconciled in Egypt, and the name Yosef came to stand for one who rises to power or aspires to great heights. The story of Yosef, in a way, is about faith and perseverance. Two things needed in order to rise above one's station in life.

Needless to say, I have been finding all of this very interesting. Although I would never be confident enough to define myself in such a way, I think it is wonderful to have a name which, literally translated, means:

"High, strong, noble, rising, heart".

It's also been wonderful to expand my research and learn some interesting things about Thoreau's name.

Obviously, the name THOREAU is French. Unfortunately, I haven't yet found a specific translation of its meaning, but I have learned that Thoreau's ancestors were from the Poitou-Charentes district of France. His grandparents immigrated to America in the 1700's. His father was French, and his mother was of Scottish decent.

The name DAVID is Hebrew and means "beloved". And, the name HENRY is derived from the German name "Heimiric" which means "home ruler".

It's truly astounding when you think about it. How incredibly fitting that the author of WALDEN, a book about building and living in a small cabin in the woods, would have a name that, literally translated, means "beloved home ruler".

Lately, my interest in names has spread from people to trees as well. While I've been walking through some of the trails near my home, I've been wondering about the different trees that I encounter while I walk. I've been noticing which trees are tall and which are short, and which trees bend more easily in the wind. I've been noticing and appreciating the beauty of their leaves and branches, and the different textures of their trunks. There are certain trees, near the waters edge, that I tend to photograph over and over.

As I've been looking so closely at these trees, I've also been thinking about doing some scientific research as well. I've been asking myself.... should I go to the library and start learning the official names of these trees? But, then something inside me says.... no, don't start down that path. The path of the scientist is a different path and doesn't really suit me. It's not the type of tree that I'm interested in. It's the individuality of specific trees that hold my attention.

If I start to learn the scientific names of the trees, I'm afraid I will start to look at them scientifically. My walks will become a series of classifications; they will not continue to be the explorations of beauty that I've come to appreciate so much.

"We are constantly invited to be who we are", wrote Thoreau.

I think I am fundamentally drawn to the beauty of my surroundings. I am not a scientist with scientific eyes that names trees and people according to their genus. The trees I see while I walk may or may not be elms or pines. But, they are certainly unique gifts to be appreciated.

There is one particular tree that I often see on my walks. I don't know what kind of tree she is, but I've still named her SOPHIA. True to the Greek origin of her name, she is indeed wise, and when the sun shines through her leaves, she glows and makes the world seem perfect just as it is. Perhaps the eyes of a "high, noble, rising heart" are simply destined to see her in this light. Like all of the trees that surround her, she is more than just another birch or maple. I believe the beauty and essence of SOPHIA is timeless and beyond such generalizations, just like the writing, poetry, and personality of our "beloved home ruler" Henry David Thoreau.

"Let us consider the way in which we spend our lives."

For the last few weeks, I've been pondering the best way to write about my working life. It's such a strange path that I've chosen to take, since I began paying my own bills over fifteen years ago. Although earning money and making a living is something we all must do, I think it is something that can be especially difficult for people who feel called, even pulled, toward a primarily creative existence.

It's so easy to lose our way when we forget our nature.

In WALDEN, Thoreau wrote that he went to the woods to confront the essentials of life; and, I think this is mostly true. But also, deep down, in a very practical way, I think he went to the woods because he wanted to have more time to write. He built his own cabin, cooked his own food, and eliminated as many expenses as he possibly could so that he could fulfill his calling. He was a born writer and philosopher with strong opinions. Rather than conforming to the world around him and softening his writing style to appeal to his contemporaries, he simply decided to be true to himself. You might say that writing, for Thoreau, was a spiritual exercise rooted in his own unique identity, an exercise he was unwilling to water down.

The more I learn about Thoreau, the more his life truly makes sense. Unlike Emerson, who was a charismatic, community-oriented public speaker, Thoreau was more introverted and tended to flounder socially. He was disillusioned with all inconsistencies - both personal and professional. And sadly, almost every attempt he made to marry his writing with his income failed. I think his thoughts often ran so deep that other, less spiritual, minds tended to be threatened by or lose interest in his writing.

It's unfortunate that making money seems to operate according to different, sometimes less genuine, rules. Being successful in business isn't always about being oneself; it's often more about fitting in. After all, the best business minds tend to focus their energies on their client's desires, and money is given in exchange for a service. Like politicians, businessmen and women seek to please. Business lunches are often more about image and flattery and less about serious discourse. And, even when the conversation is more serious in tone, it still may revolve around such superficial concerns.

"Superfluous wealth can buy superfluities only. Money is not required to buy one necessary of the soul," wrote Thoreau.

Sadly, it seems, that the more one values truth, the more one may become disillusioned in business. Our economy can ever so subtly put us in conflict with our higher selves. If we value honesty and truth above all else, the world so often seems soiled with deceit. We are bombarded with advertisements which try to convince us that we need so many things that we really don't. We are made to believe that we will be happier after buying a product which actually makes no difference to the health of our soul.

New clothes and cars can make us feel new only for a while; perhaps we only seek them when we are tired of ourselves. And, perhaps we are only tired of ourselves when we've stopped becomming who we are meant to become.

So, maybe as we live, we should be ever mindful of who we are and what we are called to do.

If I am a writer, to whom should I write? Should I write to people's souls? Or should I write to their egos? Should I write to please an editor or a publisher? Or should I write to please myself and other kindred spirits? And, when I'm working to make money, how should I make it?

Thoreau's solution to this last question was to simply be a "day-laborer." He worked just enough to pay his bills. And, he simplified his life as much as possible in order to pay the fewest.

Thus far, my approach has been a similar one, and although the simplicity of my life has never approached that of Thoreau's, I do have a similarly diverse resume' of employment. Among other things... I've worked as a waiter and a bartender. I've written an arts column for the local paper. I've worked briefly as a tutor and teacher. I've sold a few dozen pieces of artwork. I've been a textile printer and a book binder. I've cared for my friend's children. I've invested in and helped manage a small business. And, since I have sound organizational skills, I've also been known to help people clean and maintain their home. Perhaps those who have their thoughts in order keep their environment in order as well.

I think that my most recent and welcome realization is the knowledge that my personal worth has nothing to do with my financial worth. How much money I make has nothing to do with my ability to contribute to the world around me. Likewise, I've realized that the very people who may look down upon me or accuse me of being lazy are the very people it is healthiest for me to avoid. After all, someone who sees the world in such an obviously materialistic way has not yet learned how to look at themselves more deeply. Someone who builds himself up with externals must feel very empty inside.

It's funny how we can all see each other so differently, measuring each other in different ways. I often wonder how many people's values actually overlap. I also wonder why more people don't turn to spiritual concerns after they have satisfied their physical concerns. It seems strange to me that many people will continue making and spending money indefinately without asking themselves why, while I find it so much more enriching to slow down and appreciate the simple things in life. The color of the sky and clouds, the sound of the wind and trees, the touch of a loved one... none of these things cost money, and few of us appreciate them enough.

Maybe using our unique gifts and being true to ourselves are the most worthwhile achievements of all. And, maybe whether they are noticed by the people around us or not, our littlest, most hidden accomplishments actually become our crowning achievements.

Each day the sun rises and sets, and somewhere in between, I try to feel my way through. There always seems to be something small and beautiful to notice and appreciate, something patiently waiting to be discovered by determined yet gentle eyes.