On “Walking” by Thoreau

I think that Thoreau’s idea s concerning “walking” or “sauntering” are very much like the ideas many have developed concerning the good of an action simply on account of the action itself. There is no goal except the pure enjoyment of being: being both as phenomenal and noumenal existence. Of course, there are incidental pleasures to be had, but these joys seem more superficial and circumstantial than the excitement of simply sauntering.

It’s strange to think that an action can be a noun, a thing, not just a series of moments of change in matter in time. Or maybe it’s not.

I mean, if we think and agree with Thoreau that sauntering presents benefits simply on account of sauntering, what does that say about the innate nature of sauntering?

To go back to the ideas of natura naturata and natura naturans, the noumenal aspect of existence is called natura naturans. In Latin, the word naturans is a participle, or a verbal adjective. This means (and participles function in the same in English, as well) that the word functions both as an adjective (a descriptor, used to say something more specific about a noun) and as a verb (an action, which is to say, change over time).

Similarly, sauntering is a combination of an action and a different part of speech, although this time, it is a gerund. Whereas a participle takes the form of an adjective while retaining traits of a verb, sauntering tales the form of a noun while retaining traits of a verb. Thus, it functions both as a noun (concrete thing or somewhat tangible idea) and as a verb (an action, which again, is a change over time).

But what can we learn from this? We’ve learned that natura naturans is the noumenal, deeper aspect of nature, and we’ve also agreed that Thoreau had somehow experienced a similar noumenal aspect of nature. Can we conclude that there is something about both of these concepts that results in a deeper understanding of nature?

Well, obviously, I think so. If we look at the fact that both share in their nature a changing, verbal aspect even in their use as words, I think the lesson is pretty clear.

From this, we can learn that it is in change and from observing change that we gain our insights into the world. And perhaps it is so because the world itself is change, and most people would agree that no true knowledge may ever be derived from improper places. Thus, our knowledge of nature cannot be had from anything other than progression.

But this leads to some tricky philosophic questions: if all is change, and all knowledge is derived from observing change, is anything absolute? We could say that truth is (considering the fact that we would usually define truth as “that which is real, in existence,” and if existence is not absolute…well, what we couldn’t be here if existence weren’t existing, right?). But, if truth is based in phenomenal and noumenal reality, that is to say, it is based on our observations and feelings towards reality, is truth subject to change, as well? How can truth be changing, but consistent?

I think that nature, and I think some would agree with me (and have probably said this before I have, as well), is more a set of changing patterns than a meaningless spree of clashing pieces. It’s a patterned chaos, that, in a way, reminds me of a kaleidescope. There are set pieces in the kaleidescope (the beads, bits of plastic, etc.) but these pieces are mutated, changed, rearranged, and interact in such myriad ways that the rational, logical mind is utterly overwhelmed with the seemingly infinite possibilities of those interactions.

For another example, look at mathematics. y = sin x. The curve we see is created by that equation (or function, I suppose), or rather, the curve is described by the equation. But the nature of the curve itself is so complex we cannot imagine knowing even a small part of it. Calculus attempts to describe it by portioning it off into pieces, but it ultimately fails, because it would require an infinite number of calculations to describe. The infinite space of that curve renders it mysterious. There is always something more to be known about that curve. And yet, that boundless curve is described in a simple truth: y = sin x.

Similarly with nature. Let us look at evolution. A simple statement or idea, but the complexities of its realitiesare utterly knowable. Perhaps this is why many still cannot come to terms with it: how can so simple an idea describe such immense complexity?

Perhaps this change that we see in natura naturans and in Thoreau’s description of sauntering is best expressed by Gerald Manley Hopkins when he writes:

“…nature is never spent;

There lives the dearest freshness, deep down things;

and though the last lights off the black West went

oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward springs –

because the Holy Ghost over the bent

world broods with warm breast and with ah!, bright wings.”

Well, this entry is getting long enough, and I think it’s just about time I go out and take a walk.

Bryson Nitta

Progressive Foliation

Pretty sweet thing I learned in class today I thought I might share.

Basically, Goethe, the famous German poet, was actually more interested in science than he was in literature. In fact, he even said something that basically meant he thought that it was his scientific work he’d be remembered for, not his poetry. Interesting, right?

Well, his most famous scientific paper was called, “The Metamorphosis of Plants.” In it, he describes how plants, especially flowers, go through a process of expansion and contraction in order to grow.

If you look at a flower (pretty much any flower will do, I think), notice how the leaves look at the bottom of the stem, the middle of the stem, and at the top of the stem. Normally what you see are these large leaves near the roots, and then smaller and smaller leaves as you near the corona of the flower. The smallest “leaves” are right underneath the corona, and are called the sepals. This is an example of a contraction. As you move up from the sepal and reach the corona, there is clearly a large expansion. However, as you move into the center of the flower, and see the pistils and stamens, you’ll notice that the petals of the flower are smaller. This is a contraction. After that, if the flower becomes fertilized, it will grow into a kind of fruit, which is, of course, an expansion. Finally, the fruit is eaten or thrown to the ground, decays, and all this is left is a seed, and this is the final contraction of our flower.

Goethe used this whole process to suggest that each part of the flower, from the leaves to the sepals to the corona to the pistils and stamen to the fruit to the seed, are all generated from each other. He called it “genetics,” but he meant it in the most literal way, as in, from the original Greek, “genesthai,” “to be born.” What Goethe was saying is that each part of a flower is actually a birth of one part from another part, endlessly birthing parts in a constant cycle of birthing.

Of course, this led to something of a problem: what started the birthing? And why do things birth themselves in basically the same way (ie, why do we have species, etc.?). Goethe suggested that all the parts of the flower resemble or contain within them an aspect of something he called the urorgan, which has been translated as “the first organ,” “the primordial organ,” or, “the archetypal organ.”

It’s a very different view than what we are used to. Normally, when we study the anatomy of a flower, we study the parts separately. Leaves provide this for the plant, the corona does that, the stamen and pistil are for something else, and so on. It seems as if we want to treat the flower as a giant machine with a bunch of different parts, as opposed to a unified organism that is living, organic, and changing.

Goethe basically presented the alternative to the kind of science we’re used to, and while it may not be a substitute, I think it’s interesting to think if Goethe’s system couldn’t become somewhat meaningful, if not to the scientific community, than at least to people in their everyday lives.

Bryson Nitta