In 1863, nearly a year and a half after Henry David Thoreau died, his essay “Life without Principle” was published in The Atlantic Monthly.
The essay was based on Thoreau’s most frequently delivered lecture, which he gave in various forms between 1854 and 1860, with titles like "Getting a Living," "What Shall It Profit?" and "Life Misspent." In the months before his death, Thoreau prepared the essay for publication with the help of his sister, Sophia.
The essay begins with an observation, in which Thoreau recalls listening to a lecturer who "had chosen a theme too foreign to himself, and so failed to interest me as much as he might have done."
"He described things not in or near to his heart," Thoreau continues, "but toward his extremities and superficies."
The lecturer's subject, Thoreau argues, came from somewhere outside "his privatest experience," as Thoreau puts it.
The difference between what lies at the lecturer's heart and what lies at his extremities may be the difference between what we truly value at our core and everything that surrounds us at our outer edges.
This intro becomes the seed of "Life without Principle," blossoming into Thoreau's argument that we spend so much time on work, money, and productivity for productivity's sake that we often fail to make space and time for what's essential to ourselves.
The essay begs a key question: how do we know what's really near our hearts in the first place?
The answer, I believe, lies in paying attention.
I think we have far less control over what we're naturally or inherently drawn to than we might imagine. Sometimes there seems to be no rhyme or reason as to why I become interested in something—or why the interest fades just as quickly.
Our interests may come from some combination of temperament, life experiences, natural abilities, people we encounter, coincidences, or countless other influences we'll never fully understand.
Whatever makes up the formula that draws certain themes and pursuits near to our hearts, the one thing we can control may be how closely we pay attention to them.
Paying attention is more important, I'd argue, than trying to choose what we're interested in or explain why we're interested in it.
"It is in vain to write on chosen themes," Thoreau writes in an 1852 journal entry. "We must wait till they have kindled a flame in our minds. There must be the copulating & generating force of love behind every effort destined to be successful."
If figuring out what kindles that flame in our minds—and our hearts—is something of a mystery, rather than something we can control or contrive, then perhaps all we can do is stay open, curious, aware, and awake to what's around us.
For most of us, there's no telling what interest might strike next. I've cycled through more hobbies, interests, passions, and side projects than I can list, and with nearly all of them, I didn't really try to make them a passion. It just happened.
On the other hand, no matter how many times I've tried to get myself to watch soccer, it just hasn't clicked. I can't force it.
If our interests ebb and flow throughout life, the best we can do is continually pay attention—and return when we lose the way.
Pay attention to what you read. Pay attention to what naturally piques your interest, or what you do in your spare time, when no one's around.
Pay attention to those small glimmers of wonder and curiosity that make you think: what's this about?
And just as importantly, pay attention to the things in your life that just aren't doing it for you, no matter how hard you've tried to pretend otherwise.
Whatever you're naturally drawn toward is worth further investigation: more time, greater attention. These things don't necessarily have to become your work, structured pursuits, or passion projects. But it's worth following your curiosity.
Spend enough time paying attention, and you begin to recognize what's near your heart and what's at your extremities.
What's at the periphery isn't bad, or wrong, by any means. But distinguishing what truly lights you up from what you do out of external responsibility or pressure or obligation can help you decide where to spend the time and attention that are still yours to allot.
"It is always essential that we love to do what we are doing—do it with a heart," Thoreau writes in an 1851 journal entry.
I don't take that to mean we should love every task or job we have, or abandon anything that doesn't inspire us all the time. Instead, I take it as a reminder that in the spaces that still belong entirely to us—outside the obligations of work, relationships, society, finances, the external world—we can align our attention with what's near and dear to us, whatever that may be.
It's unrealistic to think we can spend all our time doing things we love. There will always be dishes to wash, laundry to fold, work calls that could have been emails.
But I believe it's realistic to pay enough attention to our lives to develop a real sense of what's at our heart—and learn how to spend a little more time there.
Consider: What, at the moment, do you find yourself naturally curious about? Is there space in your day or week to make extra room for it? Or, is there anything that you just can't get into, no matter how frequently you've tried? Is there anything you spend time on that feels like an "extremity" and not essential to you?
Last week: The beginner's experiment