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During most summers, my family and I spend a significant portion of July in New England. From a professional viewpoint, I see this as an opportunity to engage in seasonality (as described in my book Slow Productivity), a chance to recharge and refocus the creative energies that fuel my work. This year, I found myself in need of all the assistance I could gather. I had recently completed the first part of my new book on the deep life and was grappling with how to effectively introduce the second part.
In the initial days of our time up north, I made swift progress on the new chapter. However, I soon started to sense some friction within my conceptual narrative. As I continued writing, the grinding and gnashing became more pronounced and concerning. Ultimately, I had to accept that my method wasn’t effective. I discarded a couple of thousand words and set out in search of a more viable idea.
It was at this juncture that we fortuitously chose to go for a hike. We ventured to Franconia Notch in the White Mountains, a place we have always cherished for its wild, romantic beauty. We decided to take on the hike to Lonesome Lake, a tranquil body of water situated at 2,700 feet among the peaks and ridges of Cannon Mountain.
The Lonesome Lake hike begins with a mile of consistent elevation gain. At first, you are accompanied by the sounds of traffic from I-93 below; your legs tire, and your mind continues to dwell on the ordinary. But eventually, the trail bends, and the noise of the road fades away. After a while, your focus inevitably sharpens. Time seems to stretch. You hardly notice when the trail becomes less steep. Then, as you navigate through slender birches, you arrive at the peaceful, wind-swayed expanse of the lake.
It was at Lonesome Lake that my struggles with the new chapter began to fade. With a calm clarity, I envisioned a better way to structure my argument. I jotted down some notes in the pocket-sized notebook I always carry. As we finally, reluctantly started our descent from the mountain, I continued to refine my thoughts.
Walking and thinking have been closely linked since the beginnings of serious contemplation. Aristotle embraced mobile cognition so thoroughly—he wore down the covered paths of his outdoor academy, the Lyceum—that his followers became known as the Peripatetic School, derived from the Greek word peripatein, which means ‘to walk around.’
My recent experience in the White Mountains served as a small reminder of this significant truth. In an era where AI threatens to automate larger portions of human thought, it seems especially vital to remember both the hard-earned dignity of generating new ideas within the human mind and the simple actions, such as getting the body in motion, that facilitate this extraordinary process.
Every summer, my family and I escape to New England for the majority of July. From a work-related standpoint, I view this as an opportunity to...