A crumbling, abandoned building with a foundation that was caving in on itself. Fragments of the walls lay on the grass in scores, with the roof completely gone, and warning tape marking off the perimeter.
I couldn't get to it fast enough.
I am drawn to such things.
To old things.
To cracked and broken things.
To worn and deteriorating things.
To the battered, weathered, and imperfect things.
And why?
Well, for a few reasons I suppose.
They tell stories. They tell truth.
This building wasn't always this way.
It wasn't made in this manner. I imagine there was a day when the men who fashioned the structure stood with pride and accomplishment before it.
But something has happened here.
Something has split its sides and ruptured its foundation. Some force has lifted paint and plaster; entire parts of it are missing.
But that is no reason to dismiss it.
I share something with this stack of bent rebar and cement and worn wood. We're really not all that different. I relate to how I imagine it must feel at times.
Like it's too hard to fight against the forces wearing us down. That regardless of our efforts, it's all just crumbling before us. And that can feel pretty awful sometimes because we want control everything. At least I do. I want things stable and secure. I want to keep it all together.
But maybe not all destruction is destructive.
Maybe some walls need to fall.
Maybe the rubble is being cleared for something else.
For something new.
A dilapidated building showed me this.
Oodles of green life was growing up inside of this cast of old. I shared a silent moment with a pile of rubble (yep, I do things like this), realizing that it's okay if some pieces fall to the ground. It’s okay if these walls lose their materiality.
Because a new thing is being done.
Here, in this decaying building in the middle of the Pacific.
And in me.
And in an infinite amount of places like us both.
Behold.