Ruins

My old pal Wanderlust has been whispering softly to me lately. The desire to go somewhere--anywhere--is tugging at my heart. I'm not really in a position to take a trip at the moment, but the nostalgia for travel is sometimes very intense. It is one of the many things I miss about my old life--a life in which part of my identity was wrapped up in being a traveler, a life that now seems very far away and almost entirely out of reach. 

There is a certain wistfulness in that statement, but I don't really feel sad. I am content. I understand that I'm just in a different stage of life, and that is okay. This stage is a time to reflect on all the previous travels I have had and to enjoy all the beautiful memories made. I'm so thankful for everywhere I have been and the ways in which I have been shaped by my experiences all over the world and for the pictures that pop up to remind me of all the magical places my journey has taken me. Maybe right now, in lieu of actual travel, I take a longer glance at the photos that come up in my social media memories, and maybe instead of scrolling on by, I click to view the categorized albums Google curates for me, many of which are called "Similar Shots" and might contain photos of just beaches or just mountains or just ruins. Lovely reminders of lovely times when travel was a reality instead of a dream.

It's that last category that has given me pause this week and caused some serious reflection. I've been asking myself, "Why do I have so many pictures of ruins that span decades and countries and continents? Why do I, and so many others, flock to these broken down places? Why are they so mysterious and beautiful and irresistible? I have pictures of castle ruins and fort ruins and prison ruins and city ruins. Ruins of places of government and religion and entertainment and completely unidentified purposes. Ruins of societies that are long gone and live more in imagination than reality. Ruins that draw a larger crowd in their dilapidated states than they ever did when the structures were in their prime. 

Webster's dictionary defines a ruin as "the remains of something destroyed." And, yet, when you look at these ruins all over the world, some of them thousands of years old, what you mainly see is something that has withstood whatever trauma came its way. You see something almost destroyed, but not quite. Enough of it remains to be lovely and interesting and worthy of time and attention. It is the very brokenness that makes it beautiful. It has character. It has intrigue. It has a story. It has stood the tests of time, and there is an instant respect for anything that has done that. True, it is not what it once was, and it never will be that again. It is something else entirely. But still absolutely lovely in a completely different way, possibly even more appealing in its ruin than it was in its new, whole, and original state. It takes time for the value of the ruins to be realized, of course. I imagine there were curmudgeonly old Romans and Greeks and Mayans who kept looking over at the the structures that had ceased being useful and saying, "That thing is such an eyesore. I don't know why they don't just tear it down." Only later did most people agree this mess was really a treasure. 

If I'm being honest, it's sometimes easy for me to slip into a mindset prone to thinking of myself as a ruin as Webster defines it--just the remains of something that has been destroyed. A hollowed out shell that no longer serves a specific purpose or is no longer beautiful or no longer has value. But my camera roll tells quite a different story. The ruins of the world are not unloved. They are not unwanted or devalued or unappreciated. They are certainly not unlovely. They are beautiful in spite of their brokenness and even often because of it. Withstanding whatever life throws at you is truly a wonder. Being almost destroyed but not fully destroyed is a powerful story to tell. After all, there are two parts to the definition: there is what was destroyed and there is what remains. It matters which part of the definition you give more weight to. Identities may change, but there is beauty in all of it, and some of that beauty can't even be fully realized until you see what remains. Yes, my life is a ruin. Parts of it have been destroyed and will never be restored. Oh, but the parts that remain! They tell a story, and they are beautiful. It has taken (is taking) time for me to see that. But what I understand at this point is that I have a choice every day. I can focus on what has been destroyed or what remains. I don't always choose wisely, but it is becoming easier and easier to see the beauty in my ruins.