What I see in the ruins

When I was young, historic ruins were simply empty.  They had no charm, no rhythm or music.  The decayed walls held no ghosts, and the vast empty fields told no stories.  The scattered artifacts were just yesterday’s junk. 

At that age, things were either young or old. 

As the years passed, I began to see the world around me age.  The fads of my youth lost their sheen and became passé, then silly, then somehow classic.  The places of my youth became stifling, then boring, then nostalgic.  Friends grew with me, then beside me, then apart, and then became acquaintances and maybe friends again. 

This, in turn, led me to appreciate historic ruins.  

These places began as dreams, and then through hard work and imagination, became shelters to outlast the weather and warlords.  Some became holy places to worship together, drawing warmth from shared beliefs.  Some became levers of power to subjugate neighbors and enemies alike.  Some became gratuitous symbols of wealth, with gilded towers built on the tortured labor of slaves and serfs. 

Each site aged from vision to inception to expansion to decline, and finally to ruin; and for some, to preservation.  At each stage along their journeys, countless untold stories lay intertwined with the rubble and protected by walls falling ever so slowly.

The lucky ruins are those that no longer exist, for they were dismantled and recycled long ago.  Their stones, timbers and bricks are present in the homes, farms and churches still in use today.  Their stories did not end, but grow and thrive with each new generation.

But other ruins live on as fading testaments, important and vital for their past.  These ruins, though no longer vibrant in every day life, tell us amazing stories about people long gone, living in circumstances similar to today. 

From the shell of a medieval castle in Wales, I learned that life inside the walls was dangerous and crowded, filled with pollution, human waste and disease.  And yet, the only place more dangerous than inside the castle was outside the castle.  In the countryside, farmers had no immediate protection from raiders and passing armies, and brutality was a real and immediate danger.

From the ruins of Chaco Canyon, I learned that places breathe, growing larger and smaller in cycles, sometimes in response to water scarcity, sometimes driven by other influences we still may not fully understand.  I learned that people flow, not like a river set in its course, but like seeds riding the winds to fertile soil and promising futures.

From the temples of Angkor Wat, I learned that nature can quickly reclaim land so hard fought to tame.  Indeed, the richer the diversity and abundance of life around us, the harder it is to maintain our foundations.

From World War I trenches and forts in Belgium and France, I learned of unfathomable death and despair.  Driven not by the charisma of one tyrant, this devastation erupted from the fears of fading empires, diminishing influence and deep-seated nationalist hatreds. 

From the ghost towns of New Mexico and Colorado, I learned that people can craft the raw materials of greed, hope, compassion, lawlessness and frontier justice into a vibrant, if flawed, community.  Sometimes these towns prospered, and settled in, building schools and churches and community centers, enacting ordinances that keep the chaos in check.  But often these towns vanished almost over night, when the mines dried up or the trains stopped coming.  Sometimes they faded away slowly, losing their young people to jobs and opportunities far away while their elders sat on porches holding onto their world with quiet determination.

From every ruin, I learned about complexity and nuance.  Places, like people, embody contradictions that defy easy judgement.  Thomas Jefferson helped create a new form of democracy and yet supported and engaged in slavery throughout his life.  William Clark of the Lewis & Clark expedition included the slave York in the group’s decision-making throughout the journey, and then sold York’s wife “down the river” when he asked to be reunited with her.  Places, too, embody enormous contradictions.  The Whitney Plantation near New Orleans was the site of unspeakable genocide, and we should never forget how our forefathers systematically created a complex structure of dehuminazation.  Nor should we stop trying to tear down the structural remnants of slavery that continue to harm and disadvantage Black Americans every day.   Yet it is also crucial that we remember and celebrate the strength and courage of the slaves who created life, love and art among such intentional death and evil. 

Each of these lessons, and an infinite number of others, come from visiting ruins... but not just from visiting.  The walls and artifacts hold these treasures, but historians unlock them for the rest of us.  And the great historians do so by relating the past to the present.

Reading about ruins, watching videos and lectures before visiting, examining maps old and new… these are the ways I truly see these ruins. 

By engaging my imagination along with my senses, I can see glimmers of what life may have been like for those farmers, monks, rulers, slaves and soldiers; wives, husbands, children and friends.  If I try hard enough, I can see them preparing their meals, gathering around a fire for stories or songs, nursing their sick and raising their young, plowing the fields, fortifying against the dangers ever present, mourning their losses, and persisting always persisting.  

In the ruins I see community and connection, inequality and tyranny.  I see complex human stories.  I see history come alive and speak to me of our past, and also of our present and future.  

That is what I see in the ruins.