Abandoned buildings...

Labor Day weekend. Rode my bike down to the river. This is not the park, mind you. Too busy. Too many people. No privacy. No, this is down into the former steel mill properties, where remnants of the former industrial heyday still remain, mostly buried, mostly hidden. Across the bridge, down the small industrial road, following the tracks left by off-road vehicles. These are not hidden spots, just not frequented by masses of people. Locals know of these spots but even then they are not regular hang-outs. There are always remains of visitors, usually beer or soda cans, sometimes remnants of a fire pit, often clothing or shoes (though these sometimes wash downriver and end up on shore), but always some indication that this is not virgin territory.

As I've never been there, the thrill of discovery spurs me on, my bike providing much more freedom than an auto which attracts way too much attention. I bike is more innocuous and is easier to hide, thus providing the freedom of not having to return to a car. A bicycle cannot be easily traced. So the paths lead me down to an abandoned, rusting, hulk of a railroad bridge, covered in vines, trees cloaking much of its frame, a black colored rust its primary color. Further on down I find nature in full splendor, a gurgling river, geese and butterflies, plenty of rocks aligning the shore, allowing me to sit and take it in, the sun beating down warmly on my body.

It's a spiritual catharsis as I know I won't be bothered. No one will be coming down here so the thought doesn't enter my mind. I can let go. The difficulty comes in attempting to be still. I don't have a camera so the tendency to move and snap lots of pictures isn't present. It is thus easier to remain still. And it takes a while. It takes time. I still feel the need to go, to move, to explore, to avoid sitting still. There's a part of me that feels this whole activity is forced, that it's all a ploy, that I really want to take photos and be given attention for my "discovery" of the beauty in the ruins, that somehow I still need validation for these activities.

Yet there is a part of me that thrives in the isolation, that longs to be there and stay, away from people, away from the daily grind, away from responsibility, away from the havoc that men bring upon the earth (a havoc, I myself would inevitably do were I to stay). I bask in the silence.

But the catharsis comes. I feel it. And it comes in this most unusual spot. It isn't church, it isn't a designated park, a space where we are confined to remain within the trails. It's a bit more raw, less restricted and, I suppose, there is a trace of rebellion (though that isn't really my motive). I don't even fear being caught trespassing. I revel in the freedom the bike brings, the freedom in the power to move my bicycle, the freedom of the wind in my face, the freedom of the space, the freedom of nature, the freedom of being hidden from the rest of the world, no eyes watching, no signs posted, no rules to be enforced. It opens the door to the 'emptiness' that enables a spiritual encounter.