Asa Alexander

 

 

Our Ruins

 

I have had a lifelong affinity for monoliths—particularly sculpture. Whenever I come across an image of Greek statues or any kind of rustic ruin, it fills me with a profound nostalgia, the kind of nostalgia that recalls the beauty of childhood with a dreamy clarity. I grew up in a rural region of eastern Pennsylvania surrounded by hundreds of acres of forests, hills, meadows and pastures that stretch as far as I could wander, and wandering was my favorite pastime. From the day I could walk, to the day I moved away at thirteen, I roamed the infinite greenery regardless of weather or the season. There was always something to discover.

I have seen natural shrines I can hardly describe: little monuments, so perfect in their compact singularity and so obviously distinct from their surroundings, it was like they were made by nature for the momentary pleasure of humans. Skeletons covered in vines, their sun-bleached bones pristine and swathed in green, fallen antlers encircled by stones, a single dead tree stump covered in moss at the edge of a clearing. Each shrine that I would stumble across sat starkly as if placed there with purpose. As if created by something supernatural and offered up to pagan gods as gifts of nature’s finest artwork.  Possibly the greatest thing about living on that centuries-old farmland, however, were the manmade ruins strewn throughout the forest.

I would spend warm afternoons down by this decrepit gristmill at the bottom of a large forested hill behind my house. A river babbled ceaselessly nearby. The noise was tranquil in the setting of the old mill. It was a tattered structure, hundreds of years old, small and made of weathered concrete and fieldstones concealed in vines. On one side, a deep canal was dug into the earth where the remains of its dilapidated millwheel hung in abasement. The surrounding area, however, was what made it so beautiful. Tall oak trees grew up from the matted ground, straight as arrows from the underbrush. Shaded at the center of the wooded plot stood the mill’s grindstone. It was a cylinder of concrete with colorful river pebbles spread throughout. There were flecks of moss growing in and around the sides. The top was a thick heavy circle twice the size of the base. It was more polished and smooth from countless years of weathering and hands grinding grain on top of it.

The gristmill was one of my favorite parts of the woods. It felt so ancient and abandoned, as if nature had driven the people away and commandeered the mill for itself. The grindstone always stood in particular, though. It was so potent and understated—this ancient manmade monolith standing unambiguously in the midst of that forested clearing. It seemed representational of the human activity that had once been conducted here, like an altar that an ancient being had placed to be discovered after all of humanity had abandoned it. This is where my love of natural monuments was conceived. These manmade ruins showed only telltale signs of humanity. They were completely taken over by nature, like a long-forgotten city from eons past. Hands had once worked this grindstone and feet had once walked on the bed of leaves. The human presence was still there, but only in a flicker—so dim, as if blotted out by the oaken canopy overhead.

Although the grindstone was created for early industry, I think forgotten structures like this are almost deserving of prayer. It’s stone was swallowed by the wilderness, transforming it from something representing 1`man’s conquest over nature into a symbol of the polar opposite. It is a singular monolith, depictive of nature as the immortal artist. In its ambition, nature adds embellishments and flourishes to structures created for an industrial purpose—touches of vines and leaves and moss. Nature turns it into something that can be admired aesthetically by man, unwittingly sacrificing practicality for beauty.  Although it was made by human hands, the grindstone is so rustic and so enveloped in moss and fallen leaves that it gives that illusion of having grown out of the ground right where it stands. To me, it begs the question of whether or not structures like the grindstone should even be considered human anymore. It is made of stone, a material found in nature, which is used by humans to create a kind of semi permanent sandcastle. As the ears pass it becomes so completely enveloped by the biological progression of its environment that it simply falls apart and returns to nature. The humans who once placed value on it fail to maintain it. They abandon it entirely, ending their resistance against nature’s constant strife toward reclamation. A grindstone is only a grindstone until 200 years of weathering and overgrowth achieve nature’s ultimate goal of returning it to the earth through gradual devolution, completing its cycle of usefulness. From human industrial tool, to natural art, to an anonymous pile of rubble—ashes to ashes.

It has been years since I have returned to the old house, and that grindstone might not even be there anymore. Maybe its cycle of life has been completed. A tear of fondness comes to my eye when I reflect on this place. There was a metaphor hidden in that forest clearing that I had always understood but could not quite conceptualize in my youth. It lies in solemnly in the ruins of that perfect monolith. I look in the mirror and every day I watch my own face and body deteriorate. I no longer look the same, and my eyes cannot see as well as they did when I gazed upon the grindstone—I too am growing and dying. Every year I watch my fleshy manmade body deteriorate, fully aware of what my end will be.  I will be reclaimed by nature one day, returning to the earth with my memories of monoliths. In some ways, this idea was peaceful to me. It is easier to find a way down the path if you already know where it ends.

I would often reflect on the cycle of life in this part of the woods. It was somewhere tranquil where I could pause and meditate—a vicar at his grindstone altar, pondering nature’s wild sermon. I had innumerable adventures in that forest, but the discovery of that old gristmill was something exceptional. The significance of it, with its natural shrines and monoliths will stay with me for rest of my life. I was birthed in nature and nurtured by it. Still today, its moments of beauty: the summer sky about to rain, the glow of fireflies burning through the night. It still comforts me with its impermanence—a reminder of our frailty.  Wherever I am, I want wind to blow. One day I’ll settle somewhere rural again, and live out my days wandering. I’ll be reclaimed by nature too.