Decay

Yesterday, I read an article on how quickly nature will take over civilization once we’re gone. The speed with which we’re forgotten is astonishing, and it seems that gravity and decay are the tools of erasure. The article was a summary of The World Without Us, within which the author, Alan Weisman, says “If you want to destroy a barn, cut an eighteen-inch-square hole in the roof. Then stand back.”

We are now in the first days of Fall, and the Eastern Oregonian mornings are showing it. As I drank my coffee and began my work this morning, I felt the season enter my lungs. The Blue Mountains surrounding the Grande Ronde Valley stared down with icy silence, rather than heat-induced fatigue. I’m staying at Hot Lake Springs, a historical site between Union and La Grande, and the stresses of time are on my mind. I’ve seen the building in a completely unlivable state — when my family first came to the property, the building was roofless, and on the verge of collapse. A layer of bird refuse, rotten leaves, and the building’s broken walls and ceilings covered every surface. It was locked in the season of Fall, a season of decay and decline, on a semi-permanent basis. With far more than an “eighteen-inch-square hole in the roof,” the building was falling down whether we chose to stand back or not; it would prove this later, even after my family’s repairs and restoration efforts, when the entire western wing would fall down. In spite of this, we were able to, with enough duct tape and not a small amount of help, make the place livable (and even nice) for some time. Even now it’s a comfortable, but we can see in some places that nature is trying to reaffirm its position here. If we were to abandon it again, I can’t help but wonder: How long might it take to return to disrepair? I think not long.

Likewise, a certain amount of maintenance is necessary in our lives to maintain some semblance of stability. Without this maintenance the vicissitudes of life leak in through the holes in our ceilings. Decay sets in, and gravity can tear us down. For me, this maintenance is writing. For others, it may be running, or alcohol, or being a great parent. Not all methods of maintenance are equally effective, though: Where expressing one’s self in music is akin to replacing the hardwood floor, smoking is patching it and forgetting it was ever whole. Running is winterizing, and escapism is performing triage on the damage as cold sets in. A trend to notice, here, is that the healthy methods of maintenance are often accompanied by a passion with which they are pursued. The self-identified runner has a far more meaningful connection with their self-care than the externally-identified alcoholic. This is not to say that I have exclusively healthy coping mechanisms, but rather to encourage folks to find a passion of some kind. The passionate person is much more likely to maintain health in all aspects of life — this study touches on the impact passion has on psychological health, which in turn has emotional, spiritual, and physical effects. This is no closely-guarded secret of the world of healthcare; it’s an exercise in common sense and introspection.

The passion of my family not only held them together, but helped bring back this property from the dead. The bronze sculpture of my grandfather, a direct, physical manifestation of his passion for art and history, will be recognizable for 10,200,000 years. In this way, he has shaken off the effects of decay for some time. I hope to do the same.

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