Sacred Abandoned

I've come here more often lately. It's something I picked up when I was young, maybe thirteen years old -- breaking into abandoned buildings in the middle of the night -- and now still, when I pass old dark buildings walking the streets at night, my heart opens up to their silence, as if I've entered the aural proximity of sacred grounds.  They are unnatural places of remoteness hidden within the cities of writhing staring strangers.

I found this wonderfully alone and silent apartment building one unusually warm March night in Minneapolis.  It had rained the day before so the broken widows let in a fresh wind that occasionally swept away the reek of mildew and decaying lead paint.  It's a big red-bricked place that was once rented for a moderate price, considering how spacious the rooms are.  Newly married couples in their 20s thought it the perfect space to get their lives organized.  Not to "settle down," that idea repulsed them. No, a place that offered just the right dimensions to "work with."  When the massive boiler was on and working, the radiators strained to throw their heat up into the high ceilings.  In the cold winter mornings they, the radiators, would look at each other and sigh, another day of hard work ahead of them once the young lady in flannel pajamas flipped the switch.


How little are we all aware that the bright and holy dream of our country has turned into a nightmare. A nightmare that I've begun to enjoy because of its wonderfully alone silence.  The more empty buildings, the more silent our cities become, and the more sacred spaces we'll find hidden in the hive.