I glimpse it from the country road. It’s down the next gentle curve, off on a little used side road, possibly forgotten; full of ruts, some potholes and waving, faded wild flowers; abandoned yet peaceful. This calls to me. So beautiful.

Turning off the road, I follow the pocked and tumbled lane, carefully maneuvering, following the faded track to the old, falling down barn. It’s graceful and lovely. There is history here. Stories abound within these wind and weather scoured timbers. I need to see it, feel it, breathe it in.

Pulling off the jutted lane, I stop the car, quietly get out and just stand a minute. Absorbing, listening, watching. The silence begins to speak and it is a beautiful language, the silence. I know it well and it feels like a comfortable old quilt; old, wise, full of life and so many possibilities. It has so much to say; and the wisdom – the wisdom gained from silence is not lost on me.

To the left of the ramshackle barn, an old oak tree still casts shade and shadows; it has weathered much. A thick, frayed rope swings lightly in the breeze. Maybe a tire swing hung there, propelling its riders on so many adventures; the freedom of flight!

There’s a bird house tacked to the upper part of the old oak that’s seen better days. Part of the tiny roof is missing and something has gnawed a small hole in the floor of it. Someone, a child perhaps, painted a welcome sign above the bitty door to the birdhouse. Welcome Home, it says, in faded orange paint. Closing my eyes, I see and hear the many families this old house has sheltered through the years. Mamas and babies and the first tentative attempts at flight; the swooping, diving, bug catching and seed collecting. Nature doing its thing in a never ending cycle.

Standing in the silence, I hear a cheeky giggling, bubbling coming from the other side of the barn. A creek! Gingerly making my way, I brush through tall meadow grasses and an assortment of wild flowers that have claimed the long forgotten space. The happy water-sounds call to me. I find the creek and simply watch for a bit; listening and observing. I don’t know the origin of this pretty creek. It snakes through the gentle rises and falls of this land, making its way to the destination meant for it. It is not daunted by obstacles. It goes over, under or around as it can; it always finds a way and there is always a path for it – an end-point. I wonder if it knows that it carries so much life in its twists and turns and frothy bubbling. On the quieter edges, I see tiny fish gathering in the sunny spots and darting away as my shadow falls on them. I think I see a crawdad and I hear a wood pecker hammering on the old oak. I spend some time here by this creek. The joy in the nature-chatter of it makes me feel happy and somehow ancient and in tune with Mother Earth.

The abandoned barn still beckons and I respond. I imagine it in its heyday. I think it was a reddish color, but it is so weathered and sun and wind burned that it’s exact color is hard to determine. How proud it must have looked when it was first erected! I picture pick up trucks full of neighbors and wood and nails, helping build it. The lively shouts and laughter as they worked together must have been comforting and friendly. Was there a barn raising party here after the work was done? It’s big enough inside that I envision a long trestle table filled with vittles and cold lemonade and ice water. Comradery. Life lived and protected under the timbers and beams.

A rusted old pitchfork is leaning jauntily against what looks like an old stall. Did a horse live here? The railings are falling down and a couple are broken and jagged. Further in, old withered ropes are looped on lichen covered hooks and a broken-down wheel barrow sits. There is a remnant of loft beams overhead, long tumbled and rickety. A hole in the roof speaks of heavy snows that over the years weakened and dashed the beams. How lovely, quiet and breath-taking this barn must be, covered in the powdery white of a snow-fall. I will be back to see that.

Large tufts of grasses, a ripped old sack and abandoned hay look to be patted down, in the left side corner of the old barn. A creature finds shelter here, warm and safe, despite the battered look of this old barn. Looks are deceiving. The barn’s skeleton and frame are still useful and needed. Life is still very much present here. I find that comforting. The outer glory and flash of this barn may be diminished, but it still shelters. It is still needed, but in a quieter and gentler way. Roof beams directly above me have been claimed as home by birds. I can see the nests, abandoned at the moment, but ready for the return of nature; all in its perfect timing.

The large, half cracked open door at the back of the barn, hangs on dilapidated hinges that have their fair share of rust; parts of them just holes, eaten through by time, wind, heat. I carefully make my way to that door. There on the side beam that forms the support for the door, is the name Jill, written in squiggly, nail-cut writing. There is a heart and a cat and a smiley face etched nearby. This barn had stories and adventures lived out inside it’s walls. I wonder if Jill told this old barn her secrets; are they contained in the walls and the beams?

The wind picks up a bit and through the chinks and cracks, it whispers and sighs. Its breath is new and fresh, yet has all the undercurrents of time passed, secrets and hints of the supernatural Divine. The old and ancient, ramshackle and run-down have so much to teach us. Nothing is entirely as it seems on first look. What appears to be abandoned and useless often carries far more than the passing glance reveals. Life needs the old things. Cracked and weathered beams still protect and teach and shelter. There are safe, soft corners that can be missed if overlooked.

A squirrel chatters nearby and a bird trills and scolds. I give another look and listen to the old barn. It is time to go. I won’t soon forget this old barn. What a welcome detour it has been, this reconnection to the silence and healing of the old, time-worn and abandoned. “Thank you,” I tell it. “I will be back.”