There are little towns that time forgot all over the United States and I’ve been to my share of them. 
Along Route 66 is the sleepy Old West town of Oatman, Arizona. 
Burros wander around aimlessly, sometimes napping in the middle of the sidewalk. 
It’s a hardscrabble place where people eke out a living selling snacks and trinkets to tourists. 
I found the peeling paint, 
dried bones 
and decrepit buildings fascinating. 
But I get to leave after I’ve strolled the downtown loop, 
which doesn’t take long. 
Not everyone has the ability to escape their circumstances. 
Some people choose where they live 
but many don’t. 
They simply do the best with what they have. 
Will I make the most of what I’ve got? 
I’d like to think the answer is yes.
Photos © Sondra Sula.
Take a walk with me by reading my daily devotional book, Meditations on Mendocino by Sondra Sula. Available on Amazon in paperback or Kindle versions.
If you’d prefer a daily river walk, Reflections on the Fox River and Beyond by Sondra Sula, might just be the book for you.
On a vacation I’m pretty amenable to suggestions. As long as the suggestions don’t involve hiking in a treeless environment in temperatures over one hundred degrees, or driving at night, I’m game. That’s how I ended up eye to eye with an ichthyosaur: a sculpture of one, to be exact.
My husband, Rob, wanted to go to the Berlin Ichthyosaur Museum, but naturally, after driving a mere four hours out of our way, it was closed. Like forlorn children, we peered through the windows at the in-situ bones and life-size replica of the extinct marine reptile caught forever swimming through the air.
At least it was only ninety-eight degrees
with heat rising from the metal roof like reverse shivers.
I could see why this place had given up its ramshackle ghost.
And I was ready to abandon it as well.
Even if it did have a few trees alongside the tumbleweeds.
Yet I stayed until Rob had explored everything he wanted to see because that’s what partners do: support one other while silently whining. And before too long, as dusk was falling, we were back on the road—forty-seven miles of dangerous, rough gravel road to be exact. But I was amenable to that because Rob was driving.
I never thought much about ghost towns until a few years ago when my husband and I happened to be vacationing right next to one. Now we actually seek them out.
What fascinates me most is the total abandonment of items used in daily living.
It is as if the people suddenly turned to dust.
Yet my rational mind tells me there was an exodus.
A slow disintegration of life as they knew it.
A crumbling of what they held dear,
brick by brick.
There was no way to lug large items with them, even if those things had been important to their way of life.
And so they left.
And tumbleweeds took over.
But whenever there is a leaving, a going away—there is also a coming, a moving toward.
Reflect on the old life, imagine the new life—then take a step forward.
There is a lonesome quality to Death Valley. The sheer, vast emptiness mile after mile makes me question the existence of cities. Did I just dream them up to feel less lonely? Throngs of people living shoulder to shoulder seem impossible at the moment. Here, every living thing can stretch as much as it likes.
A small ghost town calls attention to the fact that people tried living here and even succeeded for a while. Vestigial cement-like walls remain, bisected with wood planks. Cracks and holes admit light; beckon eyes to peek through; frame wilderness.
The few trees I see have needles that resemble segmented reptile tails, stone-smooth and nothing like the leaves I know. Have I walked into a place between worlds, a mirage? A spiny cactus tethers my drifting mind to reality, its sharp edges reminding my ankles that I live within a human body.
I realize I must go back to the world of people, gas stations and motels. But before I leave, I see four wild burros, sleek and robust. A fluid black line drips from the cropped mane down the shoulder of each beast. White hair encircles soulful eyes and covers inquisitive muzzles. The burros are wandering away, but I sing to them and they stop, turn and stare at me for the next five minutes while I conjure a tune, lyrics, just for the occasion.
Sondra Sula's Blog: The Nature of Spirituality 