The Last Line of Defense

“If walls could talk”

What a fascinating thought experiment. The concept of expression, especially expression that is verbal in nature, is a foundational element of animate existence. In fact, one could solidly argue that expression is “the” essential factor that separates living, breathing, animate life, from your average inanimate object. Furthermore, your average inanimate object, like a rock, or say, maybe even a wall of some sort, in the absence of expression, just exists. Exists for the breathing objects to dispose of or discard us at moments notice. Exists for the universe to blow us away and tear us down. That is, if walls couldn’t talk…..

Speaking of walls.

There’s no great way for me to introduce myself, but I’ll give it my best shot. I’m a wall. Always have been, always will be. I have to admit, I’m quite insecure about my appearance. Instead of being blessed with great height, or mesmerizing architecture, I am the epitome of dearth desolation. To be more specific, I inhabit the back “wall” of an abandoned, dilapidated log cabin in rural Utah. I function these days more as an amalgamation of rotten wood rather than a “wall” highlighted by its semblance of structure and balance. But alas, I prefer to be classified by the latter. In all reality though, if I now possess the ethereal gift of expressing my thoughts, some ideas that have laid dormant for hundreds of years, then I would also like to be considered the “last line of defense”.

It might not be a surprise that encompassing the back wall of an abandoned log cabin in the backwoods of rural Utah doesn’t necessarily lend itself to a sea of humanity. I encounter mostly a mishmash of wildlife. A mother bear attempting to make safe passage across the valley with her cubs. The occasional deer that grazes in a nearby field on the abundance of thick grass and wild berries. Sometimes, if I’m lucky, a lonely owl will rest its knife-like talons into my rotting wood and provide me with a night time companion in a forest of desolation. However, even as wildlife encompasses the vast majority of my interactions, there are about a handful of times each year that a human crosses my path. Each time, my absence of communicable expression, my solitude, my very being, haunts me till no end. You wouldn’t begin to understand, it wasn’t always like this…

"The first family"

Before the slow rotting process, there was life. Before complete desolation, there was sprawling humanity. There was the “first family”. The first family holds a special place in my wooden heart, as the father of the first family built me log by log in the middle of the 18th century. Taking painstaking care to make sure that each log was symmetrically placed, providing as much structural support as possible. After about one long day of work, I was completed. Ready and willing to provide generations of families warmth and shelter for decades to come.

At first it was amazing. The first family, encompassing a father, mother, and two young boys, provided such a spark to my glistening exterior. Each morning, with the rising sun, the family followed a reliable pattern of behavior. Father would leave each morning, returning in the evening with fresh meat for supper. Mother would tend to the garden. The boys would roam the vast valley in childlike stupor. Doing what boys do, shooting many arrows at their imagined enemies, fighting each other (laughing all the while), and terrorizing the many horses that roamed the compound. Furthermore, as the sun set on our rural Utah community, I watched the first family have supper each night at a makeshift dinner table. Father would say grace, and the family would share in a communal feast. Finally, as the hours passed, the house would grow gradually silent, as the family went into a deep slumber. Only for Father to wake early in the morning to prepare to leave for his daily hunt. Watching the first family grow and participate in life was peaceful. I felt a part of a community, even as I had no outlet to express myself to the family. It was breathlessly exciting….

The excitement eventually waned. About five years after building the wall that encompassed my existence, the first family left. It was an abrupt and cold end to what I thought would be a lifetime bond. One morning the family left in the carriage guided by horses, without looking back on the home. After about one day of their absence, I knew I would never see them again. And I never did, in fact, no one ever inhabited the interior of my back wall ever again. It really was just a fond memory. If I could talk then, I would let them know how grateful I was for our time together in the early years.

Being burned alive for days is just as painful as you might think.

I’m not sure when or where the blaze started, but it came in full force. It started in the distance, orange specks of fury speckling the trees in the distance. Smoke bellows above the forest and brushes the sky with its ash. Eventually, the fire emerges from the trees, and slowly makes its way towards me. Finally, I welcome its inevitable embrace. The fire stains my once golden brown exterior to ash black. The pain consumes me for a night until the numbness sets in. Time becomes distorted. Let the deterioration process begin….

“The first human"

At least the first human I’ve seen since the first family. A shock to the system of sorts. The man walks alone along the ashy debris of a once lush valley. He is expressionless, yet, behind his sullen eyes there is a semblance of humanity. A semblance of life that preceded his now broken state. He eventually makes his way toward the burned down wall and comes face to face with it. The man gazes into me. There is confusion, and a hint of melancholy, that laces his eyes. It becomes clear to me that he is searching for something. Searching for something that only he can find within himself. Searching for inner peace within a sea of turmoil. After an undetermined amount of time, the man slowly walks away from my dilapidation and saunters into the forest.

After my lonely encounter with a lost stranger, the others came. They didn’t come all at once. But they came and came with the same emptiness that encompassed the initial man. They came in different sizes and different walks of life. A young man stares teary eyed, an elderly woman is hypnotic, brothers stare in amazement, and a camper is motionless. In due time though, all make the slow journey towards the eternal forest of darkness and pause at the tree line before making their plunge. What awaits them in the forest you might ask? Nothing that a lowly wall could ever know the answer to….

“If walls could speak”

That is the ultimate question to be answered. In truth, the answer isn’t emblematic of fantastic folklore or heroic mythology. The truth is that if I could talk I would embody the beauty of the human spirit. I would thank the father of the “first family” for my genesis. I would thank his young boys for allowing me to observe childlike wonder in their games. And I would ask my father why they had to leave so abruptly, in the middle of the night, never to return to their gathering place.

However, most importantly, I would like an opportunity to speak to the handful of wandering souls who cross my path in the wilderness each year. I’d like to ask a simple question:

“What are you searching for?”

Surely, as a living, breathing, human being, you have all of the answers. You have the gift of animate life. Look at my tattered wood and debris. Look at the isolation. Look at the desolation. Just look.

“Turn from the eternal forest, and make that gallant trek down the valley towards the breadth of sunlight”

I’d love to see a smile arise from the sunken depths of their very being. And I’d love to utilize a proper goodbye to send them off. Let this burnt wall represent the last line of defense…

That’s only if walls could talk.