Caution: Emulation of Annie Dillard

Preface: 

Annie Dillard, a well-known American poet and essayist, uses a very distinct style of writing as seen in her essay "Seeing." Her sentences have a poetical and lyrical feel to them as they run and abruptly stop with a period or semi-colon. Her use of descriptions further lends to this poetic rhythm. Her content also reveals herself as a constantly curious person, always undertaking her own experiments. Also her love of nature and the senses reminds me of the Romantics and Transcendentalism. Throughout, her sentences are packed with senses and knowledge that invokes awe and admiration.

In this following essay, I hope to imitate a little of this brilliance in her writing style and invocation of Romantic ideals.

History: The Forgotten Ghost

When I was ten years old, visiting my sister at Ohio University, I used to fear the "haunted" and abandoned buildings of the Ridges or the infamous Athens Insane Asylum. It was a silly suspicion; still I had my doubts that ghosts roamed the hills and the foreboding towers in the ruin. For some reason this only increased over my visits there so that the time my parents decided to drive up the hill toward the site, I was begging to leave. We had entered the brick path and were heading toward the white portico and yellow stone stairs. My sister had suggested we visit the "museum." A place to see the corroded chains cast aside from the crazy patients. We reached the steps looking into the majestic yet awe-inspiring hallway; where victims entered and never left. My voice became shrill as I pleaded to not leave the car. My parents questioned, glanced at each other, assented and then drove the car away. Relief flooded my body; fear subsided. Yet the next time we would visit my sister that same fear would creep up again anytime she mentioned visiting the old "North Green."

~

It is a decade since I first visited the Ridges with fear, and now I journey there almost weekly with sense of wonder. Its lush green trees and uninhabited white gravel paths lend for solitude and peace. I pass the occasional doe that dances through the fields or spot the bird that flies freely over its towers. As Radar Hill meets the grey over-clouded sky, I can see miles of green and brown hills that constitute the country and farmland. To the South, glimpses of the red buildings can be spotted along with smoke stacks and perhaps, a white bell tower from campus. There, I feel alone yet one. I am the grass that pricks my hands; I am the brick in the crumbling path; I am the insane patient, gone. 

Now, I realize that ghosts do not haunt this place. Only ignorance caused this fear of mine. Rather, these abandoned buildings are haunted by something else entirely. History. History of the nurses; the doctors' daily lives searching for a cure. The griefs of the family giving up their loved ones; the sorrow, isolation, fear and yet maybe sense of comfort of the patients experienced, treading over the frequented paths. All of this defines the Ridges. It speaks through the silence, the wind screeching, and the crows cawing. It shows itself in the stillness of the buildings; the broken glass and boarded-up walls of the TB ward. All of it mirrors such mourning and grief; it pleads for pity and sorrow of the patients. It asks for forgiveness.

If ignorance causes infelicity, knowledge only asks for affliction. I now see the Ridges clearly; I understand what they served as. I learn from its history and attempt to move forward. Pity and yet wonder grip my soul as I travel down the rocky path. Its dirt slides beneath my boots, and branches brush against my arm. I hit the worn bricks and look back. The sun sets against the white yet dark towers, yielding a yellow and pink glow in the sky. Acceptance toward an end in purpose yet hope for a new beginning to serve as a reminder of this community's history.