I often find the things that are the most broken and beat up the most beautiful as well. Anything can be beautiful, you just have to look hard enough to find the beauty in it. Sometimes it’s hard. Sometimes it’s buried underneath layers and layers of history and pain. Sometimes the ache has instead brought the beauty to the surface in a way that wouldn’t be possible otherwise.
The fact that this former mining town is called Waldorf is not lost on me. I wonder what the name comes from. I know only the connotations it holds for me, not the history of the name in this place. We had a bumpy ride up through a dry creek bed and we went in the complete wrong direction, but eventually we found Waldorf. Gold flecks glimmered in the dirt piles as we ate lunchmeat sandwiches made that morning. The place felt familiar. Like an old friend. Perhaps it was the shared name with my school. Perhaps the quiet. Perhaps more. I think most of all it was the silence. The thought that no one had lived here, truly lived here, in decades.
It was beautiful.