When Things Change
Exploring nostalgia, parenting, and the passage of time, this piece looks at how abandoned places and growing children reveal the beauty and inevitability of change.
Hello Everyone,
Lately, I’ve been noticing changes — in places and in people.
National Park Seminary has been on my mind. Abandoned from the 1970s through 2003 — it was once a hotel, then a girls’ boarding school, then a military hospital during WWII. When I was in high school, my friends and I used to sneak into the buildings, exploring and imagining what they once looked like. The property was haunting and beautiful: a Japanese pagoda, a Dutch windmill, an Italian villa, an English castle, and more, all left to crumble with time. There was a thrill in the forbidden, a sense that it was ours alone.
Now it’s a housing development. You can walk the grounds, but not inside the buildings. People live there again, and the property has been “saved.” It’s probably for the best — without the investment, it might have fallen into complete disrepair. Too much decay would have stripped the property of its magic, leaving only foundations. Yet I miss that abandoned stillness that made it feel like ours alone.
Sometimes I look at old photos online or walk around the property, and a pang hits me: I miss the way it was. If I linger on that thought too long, I start to feel sad. I understand that preservation was necessary, and that decay isn’t romantic when it risks total loss.
People change too. I notice it most with son Barney, who’s becoming a true two-year-old. I loved his baby stage — the cuddles, the soft giggles during peek-a-boo. I still find myself in disbelief that he’s not a baby anymore. Now he stands in his toddler tower at mealtimes, making exaggerated faces and chomping with theatrical “yom yom yom” sounds to crack me up. He walks, stacks blocks, pushes toy cars, imitates sounds, and constantly asks, “What is this?” His curiosity, confidence, and sense of humor are blossoming. I still miss the baby stage, but I never expected to love this one even more.
When I return to places or people — whether after time apart or even while I’ve been with them all along — I notice what’s different. Some things improve, some do not; other qualities I loved disappear.
There’s often a quiet mourning for what used to be — the idealized version I carry in memory — and sometimes gratitude for what has evolved.
Often, I wish the qualities I love or have loved could exist all at once — even though they can’t, and life doesn’t work that way. There are always tradeoffs, like with National Park Seminary. And sometimes, in what remains or emerges, there’s even more to appreciate than I imagined possible.
With love,
Danielle
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