On A Labyrinth

I walked the labyrinth at Lakeview Nature Center today. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but my soul needed settling, my mind, centering. So, I walked.

I was completely alone and grateful for the solitude. A sideways look or forced conversation would’ve been enough to reduce me to tears. Just one of those weekends.

At the beginning, I brushed the prairie grass aside. Habit, I guess. That’s what I do when something smacks me in my face–I brush it aside. Soon enough, though, I stopped brushing it aside. I just let it hit me. I walked, and what hit me, hit me. I gave myself over to the experience.

After walking a few minutes, my feet hurt. Nothing wrong with the path; my favorite sneakers in the world are finally, fatally worn out. So, what the hell. I took them off and kept walking. My feet stopped hurting.

I just walked. There were no decisions to make, no forks in the road. My mind was free to wander its own path.

Hands clasped at the small of my back, shoes dangling from my fingers, I walked.

Head down, head up, I walked. The mown path was my guide, the grasses and birds my companions. Step after step, the path bore my burdens, my weight, my sorrow without complaint or comment. The ground underfoot was soft and cool, easy on my soles. Only once, briefly, did rougher grass push back at my feet, nature’s commentary on my shoeless trek.

The prairie grasses, too tall and heavy to stay completely upright, leaned into the path. Some grass scratched at my bare legs, swiped at my arms, my neck, my face, making me aware that my path wasn’t completely clear. Mown, yes, but wind and heat and gravity sent the grasses into the open space of the path. Other, gentler, grass caressed my arms, left its calling card on the dampness of my face, the sweat of my arms. Those touches–both feathery and serrated–were welcome parts of the walk. Reminders of life.

Soon, perhaps too soon, I reached the center of the labyrinth, a small clearing with a memorial bench and palpable peace. The labyrinth exists because another family lost their son to suicide, and the center is a sacred space. I didn’t want to reverse course and wend my way out; I wanted to linger. I sat on the bench, remembering a blog post about its origin. I curled up on Adam’s bench and cried for the lost boys, for Cooper and Adam and so many more.

Eventually, I had to make my way out of the labyrinth and back to reality. Would this time in a tunnel of grasses and solitude have helped, or would I be as tender, as raw, as I’ve been all weekend?

I walked. I didn’t consider putting on my shoes or pushing the swooping grasses out of my way; I just walked. Slowly and alone-but-not-lonely, I walked. Some of the weight I’d dragged into the labyrinth fell to the side of the path, my burden temporarily lightened. I stopped to examine milkweed and insects, grasses and dried thistle. I walked at my own pace and, as on my way in, the path did the work.

The labyrinth offered a reprieve my day-to-day life cannot. For my time spent walking, I could not take a wrong turn, I need not make any decisions. I had only to walk and think, pray and meditate. For once, I wasn’t questioning, wondering, or doubting; only walking, wandering, and decompressing. So often these days, I feel lost, but for a while this afternoon, I wasn’t lost–couldn’t be lost. There was only one path.

I walked.