On Benches

I walked the Lakeview Labyrinth again today. Unlike my first visit, I knew where I was going and what to expect, but that knowledge only goes so far. I have a terrible time shutting off my brain, so I’m not sure I am labyrinth-walking exactly the right way. Still, I stepped onto the path, into the tunnel of nature, and just walked.

A few teary times, I worried I’d run into another person (I didn’t) and be embarrassed by my sadness, but I decided if someone else was walking the labyrinth, they also had a reason. Maybe they, too, were searching for solace. So, I walked.

Walked, cried, thought, noticed, marveled.

I tried to give the Etch-a-Sketch that is my mind a good shake, erase whatever scribbles I’d dialed into my awareness. I needed to just walk—take it in, let it out. Just be.

Early in the walk, I spotted two wooly worms, picked one up, and studied it. It didn’t crawl onto my finger as I’d remembered. I haven’t picked up a wooly worm for several years; maybe I imagined the crawling onto my finger part. The poor little thing was terrified and immediately curled itself into a protective bristly ball. It had mad squirming skills, too; if I touched it, it scooted across my palm, still curled into a wooly ball. I apologized, gently set it back on the ground, and continued on my way, newly paranoid about stepping on wooly worms. I admire that little worm and its protective instinct; I don’t want to kill it or its pals.

Unlike the sweaty walk of two weeks ago, today’s walk was pleasantly cool—a flannel was comfortable as long as I was moving but not quite enough if I was still. And, I kept my shoes on this time. I even wore socks, a sure sign the weather has changed.

On today’s gentle breeze, milkweed seeds drifted away to do their thing. I was drifting, too, not hurrying; quite the opposite, I was determined to take my time. Slow steps, slow breaths, slow thoughts. So, I plucked a handful of milkweed seeds and their fluffy parachutes from a pod, studied them, and let them go on the wind. You know what? Even nature, moving naturally, can tangle and falter. Each of those seeds, carried through the air, took a different flight path. A few drifted up and over the tall grasses and out onto the prairie, but some snagged on native plants, stuck indefinitely. Still others pole-danced their way around a stalk and flung themselves down the path. All left my hand on the same gust of wind, but soon flew unique paths.

I walked.

On some bends in the path, I could see the bench—the bench for resting and remembering—at the center of the labyrinth, but seeing the bench and being near the end of the path are very different. This visit, I knew to expect that contrast—perception versus reality. The perception—that I’d reached the end of the path—was replaced by the reality that I would lose sight of the bench, walk farther from the bench, before rounding a final curve and stepping into the small clearing.

The path could be the past 14 months. So many times I’ve thought, “Oh! Maybe I’m doing better,” or, “I have the hang of this grieving business.” Each time, I’ve lost sight of the bench. The labyrinth only works if I keep walking. I don’t know the path to my bench, but people who’ve walked this trail ahead of me, people I’m meeting as they continue life after their bench, Moms Who Know, tell me it will happen. In time (so much time), I’ll find my clearing, my peaceful resting bench, and begin my walk back out from the center. Until then, I’ll keep walking my path and meeting the gentle and wise labyrinth travelers who’ve found their bench and now are unwinding the path.