I fell back in love and became more attached to the labyrinth than ever, right at the point of letting go.
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Unlike going for a walk, when walking the labyrinth there is no sense of trying to outpace the feelings, resolve them, shake them off or leave them behind.
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It’s not just the mental shift from gardening to guardianing (thanks to Mary Reynolds for that beautiful phrase), but a certain kind of loosening inside me.
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The labyrinth of my imagination was a dreamscape of nodding buttercups and feathery seedheads visited by chaffinch and damselfly. I imagined draping my hand through the long soft grass as I walked…
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The distinction between path and wall has become clearer, and yesterday my son suggested we walk the labyrinth with our eyes closed.
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“Do you feel all zen when you get to the middle?” my son asked, as we walked the labyrinth together this morning.
Let me clarify what it means when he and I walk the labyrinth together. Forget a meditative walk. This is a race.
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As with learning most new things, the hardest part was at the start. It takes a while to learn the language of anything new.
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