While on a recent hike, a memory emerged of an experience I had walking a labyrinth. I think that the trail that I was hiking shook this memory from me because it was so very twisty, and I had no clear idea of where I was going. I was just following the path wherever it led me.
I’m finding it very hard to put into succinct words what a labyrinth is, and how it can be transformative as a spiritual practice. So I’ll direct you to Veriditas.
Veriditas is an organization that facilitates personal and community transformation through use of the labyrinth. From their website: “The labyrinth is a walking meditation, a path of prayer and an archetypal blueprint where psyche meets Spirit. It has only one path that leads from the outer edge in a circuitous way to the center. There are no tricks to it and no dead ends. Unlike a maze where you lose your way, the labyrinth is a spiritual tool that can help you find your way.” For more on the labyrinth, click here.
About two months prior to Harvey’s official diagnosis of younger-onset Alzheimer’s, I participated in a labyrinth event. I had prior experience with several in the past, and I was excited to see what this labyrinth walk had to teach me. However, my excitement turned to dread when the facilitator asked us to carry this question into the labyrinth: “What in you needs healing?”
All the fear, anger, and sadness I was bottling inside, because I knew what his diagnosis was going to be, washed over me.
As I walked the labyrinth, to quiet my mind from the swirling thoughts and emotions, I began to repeat to myself, “I am walking this path, and I don’t know where it leads. I will walk in trust.”
But almost immediately, I realized that the labyrinth’s path was a metaphor for my life’s path, and my mantra turned into, “I don’t WANT to be on this path! I want off this path! I want to leave!” I could have stepped out of the labyrinth and run away, but I stayed, stopped in my tracks, and sobbed. It WAS my path. I was going to have to walk it.
One of the profound aspects of walking a labyrinth is walking it in community. Because it is laid out on the floor, you can see the entire pathway as a whole, and all the participants walking in the different quadrants of it. From the outside, it looks like a beautiful dance. From the inside, you are a part of the dance of the whole of community. And a community was there that day to support me, even if they knew nothing of my inner turmoil.
After a few more episodes of tears, I was able to gather my spirit and be reminded that although Harvey and I were on our own unique paths, our friends would walk alongside us, just as they were walking alongside me on the labyrinth. We wouldn’t be alone on this journey.
Once in the center, I paused, and took several deep breaths, trying to connect with my center—my authentic self, the god-spark within, the inner divine. Then I carried her out into the world.
And after I completed my walk into and out of the labyrinth, I watched as others completed their individual journeys. I beheld the whole of the labyrinth as a symbol for a single life. We each walk our own path, but the whole of our journeys is what makes us who we are. And the whole is beautiful in its complexity and symmetry and balance.
2 Responses
What a beautiful memory and metaphor. I experienced dementia with my mother and father, not my husband, a very different walk, but I can completely understand the desire to run away. I cried as I read your post, because I have a friend who is just beginning her walk with her father—another portion of her journey.
I’m still in my healing process, and your blog posts are so very helpful.
Laurie, thank you for the kind words! I am sorry that your friend has to walk this path. At times, I felt like this path defined me, but as you point out, it’s just a portion of our life’s journey.