“As
a single footstep will not make a path on the earth, so a single thought will
not make a pathway in the mind. To make a deep physical path, we walk again and
again. To make a deep mental path, we must think over and over the kind of
thoughts we wish to dominate our lives.”
― Henry David Thoreau
=======================================================
Is
this labyrinth broken? By Cathy M (July-August 2012)
When a friend my own age
died unexpectedly and, of course, unfairly, I took stock of my life and
committed to finally writing that novel. Although I’d majored in English, made
my living as a corporate writer, and read a fair amount, I had no idea how to write
fiction, let alone a whole novel. Yet, I decided that between parenting two
toddlers, working part-time and running a household, I could squeeze in enough
writing time to finish by my fortieth birthday, in four years.
Our plans are like that.
Linear. I’ll start here, work hard and finish at the goal. We plan and expect to
find the path is a direct one. But life, God, fate, the universe, higher power,
Spirit—whatever you choose to believe in—reminds us, or me at least, that it’s
about the journey. And it’s almost never linear.
Of course I’ve seen the
posters: “Life is a journey, not a destination,” and all the rest. And at some
level, I knew that. Only I didn’t live that way. My to-do list said I was to
finish my novel by my fortieth birthday. I’d committed. And therefore, I would
do whatever it took to accomplish that goal. If I didn’t, then I would have failed.
And, I was cruising along,
cranking out pages every week. Reading books about writing books and educating
myself on the publishing industry. I subscribed to a couple of writing
magazines and even joined a weekly writer’s group. And then, two years in, my
father died. Unexpectedly. Unfairly.
I didn’t write for a year.
I blew my self-imposed
deadline. And yes, I berated myself. Over and over again. Until one sweltering
July morning when a friend invited me to walk a labyrinth, something I’d never
done but was open to trying, especially when I learned it only takes about 30
minutes and then I could get on with my to-do list.
So I went. It was relatively
easy. Follow the path, walk slowly, concentrate on your steps and your
breathing and, if you’re so inclined, meditate.
If you’ve seen a labyrinth
you know the path is anything but linear. And while it wasn’t obvious that the
stone walkway would eventually lead me to the center, the goal, I trusted it would.
I trusted until I’d been
walking for about 15 minutes and noticed that the path had taken me to an outer
ring almost as far from the center as when I started. “Hey, wait a second,” I
thought. “I should be closer to the center by now. Did I take a wrong turn? Is
this labyrinth broken? Am I ever going to get there?”
I inhaled deeply and,
resigned, continued walking, slowly, wondering how this path, with all its
bends and turns, would ever take me to the center. As my friend had suggested,
I became aware of my thoughts, acknowledged them and then let them go as best I
could. And, as he had suggested, I focused on the sun warming my shoulders and
face. I became aware of the giant oak trees nearby, how their leaves wiggled in
the subtle breeze. I listened to the sound my steps made on the stones. And, I
noticed my breath.
Then, to my astonishment, I saw
how the path ended in the center. Just a
few minutes ago, I was at the edge of the labyrinth and now, here, it was
clear. I was steps away from the goal. My excitement escaped as a giggle.
Such a simple thing, to
follow a path to a goal. But not so simple when the path is not linear, as we
expect and plan. That requires trust. Sometimes blind trust. As I wound my way
back out through the labyrinth, this time knowing
it would lead me back to the start, I was aware of times in my life when I’ve
felt so far from my goal. Far from clarity. From peace. From myself.
I thought about my novel. My dad. And the
missed deadline.
My grief took me away from
writing for a long time. I wasn’t sure I’d ever return to it, let alone finish
the book. But eventually, I did. As I put one foot in front of the other,
making my way out of the labyrinth, I realized that my father’s death put me
more in touch with my own raw emotions, which, later, made it easier to imagine
those of my characters. As a result, the story came faster once I returned to
it, and the characters were deeper because my experience informed my work.
In the weeks since walking
the labyrinth, I try to remind myself that I am exactly where I am supposed to
be in my journey, even if that seems far from the goal. I remember the sun, the
trees, the sound of my feet and my breath, and that if I become aware, I’ll
find joy, love and happiness right where I am. Those experiences are accessible
to me even when I’m not standing in the center.
I remember, too, that the
labyrinth isn’t broken. As long as I continue to put one foot in front of the
other and trust, I’ll look up soon and see that, even with all its bends, this
path is leading me to the center.
