Going In, Coming Out

Mondays I have a half hour between dropping off son the elder and teaching my first class. Not far from my Monday teaching assignment is a church with a labyrinth. Tucked into the L of the church, the labyrinth is open to trees and street on the other two sides.

It is gravel with small pavers set into the earth to mark the spiral path leading to the center. Shaded by the building’s shadow, the air is cool. The street is quiet. I see rather than hear the wind moving tree limbs.

The crunch of small stones under my feet is something I feel as well as hear. It is satisfying somehow. Like some kind of inner resistance breaking down, giving way.

As I walk, I imagine a small blossom springing up behind me, one in the trace of each footstep.

Once in the center, I face the four directions. My hands empty at my sides, I ask myself to truly see what there is to be seen.

Walking out, I am carrying a small bubble of space inside me.

No matter when I finish, I am always right on time.