THIS IS THE CONCLUSION of yesterday's post—to read it from the beginning, click here...
One thing that always strikes me about a labyrinth is that it's a place to get lost in.
Obviously, I didn't get lost in the normal sense of the word—I was never more than five paces from the edge.
All I had to do was break my self-imposed rule, step across the paths and stones.
Does that mean there is a wrong way to walk a labyrinth?
I don't mean "lost" in the sense of a maze of the kind that classical heroes had to master—the type with many different paths and dead-ends.
These meditative labyrinths usually have only the one path.
I wasn't truly lost.
But I was lost in another sense.
In any truly well designed labyrinth, you lose your sense of where you are on the journey.
The path winds in such a convoluted way that you have no idea whether you are halfway to the center, or a quarter of the way, or almost there.
Within the first few moments there was only a single row of stones between me and the center, but a few moments and several turns later there was only a single row between me and the edge.
A well designed labyrinth destroys your sense of progress that way, and leaves you wondering why you thought you needed one.
The journey is the thing, and you are on it.
At first, I focused on each step, on the path ahead, on my breathing.
But then I became aware of the surrounding trees, the sound of the nearby stream, the scent of the forest, the fog on the hills.
There is no "right" way to walk a labyrinth.
The solitude lent a specific air to the journey, which I became more aware of with the arrival of a young couple.
They were somewhere between their late thirties and early fifties—young from my point of view.
They paused at the entrance to the labyrinth, and for a moment I thought they might not enter.
Then she took the lead, and they did—transforming the experience.
Now there were three of us: me, with my steady contemplative pace; her, rushing forward with quick steps and spinning with a flourish at each hairpin turn; and him, following her and matching her speed but with more steadiness, less flair.
They seemed to be taking it much less seriously than I.
Was there a wrong way to walk a labyrinth, after all?
I reached the center—a circular space, with a single larger stone in the middle—and paused to consider whether to circle to the left or the right: the first choice the labyrinth had provided.
I chose counter-clockwise, and began my exit.
With three of us in it, the labyrinth became in part a social occasion.
We would pass within inches of each other, though possibly miles apart in terms of the complete journey, just the row of stones separating our paths.
Sometimes our eyes met, and we gave the slightest nod to acknowledge that we were sharing this journey.
There are two kinds of labyrinths: those in which a single path leads to the center and then on and back to the edge, and those in which the single path leads only to the center, and must be retraced in order to exit.
This was the latter kind.
So, eventually, we met on the path: first she and I, then he and I, having to make room for each other to pass, forcing us to acknowledge each other even more intimately.
They, too, reached the center.
She waited for him there, and they embraced.
As I continued to unwind my way on the return journey, I caught a glimpse of them at one turn after another.
Once she was picking a leaf off the ground, and placing it on top of the central stone.
Once they were holding each other, watching their shadows sheltering the leaf.
The last time they were kissing.
The sign was right—there is no wrong way to walk a labyrinth.
And I was happy that they were only at the center, that they had the rest of the labyrinth to travel together.
Like the next forty years.
I was surprised to find myself at the entrance again—back where I had begun.
Which simply meant I was ready to continue my journey.
