Gratitude Monday: Unasked and unlooked for

On my Sunday morning exercise circuits, I like to add in walking the labyrinth at what I refer to as the Triune Church(es) of the Valley They Call Silicon.

  

Dunno whether the rock-lined Cretan-style labyrinth was an ecumenical project, or whether the Methodists, the Lutherans or the, uh, Very Gooders took point, but I’m glad it’s there.

(It’s kind of interesting to me that they didn’t follow the Chartres style, but this one is a lot easier to install, I’m guessing. Also, perhaps there was disagreement amongst the three congregations as to whether cruciform represented something too close to Papacy and this was determined to be non-denominational and therefore acceptable to all.)

Breaking my brisk pace to follow the mini-pilgrim path is both a physical and metaphorical pulling away for me. I turn off my pod and just walk the path in brain-neutral, instead of my usual mental speed-hopping. Yesterday I was focusing on a part of a prayer I’ve been practicing for a few days, on graces that have come “unasked and unlooked for” in my life.

There are a lot of those, of course, but a lot of the time I’m just not paying attention. So I was focusing on being open to them: to seeing them and hearing them when they appear, even unasked or unlooked for.

Well, as I was approaching one of the turns, I heard the unmistakable honking of Canada geese, and at the turn I looked up to watch a V-formation of maybe 15 of them flying fairly low overhead in front of me. As they passed from left to right, I heard a couple of honks off to the left, behind a tree. “Poky little gosling,” I thought (interrupting my meditative focus, to be sure). And then there appeared a much smaller formation—perhaps half as many—just flapping and honking, like they were doing their very-goose-best to catch up.

It was so quiet in the pre-0700 Sunday air, and they were so low, that I realized I could hear their wings beating. I’ve never heard that before, that whap-whap-whap-whap sound, multiplied by seven or eight sets of wings.

What a joyful thing—completely unexpected, and in the normal course of life around here, mostly impossible. The quiet around me, the quiet in myself, the initial squadron alerting me to their presence and the low formation of the hurry-uppers all came together to give me those beautiful moments, before everything returned to “normal”.

Now, I do not ordinarily find Canada geese charming. They’re an invasive species, taking over whatever environment they settle into, and you do not ever want them congregating anywhere you need to be walking or playing. (The phrase “crap through a goose” doesn’t even begin to approach the enormity of their output.)

But yesterday I was extremely grateful that they appeared so serendipitously, unasked and unlooked for, preparing me for the week ahead.

Pilgrim in the valley

Last week I got an email with some lousy health news from a friend. I happened to be in a café in Cupertino, so after I read the email I packed up my kit and drove to Saint Jude’s Episcopal Church a few blocks away. 

They have an outdoor labyrinth—not a very big one, they certainly could have done more with the space—but it’s the closest one to me, and it’s serviceable.

Labyrinths help me when I have things to sort out. Not for nothing are they referred to as a walking meditation. And I have things to sort out.

Yesterday I walked it again and was struck (again) by what an amazing metaphor for life labyrinths are. The path folds back on itself so many times—you move forward, then you turn and seem to head back where you came from. But it’s actually never quite the same.

I also like that every time you reach one of the turns, if you pause and look straight ahead, the view you get is different from every other turn. If you’re looking ahead, the view actually changes with every step. But I pay attention at the pauses. Focus, even.

(Yeah? Well, you try it with a brain like mine.)

I’m not always successful at freeing myself from things, but I always leave the labyrinth feeling like my breathing has improved.

Third Saturday

This being the third Saturday of the month, I walked the labyrinth at Lake Washington United Methodist Church.

I really needed the anchoring because this turned out to be a hellish week. I’ve been feeling like a fish out of water in my department, and Friday there was a meeting that had me looking for the melted watches dripping over the tree branches.

So I was glad that this is the weekend for the walk.

It was a struggle for me to shed all the nonsense of the week, to clear my mind enough so that I could concentrate on the actual path before me. But that’s the whole point, isn’t it? I managed it, although I had to shake it off because it crept up on me part-way through.

In the end, I felt like I left the labyrinth in a better state than I’d entered it; but I still have miles to go.

One of the Labyrinth Keepers gave me some leads to outdoor labyrinths in the area. None of them is easily accessible—they’re either across water or require that you call ahead. But they’re something I can hold on to.

Walking meditation

Labyrinths have come to me a couple of times when I most needed their help. A couple of years ago I’d been going through one of those grotesque periods that convince you Kafka wrote the script for your life, and Dalí is designing the set. I was participating in Reston’s annual Habitat for Humanity walk that ended at St. Anne’s Church, which, it turned out, had just dedicated its labyrinth the day before.

The only thing I really knew about labyrinths was the Theseus myth and some of the medieval history. I’m not actually a candidate for the contemplative life—the term butterfly brain was coined with me in mind. But I was drawn to the labyrinth and took my first walk.

It was an extremely powerful experience. My body temperature shot up, I started shaking, and tears kept spilling out of my eyes. And I left the sanctuary feeling, well, different.

The labyrinth experience is a walking meditation. Although the form has been around for millennia, they became a part of Christian ritual during the middle ages, when pilgrimages were all the rage. For those who couldn’t afford the time or expense of a trip to Jerusalem, Rome or Santiago de Compostela, the labyrinth built in to the local cathedral floor allowed you to make a symbolic pilgrimage.

To my surprise, I found that most of the time in a labyrinth, I was indeed able to focus more fully on things that were important—without whirling round and round in worry. It’s as close to meditation as I’ll probably ever get.

The thing about the labyrinth is that, as convoluted as it seems, there’s one path to the centre, and one path out. It’s not a maze, which is created to confuse; it’s created to focus.

I decided that, as messed-up as my life was, I could make the labyrinth my contribution to the community, and became a Labyrinth Keeper. LKs set up and take down the labyrinth (a canvas one that was constructed to fit in the altar area). One always stays on duty to help walkers if they find the experience overwhelming.

Being a LK steadied me, gave me something to focus on and provided access to the labyrinth monthly.

As part of my work, I researched other labyrinths and came to know the outdoor one at the Church of the Holy Comforter in Vienna. Starting about a year ago, I walked that labyrinth about once a week—heat or cold, it kept me going. Some walks I seemed to miss the mark; others filled me with new strength.

I’ve made an effort to find a labyrinth to walk in cities I visit. Through March I’d walked at the Association for Research & Enlightenment, Virginia Beach; Grace Cathedral, San Francisco; and St. Margaret, Palm Desert.

When I came to Seattle for my interview last June I found two outdoor labyrinths. I walked the one at Unity of Bellevue the evening before my marathon interview, and the one at St. Paul’s Seattle the morning after—when I’d got the offer. Unity’s is made of stones, which had been kicked around, so you couldn’t follow the pattern, and St. Paul’s is very, very small.

Still—they were something, although not a patch on Holy Comforter’s.

A few months ago I went in search of labyrinths that didn’t require I cross water or go to Tacoma to reach. It wasn’t a rewarding Saturday. Two were no longer around, and the only one I did find turned out to be in a seriously dodgy part of town, dedicated to recovery (which I’m sure is a hot topic in that neighborhood).

You can’t really concentrate on a walking meditation when you’re keeping your eye out for muggers or car thieves.

There are supposed to be outdoor labyrinths on Bainbridge or Whidbey Islands; but that’s kind of a schlep. And, as the names denote, you have to take a ferry to reach them.

Suffering from lack of access to a labyrinth, when I saw the ad in last week’s local Redmond throw-away paper (not the Bellevue one I usually read) for a New Year’s Eve walk at the Lake Washington United Methodist Church in nearby Kirkland, I decided I had to go.

It’s the best I’ve found so far. Or perhaps it’s just the right one for this point in my life. The setting, in the church hall, has been completely thought out. There are chairs with paper and writing implements for you to write or draw your response to your walk. They set up paper and pens for you to write out an intention for the New Year and carry it to the center of the labyrinth to leave in a bowl.

It’s exactly what I needed to close out 2008.

If you’ve not walked a labyrinth, it would be worthwhile to see if there’s one available near you. If not an outdoor one with open access, many churches have monthly walks for their indoor ones, like St. Anne and Lake Washington United Methodist. They’re open to all—no need to be a believer; just a sojourner.