The sound of freedom

There’s a lot of music associated with Independence Day—Sousa marches (I’m rather partial to “The Washington Post”), various country anthems (yeah—not going there), Woody Guthrie’s “This Land Is Your Land”… And I don’t think any Fourth of July concert can end with anything but “God Bless America”.

Well—that or the 1812 Overture; which technically was written by a Russian and is about a war in which the U.S. did not fight. But you get to fire cannons and shoot off fireworks at the finale, which pretty much makes it ideal for closing out an American patriotic event.

But here’s one song that really encapsulates for me the whole notion of the new, independent nation and its subsequent history:

Not the Gospel truth, I hope

A friend gave me a book of devotional readings, and I’ve got one that I need some help with. It’s to do with the story of Martha and Mary, as told in Luke 10:38-42. If you’re unfamiliar with it, here’s the deal:

Jesus and his cohort come into a village where a woman named Martha invites him into the house she apparently shares with her sister Mary. Mary sits down with the men to listen (not to speak, of course), while Martha is in a whirlwind of hospitality-related bustling—hanging up their coats, stirring up the fire, getting a meal ready, maybe giving the downstairs loo a quick wipe, and other suchlike. But Mary just sticks with the guys.

Finally, Martha drops a word in the Lord’s shell-like generally encompassing, “Hey—I’m doing all the work, here, while my sister just sits there like a slug. Why don’t you tell her to get up and help?”

And Jesus replies (as per NKJV): “Martha, Martha—you are worried and troubled about many things. But one thing is needed, and Mary has chosen that good part, which will not be taken away from her.”

Well, I have to say that I’ve always been a little troubled by this.

Yes, fine—it’s swell that Mary’s apparently felt called to Jesus, and is soaking up what he’s got to say (even if she’s apparently not allowed to contribute). I get that.

But if both the women just pitched up in the living room and hung on every word, everyone would be sat there in a cold room, with rumbling tummies and mice scampering across their feet. Because you know it would never occur to one man among them to get up and throw a log on the fire, much less slice up some bread for the hummus.

No—it would take a miracle on the lines of the wine at Cana (and even then, there were servers involved) to make that sort of thing happen.

So I’m really puzzling about this. There’s no one likes a good intellectual discussion more than I, but to basically dis the person who’s making the necessities of life work seems not only counterproductive, but potentially life threatening.

If what he in fact was telling Martha (and us) was, “Hey, we need both the contemplative and the active principles in our life,” then I get that. But what he (reportedly) says isn’t “horses for courses, honey”, it’s, “Your sister chose better than you did, so put a sock in it.” And that gets right up my nose.

So what’s going on here? What am I missing? Because as it stands, I’m not finding it either enlightening or encouraging.

Champs Elysées

On my last day in Paris I headed over toward the Arc de Triomphe—hadn’t been there since my first visit 30 years ago, when I’d been overwhelmed by what I termed the “belligerent patriotism” expressed all over that monument.

I got off the Métro at the Champs Elysées/Clemenceau station and ascended to…a marché de Noël.

That put paid to the idea of me walking all the way down to the Arc. I am a sucker for Christmas Markets. I’ve taken two separate trips to Germany just to see the Christkindlmärkte: Nürnberg, Köln, Augsburg, Dresden, München. It’s wonderful, being in the crisp cold air, sipping a nice hot Glühwein, occasionally indulging in a bratwurst and just walking up and down the rows of merchant huts.

These days much of the merchandise comes from China, and the EU has probably cracked down on hygiene standards for the food products sold so flavor has disappeared. But those markets are still wondrous.

They were setting up a marché in Bordeaux, but it didn’t open until the day I had to leave, so I missed out on it. And I hadn’t even considered Paris, much less le plus grand boulevard de la ville.

Well, I had to wander up one side, down the other and then back up again. I must have looked like Gomer Pyle, oohing and ahing over all the goods on offer. There’s a lot of the same stuff scattered about, but I did find things suitable for Christmas and Chanukah gifts. And of course I had a cup of Glühwein.

(In Germany they serve it in an actual cup; they charge you a deposit and then you get it back when you return it to one of the many Glühwein stands in a market. Here it was in a paper cup.)

In addition to the vendors, there were carrousels and other little rides for children. Didn’t have the cozy feel or a market crowded into one of the town squares, but it was still a find.

Never made it to the Arc de Triomphe; but it’ll be waiting for me the next time I go there.

London & London

Greetings from London. Quite the change from 30 years ago—it’s amazing what an American Express card can do for a girl.

And regular showers.

It was a bit of a comedy getting out of Paris—for some reason my hotel reception gave me a wake-up call at 0430.

They got the wrong room.

Well, couldn’t get to sleep after that, so at 0630 I just got up and got ready to get to the airport. At 0700 it took only about 25 minutes, which is pretty fast for central Paris to Charles de Gaulle.

I have to say that the flight, while far superior to the boat train I took in 1979, was something of a damp squib. I’d been thinking of the trips I used to take on BA on the LHR-CDG run. In this respect the Brits had it all over Air France.

Of course, that could have changed, too—last time I took BA was in 2001.

Once here it was a bit of a struggle—although I had a first class ticket for the Heathrow Express, the first class coaches were locked and I couldn’t get in to them. Interesting marketing ploy.

Then, the cabbie didn’t appear interested in helping me get my three bags into the cab—what’s up with that?

I’m staying at the Park Lane Hilton—a far cry indeed from 30 years ago when I shared a room at a cheap flop (WC down the hall) with an American woman returning from Greece whom I met on the ferry. She and I took a ride on a double-decker bus as our entertainment that evening, and were both aghast at the fact that it cost 50p (about $1 then).

(I’m not actually paying Park Lane prices for this—I used some of my Amex points that I couldn’t use for the air fare for this. Not that I have to apologize, but it’s just such a contrast to that very first stay.)

Back then I was waiting for my bike to catch up with me, checking constantly at the Victoria Station baggage office. I was very worried about how long my money would hold out (no credit cards, remember). When it finally came in (minus a few tools out of the panniers), I went to a removals company to get a carton for it, and then to Woolworth’s to get a wrench (one of the tools that had disappeared) and went to work right there to get the bike into the carton.

Then out to Gatwick, where I spent the night right there, waiting for the next day’s Laker flight to LA. (Lying across some seats at the airport is cheaper than even the cheapest student share; probably not markedly more uncomfortable, either.) My splurge was a paperback copy of The Long Goodbye, which turned out to be my favorite Raymond Chandler book.

One final discovery on that trip.

I’m off now, to have a stomp through some of the places I liked when I lived here, and then dinner tonight with a friend. Another good way to end a trip.

(Posted at 0957 on Tuesday 2 December, London W1.)

Pilgrims' pass

Wednesday I left Bordeaux and headed out for Roncevalles (French: Roncevaux), the port to Spain for pilgrims coming from various places in France.

It was a long drive—I of course made it in a few hours. Thirty years ago it took five days. I knew both times I was headed into le Pays Basque—the town names started getting outlandish. These days the signs are in both French/Spanish and Euskara.

I stopped off for a bite at Saint Jean Pied-de-Port. In ’79 I was again caught out without a place to stay. I was directed to a house where I was told they took in guests. As it turns out, I’m not sure that was actually the case, but they took me in, and I had an evening of conversation and a magnificent bed to sleep in. Best of the entire trip.

Saint Jean Pied-de-Port

Just beyond there, I recall stopping in a bar/resto for café au lait (I swear I lived for that stuff on that trip). There was a Pentecostalist there and we talked about faith, society and Christ. My French was pretty comprehensive back then. He was interested in the pilgrimage and gave me a pocket version of St. John’s gospel. I have it with me now.

And it’s odd, as le Pays Basque is a tough country—not in a barren sort of way, like Estremadura, but in the sense that the living you pull from the land is hard-won. Fields are farmed or grazed almost on the vertical. And you’d think the people would have been less open to taking in raggedy strangers.

(Actually, I remember telling la patronne that I’d named my bike l’Escargot Rouge, because it goes slow and carries my home on its back. And in the morning, when I was getting ready to leave, she remarked, “Il faut préparer l’escargot”—time to prepare (cook) the snail.)

It’s a lovely town; and again you know you’re in Basque country because the accents are more explosive.

(Back in ’79 I stayed a couple of nights in rooms above bars as I wended my way through Navarra. I was sure there were brawls going on from the sounds of the voices and that in the morning I’d have to wade my way through blood and debris on my way out. But no such thing. Evidently they’d been discussing the weather or something; that’s just the way the language sounds.)

I was already in the higher foothills, because my ears had popped a couple of times; but the real climb began after leaving St Jean P-d-P. Le pauvre Lapin Gris was having a bit of a strain, it being diesel and all.

Jill told me the speed limit was 90 km, but that’s got to be a pipe dream. Unless you’re driving a Ferrari and you can cut those curves really tightly, there’s no way you’re going to hit 90. If I went 70 it was only for about 30-40 meters at a stretch. Most of the time I was in 3rd or 4th gear; sometimes 1st and 2nd.

Those switchbacks were amazing. I mean, beyond hairpin. As I was climbing, all I could think was, I did this on a BIKE? It was 30 years ago, and all—but I did this on a BIKE? I know I finally got off the thing and pushed, but I still don’t know how I did it.

That apparently is sheep country. I saw a few just on the other side of the guard rail at one point and was musing about whether they ever got out on the road, when I turned a corner and there was a flock coming right down for me. They stopped, as though figuring out what to do about this situation. Then they trotted forward and passed me on the left, while I stayed put. Their keeper and his dog followed along.

Basque sheep

(This being Spain, he didn’t acknowledge me at all.)

You climb and climb and suddenly you emerge at Roncevalles I have to say that I found it as inhospitable as 30 years ago—there are a couple of restaurants, church of Saint James and the old abbey, which is now turned over for lodging pilgrims. It was chained off.

The patronne who ran the little place where I’d conversed with the Pentecostalist had told me that I could get a list of places to stay in Spain for pilgrims at this abbey. When I appeared there the man I spoke with denied all knowledge of such places and sent me on my way.

(Pilgrimages weren’t the big business then that they are now, but still.)

I did, as instructed by my friend, pause to listen for Roland's horn, and to check my baggage train. (On both trips, actually.)

Battle of Roncevaux, at Roncevalles

At pretty much every stage of my journey back then, I’d tell myself, well—you got through this okay, but the hard part starts now. And every time I managed to get through it; and then told myself that the really hard part starts now.

I will say this: Spain was definitely a hard part. For one thing, the terrain was all up and down and I was riding against the prevailing winds; at times I thought I was pedaling as fast as I could just to avoid going backwards. (BTW: a haircut with bangs is not a good choice if you’re traveling by bicycle; they stand straight up most of the time. You're welcome.)

For another, this was just a few years after Franco’s death; no one was amused by anything; the hard times were definitely not passed and gone. And there were no youth hostels (I think maybe youth weren’t meant to waste their time in traveling; they were supposed to get out there and work.) and it was November, which isn’t the gayest month of the year in the Northern Hemisphere.

Moreover there was a lot of honking at me. I’m not talking what I encountered in France—a little beep to let you know someone was coming up around you. These guys (including truckers and tractor drivers) would wait until they were just a couple of meters away and then lay on the horn. Apparently the Spaniards were amused by such things.

I was traveling in Navarra, Basque territory (although thankfully going down slope) and then Estremadura. That is one grim place. The conquistadors mostly came from Estremadura, And it occurred to me as I passed through that they must have felt right at home in northern Mexico and southwest US. I saw farmers ploughing their fields with oxen—never saw that in France.

Poco a poco se va lejos

As you came into a town there’d be a sign indicating the name and some point of interest, such as twelfth century church. But when you got into the town, the church wouldn’t be marked and when you finally found it, it would be locked up tight. Even the cathedral at Logroño was closed. I didn’t get it—Spain’s about the most Catholic country around; how could their churches not be open?

(They probably are now—pilgrimage is a money spinner.)

I did run into some kind people who were interested in my trip and wished me well. And there were some spectacular star shows at night.

However, my journal is full of daily (or near-daily) notations, “this is a real low point.” I was tired, dirty, alone, struggling to understand the customs (and, while I did speak Spanish, it’s New World Spanish, so the locals thought I talked funny and my mama dressed me badly).

In one village an old woman gathering mushrooms stopped me to ask what I was all about. She was quite interested in the trip. And she was illiterate—she could not read my map to give me directions.

The weather kept getting colder. I was actually wearing my parka and gloves, and wasn’t working up a sweat. When it got to the point—just before León—that I was wearing two pairs of socks and my toes were still getting numb, I thought I should work out something else.

It felt like cheating, but I bought a train ticket from León to Santiago. However, having the bike turned it into a whole big meal. I could take the 1400 train, but l’Escargot Rouge would have to go on a different train. I didn’t understand why that should be and the guy at the baggage place just kept saying the same things, only louder. I was so frustrated I started to cry.

That got everyone’s attention. It seemed that there was an 0200 train to Santiago; I could take it and l’Escargot Rouge could go with me. There would be a change, but that was better than wondering where my transportation was.

I walked around the town for part of that time. Guy at the bank where I changed some money was quite impressed that I’d come that far on the bike, and was sympathetic that I’d had to change my plans. A woman in the station waiting room assured me that Northern Spain isn’t the country at its best. I should go somewhere like Sevilla, where people are “más alegre”.

As it happens that train trip was ghastly. The 0211 train didn’t arrive until after 0300; and then I missed my connection for Santiago. They sent me on via bus, but the bike didn’t go with me. In all, it was more than 11 hours and I arrived without my wheels.

When I got to the cathedral I was crying again—really, a whole range of emotions. I actually put my arms around the statue of Santiago and held on to his metal robes for a few minutes, tears just streaming down.

It was so strange to think that I was finally there.

I spent some time in the cathedral over a couple of days, both contemplating and watching the other pilgrims.

Well, there was another massive kerfuffle about getting me and the bike on a train to return to London. At first the baggage guy sent me to a bike shop for a box, which they gave me; but then he realized that I was going all the way to London, and therefore the only way I could take it with me for free would be for it to be unboxed. Well, by that time I had it in pieces, mostly in the box

The shipping clerk confirmed that crating it would mean an extra 1000 pesetas. Which, I assure you, I did not have. And you'll recall, I also did not have credit cards.

And at that point I lost it. Way worse than at León, and with much the same response. The jefe de equipajes told me I shouldn’t cry in Spain. I was speaking in English and he told me to speak Spanish. All the while he was helping me pull the pieces of l’Escargot Rouge out of the carton and put it back together.

Two of his colleagues came in, and he explained the situation to them, and went on to tell me not to cry, I shouldn’t think no one wants to help me, but rules are rules. It was a constant stream of talk, and all the time I was sobbing and trying to get the damned bike back in one piece.

This man was a prince. Really.

He told me to buy my ticket in the morning; even came running after me after I was out of the station to give me the address of the central office (you couldn’t buy a ticket to London at the local office, and I needed the ticket for the full trip so he could check the bike through to Victoria). When I had it, he instructed me, I should take it to him so he could get the bike checked in, and I could spend the rest of the day relaxing.

I did as he directed and thanked him sincerely. He repeated that I shouldn’t leave Spain feeling bad about it.

And I went off to Mass at the Cathedral of Santiago.

L'Escargot Rouge on the Road to Santiago

(Posted 1745 Saturday 28 November, 7ème arrondissement, Paris)

Bordeaux-Pruniers

Technically, much of this post is about the countryside about 65 km from Bordeaux, rather than the city itself. I have this book/CD on walking meditation by Thich Nhat Hanh, a Buddhist master, and Nguyen Anh-Huong, one of his first ordained students. It was recommended to me because one of the few (if not the only) way I can quiet my mind is walking a labyrinth. I’m meant to find other ways of walking meditation to help me make it through.

Actually—let me back up. Sadly, when I got to Chartres last Friday, the labyrinth wasn’t available for walking; evidently it’s only cleared of the chairs on Fridays outside of winter. That was a disappointment, as I was really looking forward to walking the mother of all Christian labyrinths. (Yes, there are others, but this is the one everyone talks about.)

Center of labyrinth, Chartres

So Thich Nhat Hanh’s retreat “house” in the Cognac region was my backup plan; sort of.

The whole thing was an interesting experience for me, from the moment I tried finding it on their web site (http://www.plumvillage.org/). They tell about their philosophies, their retreats, etc., but do they tell you how to get there? Noooo.

And it turns out there are three “hamlets”, and the “Lower Hamlet” is the one for women (and couples).

Jill wouldn’t recognize the actual village, Meyrac, (too small, I guess) so I let her take me to Loubès-Bernac, which is nearby. I expected to take it from there with the Bing maps instructions I had. But When I got to Loubès-Bernac I could not find the directions—could I have left them in the hotel?

So I asked at the local Mairie; the woman there advised that the woman at the grocery store would be able to give me exact directions, And she certainly did. It was less than a couple of kilometers.

I knew I was on the right road when I saw three brown-robed persons walking towards me, with brown hoodie-sweatshirt things over them. Like you’d get from college sports departments. Go, Buddha!

Et voilà—there was the sign:

I don’t know quite how to describe it—kind of like a sacred camp. Rustic, barebones (although the dining hall had several air conditioning compressors); focused on contemplation. Buildings for meditation and eating; dormitories; a kitchen. A pagoda gives views onto a vineyard and a stand of trees.

It’s quiet except for the wind; one of the most peaceful places I’ve ever seen.

I spent some time running through my five sets of 21 breaths in the meditation hall. And then sat there just watching the bamboos sway in the wind.

There were small hand-written signs throughout the place (in French, Vietnamese and English):

Listen compassionately

Look deeply

They really struck me because I don’t think I’ve been doing either for a long time. Probably even longer than since my last good meal.

I don’t know where to start on that. Perhaps just being aware of the lack?

I had some bread, cheese and part of an apple in my car while there. As I was preparing to leave I found my web directions. I don’t know why I couldn’t find them when I was going there, but not having them forced me to get out and ask.

And connections—even for the length of time to get instructions to leave the village, climb a bit and then turn left, going past a horse farm—are another thing I’ve missed since leaving Virginia.

Connections and contemplation. Insight number two.

There is more to Tuesday and Bordeaux; that’ll be another post.

(Posted 0804 Thursday morning, Pau)

Poor wayfaring stranger

Thirty years  ago I took a trip…

Well, let me go back a bit to explain.

In May of the summer between my junior and senior years in college, my mother was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. She’d been acting, well, not like herself for some months—she was fearful, which was the antithesis of her normal self. And for the first time she’d let more than a year go by between annual exams.

A lifelong smoker, she’d been afraid the verdict would be emphysema, but instead it was so much worse.

Diagnosed in May, dead by December.

During her final hospitalization (which we all knew would indeed be final), my sisters, father and I took turns staying with her. Since I was going to school 30 miles away, I’d drive there on a Monday, stay two nights, return to take the night shift on Wednesday, out to Claremont on Thursday and then back that night. I also took Sunday night, so Monday morning, when my sister relieved me, I headed out to school again.

On Saturday, 2 December, I turned in two papers for different classes to the library, where they would be read and critiqued by classmates. On Sunday, Mom died. On Monday I defended one paper and on Tuesday I defended the other.

And then, from the 5th on until the beginning of February I have absolutely no idea whatsoever what I did, where I went, who I saw. (And, you understand, I didn’t have any recollection even in February of what I’d done for the previous two months.) I had my final semester of classes to take, a thesis to write; and basically I just soldiered on putting one foot in front of the other, without really knowing what was going on around me.

Around March, I happened to be in a church with a chapel devoted to Saint Francis. Francis always struck me as being a standup guy. For one thing, ya just gotta love a guy who tweaks the nose of Pope Innocent III. And then there’s the recognition of animals as something more than just creatures to be exploited by humans. Even his mysticism is something I can get my head around. With Francis, pretty much what you see is what you get.

So I, feeling pretty haggard on all fronts, made a vow to Saint Francis: get me through to graduation and I’ll go on pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela.

Well, blow me if I didn’t make it to May—even graduating Phi Beta Kappa. Go figure.

But then, as is my wont, I embarked on a campaign of equivocation. I mean—I’d just graduated, I had to find a job, I had to get my life in gear, didn’t I?

Well, let me just say that you shouldn’t mess with a saint. Nothing in my life was going right. Couldn’t find a job—wasn’t even sure what I wanted a job to be; so I worked temporary gigs. The men in my life…well, ’nuff said.

And then, in October, I was eating dinner at the Hungry Tiger with a friend, whining about how I couldn’t seem to organize my way out of a paper bag, and I didn’t even go on pilgrimage and now it was too late and blah, blah, blah.

He just looked at me and said, “Well, you’re not doing anything right now that you can’t leave and come back to later. Why don’t you just go?”

Oh. Right.

So, within about a week, I’d put my stuff in storage (thanks, Leilah and Colleen for helping; we’ll all never forget the sight of the two of you whizzing down the hall with my black fake leather sofa-bed, laughing like lunatics), prepped my Motobécane, emptied my savings account (I didn’t have a credit card) and bought my ticket on the Laker Airways Skytrain.

It was an extraordinary, for me, journey. Wonderful things happened all along the way. People offered help in a multitude of ways. And it turns out you meet the most interesting folks when you’re riding a bike. (At least in France; not so much in the north of Spain.)

If you’ve been following my musings in this blog, you know that this past year has been rough on me. So, along about August I thought I’d like to replicate at least part of that trip, see if I can reconnect with that brave and hopeful young woman who was open to all sorts of things. Who persevered when her knees were damaged (her own fault, as it turns out) and when it was chucking it down rain (I learned that after a certain point you can’t get any wetter than you already are, so you might as well keep pedaling)—even climbing through Roncevaux, in the Pyrénees (on the advice of Colleen, sofa shover and medievalist, I kept a sharp eye out for my baggage train, to avoid that whole Roland thing).

I delayed this trip twice due to work issues (and when I advised my manager that I was taking it the last two weeks in November, she actually asked, “You wouldn’t consider December?”), but now I’m ready to head out.

Thursday I’ll be on Air France flight 309, Seattle to Paris. I’ll pick up a rental car and start my abbreviated pilgrimage. (No, I’m not riding a bike and no, I’m not staying in youth hostels.) First stop: Chartres.

I’ll be referencing my journal of 1979 as I make my way along the Route de Saint Jacques de Compostelle. And I’ll be posting every day as I progress.

I invite you to come along with me—in a vicarious sort of way. And have a good thought or two that I achieve my goal.

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.