Labyrinth Balm

On a Wednesday evening a couple of weeks ago, I walked out of SpiritWorks and didn't immediately feel like I needed a shower.  There was a slight breeze, and it wasn't quite as hot or humid.  Instantly I knew what I wanted to do - go to the labyrinth.  I hadn't walked it in months.  Every time I'd thought about it, I felt overwhelmed by the effort.  My heart and soul were willing, but my body just couldn't do it.  So over I drove.

I spent a bit of time gazing at the overgrown flower boxes that I have tended for the past few years.  Weeds and flowers battle for control of the soil.  I pulled at a few clumps of nut grass and attempted to dislodge some of the clover choking out the lavender, but I knew I needed gloves, clippers, and a trowel to do any serious work.  And energy.  

Next I walked over to the entrance of the labyrinth.  After taking a deep breath and closing my eyes, I reached out with my spiritual senses to connect with God.  Moving slowly along the path, I felt overwhelmed with the sweetness of once again treading the way that has brought me close to God so many times.  Mixed with that gratitude was a flood of loss.  Normally I would have been walking the labyrinth 3-4 times a week during the summer, watching the magnolias and crape myrtles as they started to bloom, watching my hawk, making friends with the sparrows, listening to the mockingbirds sing a medley of all the bird tunes.  This summer I haven't walked the labyrinth at all, and I've missed so much.   The magnolia blooms are gone.  I missed daffodils and the new growth of other plants.  I missed the breezes and bird song and communing with the deer.  All of it was there, but I was not.

On that night there were many blessings.  The crape myrtles were still blooming as they will until fall, and I saw not one, but two hawks and listened to them screeching out their greetings while I walked.  Mockingbirds and insects and swifts darted and whirred. Cloud formations showed storms in the distance and the beginning glow of the sun sinking down. A few deer grazed down the hill.

I hadn't realized how my soul had been longing for the labyrinth. A breeze brushed gently against my face, and I shuddered with the layers of emotions.  Slowly, I tread the path, savoring each step, each breath, each sound and sight and smell.  

In the center I saw that someone had placed a red rock with "hope" painted on it on one of the pavers at the entrance.  In other labyrinths I've seen gifts and offerings of stones, beads, pinecones, jewelry, and other items left along the labyrinth or in the center, but never at this labyrinth.  As I stood in the very center over the crack in the concrete that causes an echo when you stand over it and make sound, I sang, "There is a balm in Gilead."  The words and tune settled over me, a balm of their own.  

Sometimes we don't know how much we've missed something until we get it back.  In a conversation with a seminary friend recently, he mentioned that I always downplayed any illness I had while in seminary, saying things like, "Maybe I'm just making this up."  It's good to have long term friends who remind us of who we are.  All this time I've thought that I wasn't really that sick.  Compared to others, I'm so very lucky with the symptoms I've had.  Oh, the odiousness of those comparisons.  For me not to have walked the labyrinth in months...  I've been sick, not making it up.  Only when I returned could I feel the difference.  At last, I am returning to the things I love.  I am healing.  I have hope.  Things will not always be this way.  Change is coming...