On June 22, just after the summer solstice, I joined a group at St. Paul’s Monastery for a walk of our outdoor labyrinth. We gathered at a threshold between seasons (and, as I discovered, the labyrinth has a way of revealing the thresholds within us, too).
Before taking our first steps, we were invited to consider what we were carrying that we didn’t need to bring with us. We wrote those burdens on dissolving paper, placed the paper into a bowl of water, and gently swirled it until the words disappeared. There was something wonderfully simple about it. I couldn’t solve everything weighing on my mind. I couldn’t tie up every loose end. But for a little while, I could set it down. Then I began to walk. One foot in front of the other … slowly, mindfully.
One of the things I love about the labyrinth is that there is nothing to figure out. Unlike a maze, there are no wrong turns. There is one path, but that path rarely goes where you expect it to. More than once, I thought I was getting close to the center, only to have the path turn and carry me away again. It felt remarkably familiar. How often do we think we know where life—or God—is leading us, only to find ourselves heading somewhere completely unexpected? The people walking with me became part of the prayer, too. At times I was completely alone. A few turns later, someone was walking beside me. Then our paths separated again.
It struck me as such a beautiful image of community. People enter our lives and walk beside us for a time. Sometimes we need their companionship. Sometimes the path asks us to walk alone. Benedictine life holds both: the importance of community and the importance of silence, listening, and making room to encounter God within. Eventually, I reached the center, the heart of the labyrinth! I remember how spacious it felt. I stood there with the warmth of the summer sun on me and simply received the moment. Birds chirped and flitted nearby. The Monastery bell tolled the hour. In the distance, I could hear young people at Hill-Murray beginning a sports practice.
The world had not stopped because I was praying. That may have been the most important insight of the morning. The world rarely stops for us. There will always be another email, another responsibility, another worry, another place to be. Making room to listen—to God, to ourselves, to creation—is a choice. No one else can make it for us. St. Benedict begins his Rule with one simple invitation: Listen. Walking the labyrinth reminded me that listening sometimes begins by choosing to stop rushing long enough to notice what is already around us and what is stirring within us.
On Saturday, October 17, from 9:00–11:00 a.m., we will gather again at the Monastery for a group labyrinth walk, this time around the theme Pilgrimage of the Heart. Please join us! By then, the warmth of June will have given way to autumn. The landscape will be different. And so will we. Perhaps that is reason enough to walk: not to arrive at an answer, but to make some room. To listen. To notice who walks beside us. To trust the unexpected turns. And, for a little while, to make space for the Spirit.
