I didn’t think it would take this long. It was quiet, save for the meditative music playing quietly in the background. Each of them, even the ones that I assumed couldn’t care less, took slow, deliberate steps – and so did I. One foot in front of the other, careful to place the weight fully into the foot touching the ground before lifting the other, balancing precisely into the narrow lane. No one said a word. Out of the corner of your eye you might catch the movement of another person, but if you looked up to see who it was you might lose your place. Focus. Breathe in and out. Catch, release. We were walking the labyrinth.
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We all have cliches that we can’t stand to hear. One of mine has often been, It’s not about the destination, it’s about the journey. The statement is supposed to be one of encouragement, to tell the one on the journey that the end is not the goal. We throw this out to people when they’re in the midst of something difficult that prevents them from getting where they’re trying to go. It’s meant to be soothing, a line to prod people into not giving up when things go awry, and while I don’t disagree with the sentiment, I also get angry when people say this to me. There are times when the journey veers off in a direction that I do not want it to go, a direction that defies explanation other than to assume that the world is out to get me and I’m not meant to reach the final destination.
Example: I’m trying to find a way to start a grad program in counseling, and in pursuing that goal I (and my family) have experienced crushing heartbreak. My dream of starting grad school was carried on the back of the dream we have to someday move home to Portland, Oregon, a hope we’ve had since we left 11 years ago. But the dream is not becoming a reality at this time and instead I (we) must walk a more challenging path to get to my hopeful destination of becoming a therapist.
It would be tempting to give up. Not trying typically means there is less chance for heartache when disappointment comes, but it also means less chances to experience the joy of being exactly where you’re supposed to be. “It’s not about the destination” says to me that, in fact, the destination is of no importance at all, and that seems wrong. So, maybe I need to reword the statement, because I’m pretty sure the phrase should read – It’s not about the destination, because the destination is the journey.
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About six weeks ago I had the privilege of taking some of the students from my church, where I’m interiming as youth minister this year, to an indoor labyrinth at a nearby church. I can’t remember exactly how I came up with the idea (I was likely reading a blog post), but we were in the midst of the season of Lent and I thought taking a field trip to experience walking along this ancient path would be a wonderful practice in reflection. I had never myself walked one intentionally, so I had few expectations other than that it might be a nice break of quiet in the midst of a busy season (and aren’t they all busy these days?). I did a bit of research so that I could give the kids a bit of an intro before we went on our venture. I showed them a short YouTube video from a TED Talk specifically for a younger audience which was given by a young woman who shared her reflections on the experience she had while building a labyrinth in the south of France. She explained the purpose of the labyrinth in simple terms. It’s about the journey, not only the destination. It’s about letting go, receving, and returning to the world anew with hope and possibility. This all sounded like it was something made specifically for people like me and I was looking forward to the experience immensely. The youth seemed less amused as they were hoping for something more along the lines of Percy Jackson and The Battle of the Labyrinth. There were to be no minotaurs on this adventure!
When we got to the church the morning of our field trip, we were met by a man who explained to us more about the history of the labyrinth and details about the particular type of labyrinth we were about to walk. He reiterated many of the same points that there discussed in the TED Talk. The walk is threefold: release, receive, return. You walk into the center, you take from it what you will, and you walk back out. There is a path and a direction, but there is no right or wrong way to walk a labyrinth. Each person walks with their own purpose, for their own reason, in their own way—and each journey is meaningful.
There is no pressure put upon the students or fellow teachers with me to walk, but one at a time each person stands, moves toward the entrance of the ancient, sacred pattern, and begins their pilgimage toward the center.
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The first few steps are hesistant. You do not yet know the pace at which you should travel, or how long (or short) your stride should be. You are forced to keep your eyes directly in front of you for fear of a misstep. Or perhaps you do not need to fear. If you step outside the lines there is no one there to chide you; this time is your own. As you settle into a comfortable rhythm you begin to recognize how far you are from the center – or are you? The path winds round, circling the edge and bending back toward the middle and time after time you feel that you’ve walked exactly where you are just moments ago, but you have yet to tread this ground.
There are others with you on this journey, some behind, some just ahead. Along the way you must pass those on their return to the outside or those moving toward the center as you walk in the opposite direction. We are always making space for those we meet along the way. We walk as individuals, yet simultaneously we exist in community, always creating room for those we encounter—the ones we see coming and those who surprise us with their presence. It often looks as though you are trekking in opposition of one another, but we have a common purpose. We walk to discover something we did not know before. About ourselves, about others, about the world, about the divine.
The path is always curved, but there are long stretches of open passage. Until there is not. You have come to a turn and it is not a gentle curve any longer. You must place your feet in such a way to move through the turn, a 180 degree change in direction. If you’re not careful, you may lose your balance completely. These moments of turning feel jarring. They are the most difficult part of the course and there is the distinct desire to stop and stay. Yes, it is so much easier to place your feet in the turn and steady yourself rather than risk the imbalance that comes from turning in the opposite direction. Oh, how often we feel it might be simpler to plant our feet and call the whole thing off. But we move on because we believe there is something to be gained and there is more to be seen. So you continue on, facing turn after turn, a seemingly endless journey.
Finally. In the center of the labyrinth there is rest. You stop for as long as you need to take in whatever the destination has to give. You might stand, or sit, or kneel; once again, there is no right or wrong. But in the sacredness of the center you simply are. There is no doing in the center, only being. Perhaps you stay for only a minute or perhaps you stay while others come and go, but when you are ready (and you’ll know) you turn around and begin the voyage back out.
Walking out feels easier than walking in. This time when you feel you’ve been there before, you actually have and this makes the journey feel lighter. Still, each time you come to the turns you are again tempted to stay. And why not stop and stay? You have experienced the peace and calm of the center, of arriving, so of course you are drawn to stop before you are forced to begin again. The truth is, the journey is our own, and we have received what was meant just for us, but these things are never meant to be kept to ourselves. What we receive we must pass on to those who also need it. We must take each step toward returning with what we have been gifted, moving through each turn, until we complete our pilgrimage.
We have come back to the beginning. We are changed. We are not better or worse, we just are more. More of who we are meant to be, more of who our soul has known we are all along. And this more sustains us for the present moment. Until we are ready to begin again. Because the destination is the journey; they cannot be separated. And we are all invited to walk.
[Photo credit: Edinburgh Labyrinth, photo by Di Williams.]
