Together In the Chalk Maze
an essay
“Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying, ‘This is the way; walk in it.’”
Isaiah 30:21 (NIV)
When I saw my first labyrinth, I was freshly nineteen.
My college roommate and I had driven down to Ashland, Oregon to visit a group from our former high school making their annual visit to the Oregon Shakespeare Festival. We were wide-eyed with the hugeness of our first quarter at college and in need of familiar faces.
In Ashland, we ran wild. Lightly chaperoned (but with strict curfews), we explored the deeply artistic city after the sun went down. We weren’t looking for a party; we were like children, just looking for something different. Something exciting.
During our nocturnal romp, in the wide-open public garden of an Episcopalian church’s backyard, I came face to face with the first walking-labyrinth I had ever seen. Not even fully comprehending what I was looking at, I fell madly in love with a 40-foot circular pattern printed on concrete. We ran through it like a race, laughing with the mystery of it all.
Years later, I met a woman who draws labyrinths from memory. We worked together at a school for small children, and outside on the playground she would take up a stick of chalk and draw the giant circle, the passages, and the center. The children would run through it single-file, even though there were no real boundaries to keep them contained. They followed the paths, giggling, shoving each other gently, urging each other onward toward the mystery in the middle.
The labyrinth is, by its very nature, a mysterious thing. In myth and folktale it’s a place of both hidden treasures and monstrous danger. Even the word labyrinth is a mystery; no one is really sure what it means, or what its roots are, as the word probably comes from a language older than time remembers.
When we meditate on the labyrinth, it can be tempting to see ourselves walking alone. Silent. Thoughtful. But in reality, our lives are a lot more similar to the chalk-drawings full of giggling children I witnessed so many times as a teacher. Or the secret maze my friends and I stumbled upon that night in Ashland. Our paths are intertwined with every person we share space and relationship with. We pass each other on the way. We may stop and urge each other to go on. Or, in darker moments, we may need others to reach out their hands to us, lift us up to continue. Urge us onward.
No matter how lonely you may feel, especially out near the edges of the maze, here’s one thing you can know for sure: others have been there before you, and others will come after you. And if you look around, you’ll see that you’re not alone out there. The labyrinth is full. We’re all here together. Those further on can give their advice. Those further back can reach out their hands for help. Or we can walk companionably along together, just taking in the mystery on our way to the middle, where the warmth is.
Look around. Who is beside you in the chalk maze? Who is further on, and who is coming up behind? Who is urging you along, and who needs your gentle encouragement?
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This is so lovely. I love this idea that there are others further on, but also those behind us. We can help each other along the way. Beautiful.