One weekend this winter, I attended the Southwest UU Women’s Conference in Dallas. I talked myself hoarse, stayed up too late, got a reading list a mile long, came home sick, and generally had a really wonderful time.

In our single block of free time, there were several activities from which to choose. My first choice was canceled, and although my second choice was available, I, kind of on the spur of the moment, decided to go with my friend to the labyrinth at a nearby church. I didn’t know anything about labyrinths, and my friend had just signed up for it because it sounded intriguing, so off we went blithely on a carefree adventure.

I did have some expectations. I expected it to be big, and I expected it to be made of shrubbery, and to be confounding, so visitors would run and laugh through it, and not be able to see each other over the giant bushes, and lose our way multiple times before finding either the middle or the way back out again. You know, a little bit like the maze in the movie "The Shining," but without the murder and terror. But what I expected is, in fact, nothing like what it was.

Our group gathered beside a labyrinth laid inlaid in tile in the floor in the big foyer of the church’s sanctuary. It was entirely flat, of course, and only about 40 feet across. I thought at first that this was just a representation of the real labyrinth that they’d take us to outside, in a little bit. But it was the real thing.

A docent at the church – and their church has a wonderful name: "The Episcopal Church of the Transfiguration" – gave a brief talk about labyrinths in general. Labyrinths have been used in religious ceremonies and for personal enlightenment since 2,500 B.C. Labyrinths are not mazes … in fact, there is only one way in or out … there is no way to get lost. The docent gave brief instructions about how to maneuver with 40 of us walking, at different speeds and all at the same time, on this 16-inch-wide path that circles and folds back on itself to fill a 40-foot diameter circle. She gently suggested that the labyrinth could be considered a metaphor for our lives. She turned on soft music and, one by one, we began.

I was surprised by the thrill I experienced, a sense of prickles and lightness, when I stepped barefooted onto the terrazzo path. I moved deliberately, wanting to feel each step, and felt stymied and a little dismayed when very soon I came to an abrupt turning. I paused, and took a breath, and turned the corner, took a step in the new direction, and it was exactly as I’ve felt when entering on a new direction of my life. It was astounding how quickly and strongly I felt a connection.

Every turn was hard to take, and when a sweeping long stretch of the labyrinth directed me forward into a region of the circle where I hadn’t been before, I was exhilarated and unnerved. I was powerfully struck with the sense that I was on exactly the same path as all these other people, but not one of us would walk it exactly alike, and every single one of us had to walk it alone. We were together, and yet each was utterly responsible for the unique way she, alone, would walk this path.

I became aware of rhythms of movement within the labyrinth. Suddenly, one or more people would be moving parallel to me, quite close, or someone would appear coming right toward me, or I’d find myself all alone. We all had to make occasional accommodations, move aside a little, pass someone or allow others to pass, or pause a few moments to let a roadblock clear before moving again. It was a dance of life.

I arrived at the middle, and again experienced the sense of lightening, and a strong urge to be in contact with the earth. I knelt down and spread my hands on the tiles and stayed there until I felt quiet and grounded again. In a more sustainable position, I stayed and meditated in the center for some time. The stillness of the middle of the labyrinth was important to me. It allowed some beginning of processing, of internalizing the experience while I was still in it.

Sitting perfectly still, there in the middle of the labyrinth, I cried, as truths arose, with serenity, purity, and power: No one could walk this walk for me; there was only one direction, and that was forward. In talking about the labyrinth, my friend later quoted Walt Whitman, saying, "Life moves not backward, nor tarries with yesterday." Yes.

I found it deeply reassuring that there was no way to get lost. And, most potent of all for me was the irrefutable realization that I had to walk it. I had to. There was no choice in the matter. There it was, and no one could do it for me, it had to be walked, all the way in and all the way out, and no one could do my walk but me. So now, all that remained was to decide how that was to be done. This was my walk, and how did I want this walk, that could belong to no one but me, to be? I felt washed through and energized. My walk waited for me, it required that it be finished, and I was ready. It was time to go.

So I got up, with a light heart, feeling open to the universe, and set out again. The turns were so much easier to make, new areas not hard to enter … I even felt joyful anticipation of what the next series of turns and straightaways might bring. And, having left fear behind and opened my heart to the loveliness of the entirety of this journey, I began to see patterns in the twists and turnarounds and sweeping movements of this path that had seemed so difficult and unfathomable and arbitrary before.

When I made the final turn, I was surprised to see the exit of the labyrinth before me, and I paused, and pondered. "This is the end," I thought, "this is my death. How do I choose to take these final steps? I am uncertain, but I am not afraid. I choose for my final steps to embody my belief that whatever comes after, I have performed this walk with attention and dignity." And then, aware of each step, feeling love, hands open in acceptance and greeting, I steadily, joyfully, moved ahead and out of the labyrinth. It felt momentous, and peaceful, and fine.

So, I made a spur-of-the-moment decision, and happened on something profound. I expected a game of chase, and got the game of life. But how many times have I been gifted (or sometimes blindsided) with something meaning more than I anticipated? So many times. And maybe this question is more important: how many times has a deepened experience, some beautiful parallel, parable, or paradox, been there, that I haven’t been awake enough to perceive and embrace?

The universal connection is there. Einstein said if there had to be exceptions to a theory, the theorist just didn’t understand well enough to formulate the right theory … that once you have the theory right, there will be no exceptions. And I think this applies directly to our understanding of ourselves and each other. If we’re surprised, or angry, or suspicious, or have other akin feelings, we just don’t understand well enough … we don’t see the whole picture, yet. Of course, the whole picture is so vast that seeing all of it at once seems impossible. Certainly most people never do. But it’s important to have patience with ourselves, and with each other. And to keep making the effort to see more, to open our hearts, to with faith in the goodness of the universe be available to perceive and receive the gifts the universe sends us to help broaden our view, to understand ourselves and each other better.

The miracle is not that the connections are there; the miracle is being awake for them, allowing them in to make you more awake, kinder, more giving, more receiving, more compassionate, a better person, more aware than before.

We’re all walking the labyrinth. We can’t go back. We have companions, but no one can walk it for us. It is finite, and infinitely variable. It has to be walked, clear to the end. And the more attention we pay to each step, the more it means.

Amen.

 Prayer

May the labyrinth of our lives be walked with the same care as the symbolic one. May we be open to its revelations, large and small, allowing their meaning to touch us to the depths, and inform not just every step, but every word we speak, every action, every stillness, every breath. Go in peace.