Like a bird up in the sky

A brief but refreshing retreat from a harsh world

Lately I’ve been walking in circles.

Or spirals, more precisely, as I follow the path of the labyrinth on the corner of Haled and Lomond streets in the Roma Combs Labyrinth Gardens. It’s an under-appreciated treasure of our fair city, like the river otters that live in Salem Creek and Murphy’s Lunch downtown.

The surface of the labyrinth is pebbled concrete, lined and cracked. Its path is defined by borders of bricks. Its colors are subdued, like those you’d see on a rainy day. There’s a little decorative smattering of flagstone pavers in one spot and the center bulbs open like the central chamber of a fox den.

I’ve been walking this labyrinth a few times a week since discovering it a month or two ago. And though some would advise a protocol for visiting labyrinths — wearing ritual clothing, reciting a prayer, maybe lighting some incense — I like the spontaneity of just showing up unscheduled, whenever the mood strikes me.

I walk the winding path slowly, stepping with the precision of a Shaolin priest — heel, then ball, then toes. It’s surprising how much concentration is required — and how much balance is at risk — when walking this way.

As I walk, my thoughts vary; but they’ve not yet included House Republicans or Hamas. These walks are retreats from a chaotic world, brief pilgrimages into a calm, orderly arena. Sometimes I concentrate on the concrete below my feet or on my breath. Sometimes I recite the prayer, origin unknown, that goes:

The kindness I receive.

The love I receive.

The mercy I receive.

It’s a simple acknowledgement and reminder that life is full of joys. Sometimes we must search for them, like Easter eggs hidden in an overgrown lawn, but they can be found.

Sometimes I also think more somber thoughts, like the end of a stolen season; a personal message imbued with sorrow.

Not all meditation leads to peace. But most leads to clarity.

The word “labyrinth,” which comes to us from antiquity, was once used interchangeably with “maze,” thus we hear of a monstrous minotaur being effectively contained by the incomprehensible twists and turns of his doorless prison while Ariadne’s thread is required to lead Theseus home after slaying him. (It’s also sometimes required to solve difficult Sudoku puzzles.) But a distinction between the two has come to be made in more recent times.

The path of the maze presents many options, some leading to dead ends — but, often, with multiple routes to its resolution.

The labyrinth has only one path. And though it twists and turns, approaching then retreating from its center, it does eventually resolve itself to an end point. We may not anticipate the next turn — especially if we keep our heads down, or if the walls are high — but we know the end is inevitable.

Both, in their way, are metaphors for life.

I’m always skeptical of the claim, even when seemingly from a divine source, that there’s only one way: One way to live. One way to salvation, whatever that might be.

Life is just not like that. There’s always more than one way to get from here to there. For that matter, there’s more than one desired destination.

And people are not like that.

We’re not carbon copies. My gosh, if these last few years have taught us anything, it’s that we don’t think alike, nor do we have the same needs and desires. The limitations of the nuclear family — touted by some fundamentalists as “God’s plan,” even though Scripture itself presents a much different pattern — would drive some to insanity or suicide.

Human diversity is a feature, not a bug. Any god worthy of his salt would acknowledge this fact of our nature and present itself accordingly, rather than gift us with the ability to perceive and practice such variety then order us to reject that gift.

Thinking otherwise, that there is only one way, is one reason congressional Republicans are paralyzing themselves right now and putting our very national security at risk.

It’s also one reason for the atrocities occurring in the Middle East.

On the other hand, time is like that. It only moves in one direction and we can’t turn it back, no matter how fervently we might wish to do so.

Walking the labyrinth is mostly a solitary activity, though I have taken a friend along now and then. On its border is a long wooden bench and arbor, and beside that, a small park and shelter that’s sometimes used, I perceive, by those who have no other home. Sometimes there’s industrial noise from a machine shop across the street.

Even though there’s nothing flashy about it, it’s a very appealing space. I’ve been tempted to organize a Labyrinth-palooza — inviting a group of friends to share the experience with me.

But placing too many people on the path at once would, I sense, mar its contemplative aspect. There would be too much giggling as those entering and those exiting jostled against each other.

The lack of formal invitation shouldn’t prevent you, though, from walking the labyrinth yourself. Consider this to be your invitation, which I offer on behalf of its owner, who surely placed it in an easily accessible location in hopes that it would be discovered and used. Sometimes life is like that.

…..

Overflow:

My book, “Stardust and Scar Tissue,” is scheduled to be released on Nov. 30. It contains meditations written before this account was launched. Maybe you’d enjoy it.

I’ll have more about it in weeks to come.

…

The Minotaur Explained; those Greeks were wild:

Comics creator Keith Giffen, one of my favorites, passed away last week. A fellow fan made a short video that to me exemplifies the influence of such talented creators and the relationship that can develop between them and their fans. It reminded me of many similar warm memories. Here it is:

Will it go ’round in circles?  Will it fly high like a bird up in the sky? The fifth Beatle wants to know:

Thanks for joining me today; if you know anyone else who might appreciate this pause in the week, please send them this way.