But Saturday was perfect. I loved walking with my fellow retreatants. It's always interesting to me to walk with a group in a labyrinth. I love the symbolism: we're walking alone, but we're also together. At points, I look forward and I see no one. At other points, I have 3-4 people in my field of view. But at any point, if I just turn my head a bit, I realize I'm not alone.
The Mepkin Abbey labyrinth is outside, in a huge field.
We walked between huge grasses and plant stalks and the occasional flower. Dragonflies zipped in and out. The sky was clear and blue. In the distance, we saw a variety of trees, roads, a small house, and a trailer.
The center has five square benches.
Once we got there, we sat in silence. I am not good at sitting in silence, which is one of the reasons why I like walking in a labyrinth in silence. I am the kind of person who manages meditation better when she has something to do: journaling or walking or crocheting. I am the woman at the end of yoga class who can't hold a corpse pose without checking her watch to see if we're almost done.
At first, I was uncomfortable sitting in silence in the middle of the labyrinth. But then I relaxed. On the stalk beside my bench, a dragonfly flitted. I stared at it. I have never stared at a dragonfly for more than 10 seconds. I have been amazed at the intriguing wing structure of a dragonfly during a 10 second glance. But a deeper staring allowed me to marvel at its eyes and its sturdy legs.
I thought of lines from poetry, primarily Mary Oliver's poetry, that glory in the wonders of staring at a part of nature. I was never that poet--and I don't remember doing that in childhood either. What a treat to be able to interact with nature in this time-honored way.
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