 I've been spending even more time walking the labyrinth lately. Those of you who read my blog regularly will recognize this photo as my adopted labyrinth on the campus of Hendrix College, about a 10-minute walk from our house. It's a shared adoption with the community. But I rarely encounter others, until recently when I discovered messages they had left in the center. I'll get to that later.
One day when I was feeling particularly discouraged, a rock greeted me with the word, Strong. Another day, Courage..
I placed the Gratitude rock in the center early one morning, and it had vanished by the afternoon. I like to think it's a word someone needed at just the right moment, and that it's now perched on her window sill. We can be present to those we know, and don't know, in endless and creative ways. We are limited only when we forget to try. May we move forward with increased compassion, perhaps leaving painted rocks along the way.
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 Front Street, in downtown Conway (Arkansas), was deserted as I fast-walked along the sidewalk. Not surprising since it was 8:30 on a Sunday morning; but you could pick any time and day of the week – for the past 10 weeks – and the street would look the same. The Mexican restaurant on the corner moved the week before COVID-19 became a household word. The New Orleans style restaurant closed until June 1. The jewelry store and clothing boutique closed until further notice. What remains is the glass storefront display by the Conway League of Artists.  I slowed down to browse the watercolors, oils, glass sculptures and photographs; then stopped in front of a colorful scene, which I couldn't distinguish between painting or photograph. Touching my nose to the glass and squinting as closely as possible, I decided it was a painting. The artist's name was taped to the glass. I was in the process of snapping a photo when the front door of the gallery opened. "Need some help?" a man asked. "Well...sure." I said, looking around to see if anyone else noticed a man pop out of nowhere. But the street was as empty as ever. "I was just looking at this painting." I commented, tapping my finger on the glass. "Oh, the cardinals? That's not a painting. It's my photograph."   As we stood at a social distance on the sidewalk, Don Byram explained that he was working on the display windows when he saw me stop. "It's got a story behind it," he laughed. "I call it Decisions because it looks like the female cardinal in the middle is trying to decide which of those males she finds the most attractive. The joke is that there was a bird feeder a couple of feet off camera to the right, and they were intently waiting for me to get out of the way." On that drizzly, gray morning, I needed those splashes of red in my life. "How much are you selling it for?" I asked. He quoted me a price. I accepted, but then realized I had no money with me. "Just take it with you," he said. "Drop me a check in the mail." Only in a small town, I smiled to myself. "Or better yet, I can drop it off on your porch later this morning so you don't have to carry it," he offered. I smiled, again, and thanked him. Don arrived two hours later and we exchanged art and check. The cardinals have found a home above the bed in the guest room. Each time I pass by, I half expect them to start singing. But they remain silent, allowing me to quietly ponder the opportunities presented by doors, which open unexpectedly. Prior to the pandemic, my TO DO list was top heavy with "shoulds" and "musts." Even in retirement, when much more of my time is my own, it's hard to break the habit I started during thirty years of work while multitasking as wife, mother, and (co)-chief cook and bottle washer. (My grandmother was fond of using that expression.) No doubt I was creative – Halloween costumes and wallpaper swatches come to mind – but I never was intentional about it. I never realized the importance of creativity, until recently, when many shoulds and musts have gradually fallen by the wayside. What is left is time for reflection, to ask myself, "What are you going to do with this day, followed by the next, with hours to spend as you wish?" Like a gift bag dressed up with glitter, bows and stuffed with bright pink tissue paper – empty – until I decide how to fill it. It is a luxury, I fully realize, that many do not have.  With my mind open to possibilities, I was recently flipping through the spring edition of the Magnolia Journal. I skimmed an article, ready to turn the page, when a series of questions asked me for answers. What thrills you? What do you talk passionately about? And what could that look like if it were distilled into a single word? Searching for answers beyond the obvious, "grandkids," I put down the magazine and soon found clues all around the house.
 All are pictures of things I've created or am in the process of creating. Just the thought of writing, arranging flowers, journaling, working a puzzle, shoveling soil around color-coordinated impatiens, and outlining a hopscotch game for our neighborhood's chalk drawing event...excite me! They (and others) light the proverbial spark inside my spirit which makes me feel alive, healthy and moving forward. Yet there is nothing magical about any of these particular activities, and none of them, except writing (for me), requires a stretch of time. The bigger picture involves paying attention to whatever our personal creative nudges may be, and choosing to follow where they lead. The upheaval of the past few weeks has amplified those nudges for me. When less is predictable, the more we need creativity to bring new life to what we find in front of us. To honor my new mantra –Create! – and keep it as intentional as my morning cup of coffee, I've written it on our kitchen chalkboard. It will stay in place as COVID-19 restrictions are gradually lifted, as the temptation increases for creativity to become eclipsed by the ever-present shoulds/musts...and return to the predictable.   I joyfully left my wipes, gloves and hand sanitizer in the front seat of the car. The sign in the parking lot said, "Lock up your valuables." That directive used to refer to my wallet. For the next hour or so, I wouldn't need them. I could touch anything I wanted and never have to protect or sanitize. It was a new definition of freedom in a world that feels like one big germ.  I stepped onto Huckleberry Trail and breathed deeply of freshness. This 3.5 mile hiking trail begins 30 minutes from our home at one of my favorite Arkansas state parks, Woolly Hollow. The name and place sound backwoodsy, in the best possible sense, where Nature immerses the visitor in her peacefulness. Yet, as I strode farther into the woods, I found myself dragging along worries and concerns of the day, at a pace that felt more like a workout than a saunter (one of my favorite Thoreau words.) Finally a robin caught my attention with its rebuke, "Slow down; take notice." I stopped. The silence caught me off guard like suddenly closing the door on a noisy party. I looked for the nearest place to sit down.  A perfect sitting rock lay right in front of me. For the next 10 minutes, 20 minutes, or perhaps just 5, I sat and listened with eyes open and closed, feeling morning sun on my back and hearing the sound of stream, bird and breeze. And when I continued sauntering, I paid attention.
 At the end of the trail, I reached out my hand and touched a tree, a parting connection to a place which felt like the normal I miss more every day.  Its texture, smell and calming spirit were still present when I returned to the car.
I did not wipe them off.  I'm on overload. TV news at home, radio news in the car, New York Times Morning Briefing on my phone, social media news via computer. . . the latest number of cases, possible cases, deaths, closings, government actions/inactions, tests/not enough tests, quarantines, handwashing, more handwashing, social distancing, stock market plummets and toilet paper lines. I tell myself – that's enough! Get up off the couch. Turn off the TV. But I linger, absorbed in the real life drama of how the coronavirus is changing our lives by the minute. My chest tightens, and I can't recall when I last took a deep breath. It's time to move. No, not sell my house and relocate to a place where COVID-19 sounds like unintelligible gibberish, but simply put on my shoes, jacket, hat and walk into fresh air. Ten minutes away is one of my favorite places, a labyrinth, on the campus of Hendrix College in our hometown of Conway, Arkansas. Anyone who knows me, knows that labyrinths are a central part of my life. Walking their ancient, circular design is a meditation for me – a calming experience from entrance, to center, and back. No way to get lost, but rather a single path to follow, one step in front of the next. The labyrinth can be a metaphor for what we may be experiencing in our lives, particularly in these unsettling times, when life feels more circular than linear... and change is a constant. And in times of change, walking the labyrinth reminds me to take my time, to pay attention to the journey along the way. ....which is just what I did as I walked through my neighborhood, across the pedestrian bridge, through the Hendrix campus to the labyrinth. 
Ten minutes turned into thirty as I allowed the emerging signs of spring to determine my pace. By the time I reached the labyrinth, my body and breathing had relaxed and thoughts of the coronavirus felt like yesterday's news. Labyrinths, nature and communication with family and friends are my principle ways of coping with a landscape that appears less familiar every day. They are constants that ground me, despite the upheaval, as do my morning cup of coffee, fresh flowers on the dining table, and gratitude journal on my nightstand. May you find nourishment in your own heathy practices..... and peace on your path during these challenging times.  ***********
To locate a labyrinth in your area, refer to the World-Wide Labyrinth Locator where almost 6000 labyrinths are listed globally. If none exists, you can print a finger labyrinth and trace the design in a slow, meditative manner. (If no printer is available, trace the finger labyrinth design as it appears on your computer screen.) To learn more about labyrinths, visit The Labyrinth Society and/or Veriditas website, a nonprofit located in Petaluma, California, which provides information, labyrinth experiences and facilitator training. For the past thirty or so years, an early morning walk has been part of my routine, except for Wednesdays and Sundays when I take a break. In retirement, I at least wait until the sun comes up to head outside. Not to rub it in too much for family and friends waking up to snow, ice or rain, but the sun has actually been in glorious view for the last two weeks I've been in California. I finish my coffee after Drew leaves for his job in Menlo Park, and wait for the sun to edge its way onto the wetlands outside our apartment windows. Not for too long, though. I do have friends expecting me.   A wetlands trail winds its way just a stone's throw from our apartment, past waters and grassland, to an overlook 1.7 miles in the distance. About five minutes down the gravel path, my walking partners appear. Canandian geese, vacationing in the Bay area, greet me and pick up the pace. I can't tell whether they're chastising me for keeping them waiting or complaining about the rush hour traffic on nearby Highway 101, but they seem to be in a constant state of annoyance. Of course, since I don't speak "goose," I could have it all wrong.  Tired of too much walking and chatter, they stop for breakfast, allowing me time to catch my breath and take in the view. Seagulls, ducks and sandpipers gather on still waters, yards beyond a protective boundary. Their collective voices triumphantly rise above the continuous din of engines behind me.  Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse movement and the tip of a pair of ears. For the past few days, I've noticed a jack rabbit skirting the trail, often crossing it just ahead of me, dashing into tall grass. I whisper goodbye to the geese and tiptoe in slow motion toward the ears. They pivot, twitch, then escape with a blur of fur into deeper thickets. I freeze with my camera at the ready, set to highest magnification. A moment later Jack steps cautiously from behind a bush, and I snap a burst of photos hoping one will capture him. And the next second, he's gone.  With the sun warming my back, I arrive at the lookout and gaze out on the natural beauty that surrounds me. Were it not for the vision and hard work of people I'll never know, these wetlands would be overgrown with buildings. And the inhabitants ? Who knows. I turn to retrace my steps and see a graceful reminder of why this wildlife refuge is more than a place of beauty. It is a home.  *For additional information: Don Edwards National Wildlife Refuge, Bair Island Redwood City, California Beginning |
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We continued to build the arrangement, positioning the flowers so each one enjoyed its own space yet fully contributed to the whole. Once finished, Meiko pointed to a trifold screen and asked that I formally display my piece for a photo.
For days afterward, the sight of my first Ikebana endeavor brought me a feeling of peaceful contentment, and pride.
"I made that!" I'd hear myself say, to no one but myself.
As much as I like crossing things off lists, I decided to revise instead. My Before 70 List now includes "More Ikebana classes."
I wonder what might be on your list?
I met Hilary Cooper-Kenny in 2012 when I visited her on my 50-state labyrinth journey. She created a labyrinth in the backyard of her Kingsbury, New York home and described it as her "serene" place – in contrast to the busyness of her Crazy as a Loom (yes Loom!) Weaving Studio.
I have followed her blog, Crazy as a Loom, ever since. Recently, I was leafing through a completed journal and found a scrap of paper stuck to one of the pages. On it, I had written "tiny life" Hilary blog post 2017. I must have planned to revisit it, but never did. I read back through her posts for that year and found the two words, embedded in a sentence among a page of paragraphs. .
I have to stay grounded in my "tiny life," she wrote.
.
Tiny life? Hilary? I wanted to dash off a very belated comment....
"What do you mean a tiny life? I love reading about your life – your looms, weavings, pots of hearty soup in the winter, visits from your grandchildren, the pets that died and the ones you adopted, your multiple cups of tea that keep you fueled and warmed in the 1790's house you restored, the friends who drop by, books you read, the (literal) headaches and heartaches, and the honesty that flows from it all."
Thankfully, I didn't need to read further than Hilary's next line for reassurance that tiny wasn't meant as a judgement.
"I like my life," she continued. "My day to day is productive, creative and mostly happy."
It's a life like most of ours, not lived out on the world stage, or even in the local paper (when there is one).
A life not measured by size or reach, but rather by authenticity.
Perhaps when I copied Hilary's words I was wondering whether my own life was tiny, significant enough, worthwhile enough in the grand scheme of things – all those middle school comparisons that lead us nowhere, but to more tiny-ness. Two years later, I look at the paper and know what Hilary was saying all along, as she surrounded "tiny life" in quotation marks.
There is no such thing.
I invite you to read Hilary's blog and check out her website.
I have to stay grounded in my "tiny life," she wrote.
.
Tiny life? Hilary? I wanted to dash off a very belated comment....
"What do you mean a tiny life? I love reading about your life – your looms, weavings, pots of hearty soup in the winter, visits from your grandchildren, the pets that died and the ones you adopted, your multiple cups of tea that keep you fueled and warmed in the 1790's house you restored, the friends who drop by, books you read, the (literal) headaches and heartaches, and the honesty that flows from it all."
Thankfully, I didn't need to read further than Hilary's next line for reassurance that tiny wasn't meant as a judgement.
"I like my life," she continued. "My day to day is productive, creative and mostly happy."
It's a life like most of ours, not lived out on the world stage, or even in the local paper (when there is one).
A life not measured by size or reach, but rather by authenticity.
Perhaps when I copied Hilary's words I was wondering whether my own life was tiny, significant enough, worthwhile enough in the grand scheme of things – all those middle school comparisons that lead us nowhere, but to more tiny-ness. Two years later, I look at the paper and know what Hilary was saying all along, as she surrounded "tiny life" in quotation marks.
There is no such thing.
I invite you to read Hilary's blog and check out her website.
I drove through the gates of the Mercy Center in Burlingame, California in search of its labyrinth. I had heard of the Center's quiet beauty and contemplative spirit from friends who had personally experienced it, but my trips to nearby San Francisco were few and far between. With Drew's new job in Menlo Park, I suddenly found myself a convenient 25 miles away.
The sun had begun to filter through leaves onto the labyrinth's path when I arrived at 8:30. Two women were placing signs throughout the turns for a group walk later that morning. I sat impatiently on a neighboring bench, eager for them to finish so the labyrinth and I could spend some private time together.
When I finally stepped onto the sandy path and began circling, I purposefully ignored the signs. I wasn't interested in a theme-based walk, where I was encouraged to contemplate a suggested topic. My aim was to remain "open" as I walked, allowing whatever thoughts that bubbled up to lead me where I needed to be. But try as I might to look away, my sideways glances increased. Perhaps remaining open meant paying attention to what was in front of me.
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I quickly caught on that a key word was repeated in each message, and that it was no kumbaya kind of word. It packed a punch.
Hope is....
strength
power
a sense of purpose
empowerment
a refusal to accept or confirm... despair
ACTIVE
Hope is....
strength
power
a sense of purpose
empowerment
a refusal to accept or confirm... despair
ACTIVE
.My own sense of hopefulness had been waning of late. Just that morning I had angrily switched off the car radio, tuning out news of yet another senseless mass shooting. Then there's climate change, inhumanity at immigration borders, ongoing poverty and homelessness, prejudice, racial injustice. . . The list can seem neverendingly dismal.
And yet, the messages surrounding me confirmed that hope is more than an illusive state of mind, a vague wish that things could somehow get better. Its strength is in active practice.
I stepped out of the labyrinth's center with a quickened pace and a spark of hope that felt powerful.
And yet, the messages surrounding me confirmed that hope is more than an illusive state of mind, a vague wish that things could somehow get better. Its strength is in active practice.
I stepped out of the labyrinth's center with a quickened pace and a spark of hope that felt powerful.
Returning to the bench, I opened my journal and wrote a question on the next blank page:
How can I practice hope in my daily life?
I invite you to join me.
How can I practice hope in my daily life?
I invite you to join me.
Welcome to my blog!
After writing my books, Labyrinth Journeys ~ 50 States, 51 Stories and The Power of Bread, I knew I wasn't finished writing, or journeying.
Please join me as I continue both and see where they lead me (and you!)
~Twylla Alexander
After writing my books, Labyrinth Journeys ~ 50 States, 51 Stories and The Power of Bread, I knew I wasn't finished writing, or journeying.
Please join me as I continue both and see where they lead me (and you!)
~Twylla Alexander
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