A Peaceful Place

I sought peace, calm, quiet. I desperately needed green hills and trees - places to sit, to be. I headed southeast into Glendale, through the huge metal gates and up the winding drive of Forest Lawn. It was a spectacular day, and I was surrounded by green on all sides. Windows down, radio off, I wound slowly through the hills, listening to the birds, slowly leaving behind the distant sounds of the city. I drove past small groups mourning loved ones, statues of cold marble and immense beauty, and sweeping trees. After stopping at the Labyrinth at the top of the hill, I'd become consumed with a need to find a church - not typical and entirely inexplicable.  And so I wound further into the hills.

Coming up a hilled curve, I gazed upon a massive structure topped by a clean white cross. At the front of it sat the Hall of the Crucifixion-Resurrection, a most beautiful church with massive wooden doors and an enormous rose window. The parking lot that stood between us was vast and empty, and I navigated it slowly and with purpose. I sat in the car for a few moments, hand poised on the key, listening, thinking...and then calmly turned it off.  I walked up the small steps and into the left side. But this is no longer a church.  It is a museum.  I stood in the cavernous entry, wondering at the cruelty, or kindness, of the joke. Two women chatted quietly 30 feet in front of me.  But the echo was so profound in this place that there was nothing discernible, only an eerie combination of hushes and inhuman sounds. I stood for a few moments, my left hand on the cold marble wall.  A child began to cry, and the voices grew louder. I stepped back out into the sunshine.

Across the parking lot and the vast circles of grass sat a smaller building, the Church of the Recessional.  I walked across the space between us, removing my shoes as I stepped upon the soft green grass surrounding the church. It is beautiful, this place. Rudyard Kipling surrounds it, his words littered across stone walls.  I stopped to read his writing.
    When earth's last picture is painted and the tubes are twisted and dried,
    When the oldest colors have faded, and the youngest critic has died,
    We shall rest, and, faith, we shall need it - lie down for an aeon or two
Oh, the beautiful words that continued on. I stepped to the door and took hold of the handle.  It was locked. I was not welcome in this place.  But its beauty was overwhelming, and I sat on the grass in front of the church and wrote for a while, surrounded by trees, jasmine, and hedges of green.

As I drove down the hill, heading again toward the massive gates and the world outside,  the Wee Kirk 'o the Heather sat tucked into a hill on the left.  I passed slowly, spying a beckoning "Entrance" sign.  I pulled the car over in a shady spot and headed up the walk.  This building is a beautiful rendering (Forest Lawn says faithful rendition) of the village church at Glencairn, Scotland, where worshipped Annie Laurie of Scottish lore, and William Douglas poetry.  The words strewn across the wall are quite lovely, and no surprise to the celt in me, I found myself mouthing the start of the poem quietly.  And then I walked to the door of the church.  It gave at my gentle pull.  I was welcomed inside this small, simple structure.  It is empty, and light lay across the wooden benches in long angles. I sat perched on the edge of the second pew from the front. There was no embrace, no sudden consuming emotion or energy. It was peaceful. Calm. And so I allowed myself to sit. Quietly.

Heading down the massive winding road toward the gates, and in no hurry to go through them, I meandered down a small road wandering behind the Little Church of the Flowers. Snapping a few pictures of this small church, I moved on a bit further. The Great Mausoleum sat perched atop the hill like a fortress - oddly biblical to me. I stopped to capture the images, and then tucked the camera into its small pouch. Glancing up, as I prepared to pull away from the curb, I noticed the large headstone sitting before me.  L. Frank Baum. I got out of the car and stood before it for a long time.  L. Frank Baum?  The calm again settle upon me. For here I was, at the end of my day's journey. I had found Oz.

Tell Me The Secret of the Labyrinth

Please tell me the secret of the labyrinth.  I walk one foot in front of the other. Slowly and methodically, head bent downward.  Feet bare.  Sky bright and sunny.  Alone.  No one walks with me. But I am unfocused - disquieted.  I can find no peace or calm.  I hope for it to end, this unending spiral, and in the next moment want it to continue. The walk becomes more relaxed -  my gait unforced.  The turns are unnoticeable.  But my head will not quiet.  Thoughts tumble incessantly, and a dialogue begins in my head. A sudden sadness overtakes me and tears brim at the corners of my eyes. I walk on, and thoughts continue to wash over me. What is to be gained by this? Why is there no magic? Where is my sense of peace? Should I walk this path on a cloudy day, when the sun is hidden? When the birds are quiet? Will I be able to hear the secrets then? I reach the end, and I breathe deeply. Then I realize...this is not the end. I have to walk back.  I cannot cross the labyrinth.  I must walk back out. And so I turn around and, without rushing, begin to walk. And to breathe.  


A sudden gust of wind throws my journal open where it sits on the end of the stone bench. Pages are torn from the covers and strewn across the labyrinth. The wind blows them toward me, but spreads them in all directions. I panic. I abandon the labyrinth.  The wind continues, and I struggle. I let out a cry and begin grasping at the pages.  I begin to sob uncontrollably. I am angry, and the crying ceases. So angry. The book no doubt unprotected and facing northwest, the wind blew it open by chance. But to me, it is an act of fury, an act of violence. My insides have been torn out and tossed carelessly into the world. I have been ripped from my space, from my attempts to find peace, solace, direction, and wisdom. The universe has blown my world askew with great purpose.  I am hurt.  And I am fuming.


I gather pages, some a handful at at time and some scraping a single sheet from the hard ground. I run to the bench, turn the journal with the remaining pages around, and throw it under my shoes. I return to gathering pages, running in all directions, collecting them into an armful of random sheets covered in what gathers in my head. I am near hysteria, for a moment believing that I will lose too many of these pages. That I will litter this beautiful green velvet with my paper. That I will leave some behind, and not be able to remember what was on those pages. The breeze abates, and I gather the last few sheets, strewn about the grass and street. A random piece of paper captures my eye, taking me to a grave marker. The paper is not mine, and not to be removed. Jessie is beautiful, an elderly woman who died sometime in 2007. I am compelled to nod to her image, and I feel such sadness rising in me. I walk to the car 10 feet away and step in.  As I lay the disorderly pile on the front seat, I am undone.  I sob uncontrollably, loudly, and physically.