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.