If you have come to my blog in the past, you might remember that I mow a labyrinth in the side meadow of our yard. In the winter, when there is snow, I make one with my snowshoes. I use the Chartres cathedral labyrinth as my guide.
I sit in the center after walking-in for a few minutes. Longer when I need to have a longer conversation with the universe. I found myself there today, after trying to find the path among the matted grasses of earth devoid of snow, but not even close to the spring of summer.
Looking through old commonplace books, this piece from Dakota: A Spiritual Geography by Kathleen Norris, seems to be what I need right now. It’s time to read her work again.
Suddenly, fir trees seem like tired old women stooped under winter coats. I want to be light, to cast off impediments, and push like a tulip through a muddy smear of snow. I want to take the rain to heart, let it move like possibility, the idea of change.
and this one too:
One needs time alone under the sky to think, to grieve and gather.