My Night Walk

For the past ten days, I’ve slipped outside my back door after dark and stepped into a night walk, looping the circuits of this twinkling light labyrinth holding a word, a person, or a hope for the world near my heart 

It’s a practice that keeps deepening in me, reminding me that darkness is not for us to rush through. It is an invitation to feel, see, sense, savor, and evolve. 

The labyrinth initiated this Covid season’s different kinds of celebrations. In these times, when we cannot make pilgrimage to be with loved ones as freely as we have in the past, the ancient geometry of the labyrinth reminded me of humanity’s resilience, our adaptability. With constraints we become creative.  When we face limits we tease out previously unseen possibilities. The labyrinth’s paradox is that the single path is never the same twice: it offers a new journey each time I step into it, and it holds infinities of meaning for each walker. 

One friend stopped by, wrapped in the warmth of a full length red wool coat. Another friend’s face peaked out from the hood of her parka. One neighbor brought news of a tragedy he needed to process. A group of young siblings gathered in the center, giggles gifting the ground beneath them. 

Each wave or little conversation on the steps sparked a synapse in my soul. We are connected. We need each other. We are learning new ways of being human together. 

A mason jar in the center received anonymous, private written prayers, hopes,  and intentions. We will burn them tomorrow with our Christmas tree. As the smoke rises up, I will imagine each unread prayer, steeped in the possibilities the New Year holds — not because of any limitless progress of humankind, but precisely because of our limits— so ever-present at the dawn of this new decade.