walking in circles on brosterhaus road

bleached out rocks, pine needles and crunch gravel

At last, (sounds like the end instead of the beginning of a story, or a crooned love song) my man and I were able to walk the labyrinth on Brosterhaus Road. 

The first time we visited, it was winter; being partially covered with left-over snow, sections of the path were obscured.  What struck me at the time was the labyrinth was set in a prayer garden.  Peeking from the snow were benches, shrubs, a water feature of sorts and a rugged cross made of gnarled juniper.

Returning today, everything was revealed in brilliant sunshine punctuated by the ever-present cold Central Oregon spring wind.  I swear it must blow directly across the ice fields on the mountains before biting exposed cheeks.

Walking, I found it hard to concentrate and clear my mind.  I deliberately slowed my already slow pace in an attempt at mindfulness, listening to my steps on the finely crushed gravel and the wind swirling through the pines. 

On the edge of the labyrinth, a patch of strawberries with lipstick red blossoms was alive with honeybees.  I stopped to watch them flit about, being reminded that they don’t worry about stuff.  Bees do what they are created to do; so do the trees listing in that cold wind I mentioned.  The birds, too, unassumingly fly around doing bird-things. Creation keeps focused on what each is designed to do, not caught up in the “shoulds” of what other’s think.

My attention went back to the path itself and more deliberately, the outline of bleached stones.  Each had a similar white-washed color, streaked and flecked with grey and sienna. Some were small and round, others wide and flat.  Certain stones had pocks and grooves, etched and worn.  Hey, one was shaped like a loaf cake.  I would say vanilla with a whisper of lavender.  The point is, each rock resembled each other but was uniquely its own, part of the path.

I may not always feel like I fit into the path, but if I wasn’t part of the path, there would be an empty spot on the way.  And, empty spots distract us.  Empty spots toss in the shoulds, woulds and coulds of doubt and expectation.

A lovely white-haired lady entered the prayer garden.  Exiting the mindful-time of walking the labyrinth, we stopped to talk with her.  She tended the garden.  Her manner was warm and engaging.  It pleased her to know people experienced a place she gave her time to; attentive to the path. Like the birds and trees and flowers, she knew she was a unique stone outlining the way.

Walking defined circles -

Missy

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