Walking the labyrinth

“Come to the labyrinth,” She said, “and don’t leave until you feel the tiniest of shifts. It won’t feel like the earth shaking, but you will notice it if you pay attention.

“It might feel like a gentle breeze tickling your cheek. It might sound like the songs of a dozen birds in the bushes around you. It might smell like the roses at the centre of that labyrinth. It might look like a tired fuzzy purple crocus getting ready to die to make space for the eternal cycle of seasons passing.

“Pay attention to all of those things,” She said. “That’s where I am – in the rose, the bird, and the tiny worm dangling from an invisible thread. You’ll find me there and we’ll sit together at the centre of that labyrinth. Because I want to be in your company today. I want your attention and I will give you mine.

“The other things filling up your mind right now – the energy-sucking demands of the seven-year-old energizer bunny waiting for you at home, the conference call your boss wants you to be on this morning, the fact that you left too many things in a state of undone – those can all wait for another time. Or better yet – let them go entirely. The world will not fall apart if you miss the conference call.

“Just sit,” She whispered, as I protested. “No, don’t come up with another ‘but…’. Just sit. I have things I want to tell you. But you have to be still to hear them, because I won’t speak above a whisper.”

And so I sat. And listened. And paid attention. And waited for the shift.

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