The labyrinth is a work in progress. So am I.
The labyrinth is a rough walk these days. So is life, sometimes.
My labyrinth-walking companions were a cardinal watching from a nearby tree and a whippety little garden snake who zithered off under a rock. Good companions are had to come by and worth keeping.
About halfway-through the labyrinth, both going in and coming out, I got bored. That happens every time I walk a labyrinth. I have the urge to rush on out or cross the boundaries and get back to work. I did good, though. When the hurry-up vibes tickled my soul, I slowed down, plodded on, kept on labyrinthing. That's what a labyrinth is for: the countercultural, subversive act of slowing one down.
As I walked, I hummed a song: "I may not pass this way again..." Last night my wife was remembering singing that song at her elementary school graduation. The image of a group of kiddos waxing eloquent at the top of their lungs about the passing of time made me chuckle. Laughing is good. Singing is good.
Walking the labyrinth is good.