Last week, after spending a delightful day visiting two art museums, I found myself drawn up the steps of the Cathedral Basilica of St. Francis of Assisi in Santa Fe. What caught my eye was a statue of a woman wearing turquoise jewelry and holding feathers. I later learned that it was of Kateri Tekakwitha, an Algonquin-Mohawk woman (now a Saint) born in the middle of the 17th century.

Adjacent to the statue, was a replica of the labyrinth in Chartres cathedral in France (my family has visited the well-worn stones there sometime ago). I walked slowly to the entry of the labyrinth, knowing that I would soon be slipping into the familiar rhythm of stepping and breathing.

The first thing I felt was the unease of doing something deeply personal, disconnected from the spacetime of the present, in public. ‘Wonder what people are thinking watching me? No one else is walking the labyrinth.’ were among the thoughts in my mind clutter before the self-consciousness dissolved into the openness of solely being present in each step, each breath.

Another intrusive thought: ‘I wonder if the labyrinth journey is like life itself?’ Closer to the center, and then quickly away. Sharp hairpin turns doubling back onto a new path. These thoughts washing away as the rhythm returned.

The next intrusive thought: ‘Is the goal to reach the center, or is it to reach the center and then return to real life, taking the glimpses and gleanings back into world? And then, finding the rhythm once again.

Arriving at the center, standing in silence, focused on my feet and the polished brass emblem at the center, grateful for this opportunity to walk a labyrinth once again, I knew what to do next.

I would write about this unintentional, strike that, accidental, strike that, unexpected labyrinth walk and leave you with images and the rhythm: Inhale, take a step, exhale, take a step, inhale, take a step, exhale, take a step…