Walking in Circles

I step into the labyrinth as the church bell towers strike nine.  The slow, even count echoes my footsteps; or is it the other way around?  The chimes turn into a melody, and I walk on to the sound of “Holy, Holy, Holy”.  Yes, it is.  The sun is warm and the air is soft.  As I turn right and head toward the strip of woods the ground grows hard and cold, no grass growing in the deeply shaded area.  I continue around and step into the sunshine, where the grass is thick and soft, warm beneath my bare feet.  A small brown and orange butterfly flits across my path to settle on a tiny yellow flower.  I carefully step around her and continue my circling.  As I walk along the paths edged with old brick, I try to empty my mind of all but sound.  The church bells fade into silence and the birds take over, chirping and tweeting their secret messages to each other.  Cars going by on the road make a sound like the wind through trees, and again I am in the sunny section of the path, soft grass and warmth on my shoulders.  Ah, the center.  Here is where I pause and gaze up into the tree tops, spring leaves rustling softly, sun on their tops and their lower branches in shadow. I return to the path, retracing my steps, circling the labyrinth’s center in small circles, then larger, then, surprisingly, another small circuit close to the middle before widening out again.  Slow steps in rhythm with my breath.  Clover, wild strawberry, packed dirt, soft grass; beneath my soles each step takes a different tone.  I start to wax poetic in my mind: Life is sometimes cold and hard, then the next step takes you into the sun, with soft freshness to carry you forward . . . then I turn off my brain and return to my senses.  The spring air is fragrant with green, the dog rests patiently in the sun, hidden animals scurry beneath the trees, and my feet touch the Earth.  Oh, how quickly the return trip seems, always shorter than the walk in to the center.  I step out of the labyrinth and go up to the ancient pin oak, pressing my palms on her rough bark.  I know her roots are spread wide beneath me, echoing her branches, holding her deep into the ground.  I pat her mossy surface, and call to the dog.