View from the Pier

What saves a man is to take a step. Then another step.

 ~Antoine de Saint-Exupery, 1900-1944

Block Island, Rhode Island

“Stop!” I shouted, slapping my palms down on the car’s dashboard.

Tom swerved over and gave me a look that was both exasperated and expectant.   I have uttered that cry countless times along drives in far-flung places the world over and God love my husband, it’s got to have taken its toll on his central nervous system. 

Whether it’s sighting a ewe and newborn lamb in Iceland, or a tunnel of giant bamboo reeds in Puerto Rico, or the hilltop ruins of an ancient sacred site in Cyprus, Tom has become accustomed to the fact that any car trip with me is likely to involve sudden pit stops for pictures and exploration.   My tendency toward outbursts of enthusiasm involving urgent action are at odds with Tom’s more measured and detached view of life’s passing scenery.  As a result, we have had to work hard at compromising; I attempt to exercise more restraint and rein in the frequency of my requests for roadside diversions and he practices both patience and spontaneity when I feel compelled to investigate something that has caught my eye.  After many years of this dance, we have both benefitted from honoring each other’s temperament.

On this particular occasion, my exhortation was inspired by catching sight of the word “Labyrinth” emblazoned in red letters on a set of grey weathered stairs rising from the roadside and up an embankment.  A red arrow was also painted on the steps, which I interpreted as a welcome to wander in, although Tom seemed more skeptical.  The debate ended with us climbing the steep ladder-like stairs over a stone wall covered in holly bushes.

Once at the top, we saw an expanse of green lawn that stretched out in one direction toward Sachem Pond and North Light, one of  Block Island’s two lighthouses, and ahead to Long Island Sound.  Immediately in front of us was a formation that looked like a giant’s fingerprint, a spiral pathway that wound around itself to a bench in the center.  Beyond the rings was a row of lawn chairs, in front of which a couple lay sprawled on their backs on the grass. 

The woman sat up and yelled good-naturedly “Expected it to be bigger?  Me too!”

Her friendly frankness aside, I recognized I actually hadn’t had any expectations, an unusual circumstance for me.  I smiled to myself, realizing there really hadn’t been the time to allow any to develop. 

Off to the side of the property stood a plaque that offered information and insights on the significance of labyrinths, among those:

Labyrinth-like patterns have been uncovered by archaeologists in a great variety of ancient and contemporary cultures.  In Christian history and practice, the labyrinth is most famously associated with Chartres Cathedral in France where an eleven-circuit labyrinth was inlaid into the floor of the sanctuary in the thirteenth century.  It was used by believers as a way of symbolically participating in the pilgrimage to Jerusalem.  In Christian practice, the labyrinth is not designed to produce a peak spiritual experience but to provide inner space for listening to God.

The labyrinth is an ancient tool for prayer and meditation, consisting of a winding path that begins at the periphery and leads to a central space and then out again by the same path.  Although the words “labyrinth” and “maze” are sometimes used interchangeably, there are critical differences.  Unlike a maze, a labyrinth has no blind alleys or dead ends.   A labyrinth will not frustrate because it is not a puzzle to be solved.  You cannot get “lost” or make a mistake because there are no choices to be made once you have made the decision to start walking.

The couple on the lawn moved to leave and we exchanged a few cheerful pleasantries with them; the woman pointed out a box with a journal in it where people had recorded their thoughts about their experience here. She said with a laugh that she had found their musings about their meanderings more illuminating than her own walking meditation.

Tom headed for the chairs and I approached the labyrinth’s entrance, straining to focus on the suggestions that were contained on the plaque.  Among the recommended points to ponder were:

What are you longing for? What is bubbling up from deep within you? To what is God inviting you? What boundaries can you establish to stay focused?  What spiritual tools do you use to find hope and joy?  What images nourish your soul?  How have recent connections with God surprised and changed you?

These questions were all very valid springboards to an existential experience but in the end it was my own internal guidance–in the shape of my short attention span–that was in the driver’s seat as I made my circuit.

The winding trail contained within the looping line of stones was quite narrow, and I needed to concentrate on each step. In doing so I noticed there was actually a scrawny twisted carrot sprouting up from the path, which seemed rather odd. Pausing for a moment, I saw that a barn across the street had an emblem of a shooting star hung from its brown shingles. Then I was diverted by a huge dragonfly darting back and forth, a shimmery blur of ephemeral electric blue. Next I glimpsed a rock that had been adorned with a red heart, and another painted with a rainbow. I heard the beat of wings and looked up to see a formation of geese go by, noticing the warm September sun was nice ballast to the salty sea breeze. I marveled that someone had silently invited me to play on their oceanfront property and grateful that I had been alert enough to hear the call.

Reaching the labyrinth’s center I sat on the bench and contemplated the cache of offerings—stones of different size and color, some with messages written on them; a wilted bouquet of dandelions; a seashell; a few wooden sticks and an inscrutable miniature bottle of hand lotion.  I opened my camera bag and fished out my wallet, unzipping the change purse.  There, I have a hodge podge of tiny talismans I’ve accumulated— my great-grandmother’s wedding band; my brother’s St. Christopher  medal ; a  cartoonish “evil  eye” from Greece;  a turquoise bead of an Egyptian glyph from the British Museum;  and an angel made of lace I bought in Malta.  I fingered the figure’s white wings, tucked her under the shell and stood up to wind my way back to the world outside this inner sanctum.

Sitting next to Tom, I looked at the cover of the journal I had retrieved from a box below an apple tree, on which was a whimsical drawing and the words “Plant seeds of kindness and harvest happy hearts.”  We sat for a long while as I read the entries of fellow traversers of life’s labyrinth—some sincere and simple, others silly, self-conscious or cynical.  One-liners, prayers, haikus, questions, declarations, doodles, shaky scrawls and child-like scribbles all shared a certain heart-felt honesty afforded by anonymity. 

I came to the last entry and realized from the penned self-portraits that accompanied the message that it was from the couple who had preceded us here. 

We thank Block Island for its pure beauty, safe air, calm energy and its ability to let one release all negativity and breath in Nature’s soul.  I just recovered from breast cancer and my boyfriend brought me here to cleanse the stress my poor body endured.  I feel all my creative energy and good vibes coming back, sitting here on this hill.  Love you Block Island.

In the late afternoon light, from our seats on the high hilltop, we looked out over a field of goldenrod swaying in the breeze, and across to the lighthouse in the distance and beyond to the navy waters of the Atlantic stretching to meet the wild blue yonder. In this timeless place, as a guest of an unknown host, I had the curious experience of disparate sensations dissolve together–solitude and connection. I was struck with the acute awareness of how little I know about the lives of many people whose paths intersect with mine.  At the same time, I glimpsed how it’s possible to share a very personal encounter with a passing stranger.

Much of our visit to Block Island could be called a walking meditation.  Twenty percent of the isle’s land is set aside as conservation area and we enjoyed several hikes along its coastline.   On Clayhead Nature Trail, we trekked across fields scented with the aroma of ripe apples, along bluffs that reminded me of San Diego and through brush where we bumped into butterflies the size of small birds.  Near Rodman’s Hollow, we saw deertracks in the mud, and noticed a broken branch suspended in the air, wrapped in the embrace of a vine’s tendril’s. At Dorie’s Cove, we saw a beached sand shark and marveled at a rock that had striation marks that moved both horizontally and vertically. On Champlin Way at dusk, we had multiple encounters with deer and near the New Harbor, we admired the silhouette of an egret against a reflection of the sunset in a tributary.

On our last morning, we went out to the old Coast Guard station, where the thick fog that blanketed the island was slowly being wrung out by the rays of the rising sun.  We watched a fiddler crab scurry from one tidal pool to the next and saw a set of footprints march across the sand and disappear into the water.

On the ferry home, I felt more relaxed and content than I had in a while, despite some big uncertainties looming.  I realized that the Labyrinth and all our hikes across Block Island’s many trails had answered a question I hadn’t realized I had. 
 
Life does not need to frustrate me because it is not a puzzle to be solved.  I cannot get “lost” or make a mistake once I have made the decision to start walking.