Labyrinth

I cannot properly go into the new day without gratitude for the one that has passed. My gratitude comes in snapshots of what I have seen. Climbing up and down the steep hills behind the woods, I met a man who was fishing and mushroom hunting. He was mad as a hatter, but most people are madder than hatters. I had the sense to wear boots and gloves though it was warm. I ended up in a ravine and had to climb out of it with hands and feet, hooking my legs around tree branches.

Walking the labyrinth, perform the spiral dance, all around me the trees were a mellow fire of mustards and deep reds. There was a little wind so the chimes were in constant song. The sky was a rare blue. It warm like God had painted it with pigments left in the heat. And as I walk this labyrinth, at the beginning of the esbat of the full moon, remembering the Mother of the Earth, who is the Earth, the bells from the Catholic church are chiming a Black Protestant hymn written by an Anglican. As I turn and turn and make the spiral, every tradition that intersects in me, comes together over me, right now, at this moment.

To quote the Hiltons sisters:

That’s