the labyrinth
I stared blankly at the Labyrinth. Jaw clenched, breathing shallow.
It gawked back at me. Sitting still, silent. Not inviting me in but… waiting for me to take that first step. To enter it.
It mocked me.
Because the Labyrinth was nothing more than white chalk lines painted over the wooden floor. An integral part of tonight's rite, yes. But ultimately, just another activity designed for self-reflection… Soul-searching. The subconscious.
My dad would roll over on his grave (but, I mean, he was cremated, so I guess he'd roll over in the afterlife instead) if he knew that I was taking part in a witchcraft ritual.
I call it a desperate act of self-analysis. You may call it THE 30'S CRISIS!!!
Because I've never been religious. Though I was always very sensitive. My mom used to call me a “little witch” growing up, and I've had quite my share of personal experiences with the paranormal (stick around this channel long enough and you'll get to read about them).
But I never developed my spirituality much. Maybe I should have.
Because when I hit my 30's, I realized I wasn't sure which way to follow.
Satanic rituals, worthy of a Salem trial and death by fire were definitely not what was going on here tonight. When I say I suddenly caught myself in the middle of a witchcraft rite, I mean I finally decided to turn an eye to that sensitive side of mine.
I wasn’t ready to enroll in any religious doctrines, but I did want to explore the realms of spirituality. A part of me hoped I'd find answers there. And a metaphorically literal Labyrinth painted on the floor seemed like a good way to transcend. Maybe it would show me the way.
So there I was. Wearing all black, surrounded by candles on a full moon night, standing bare feet with a torch in my right hand, a white-chalk Labyrinth gawking before me.
I realized then that it really was a striking metaphor. Traverse the winding paths before you. Find your way in, yes. But then – find your way out.
Like most spiritual exercises, there was a whole psychological layer to it that wasn't immediately apparent to the naked eye. But as you winded through the white chalk lines, the room around pressing down on your shoulders, whatever it was your subconscious had to deal with, sprouted to the forefront.
As I zigged and zagged, twisted and turned, following the lines, my heart raced. The torch in my hand felt heavy. I fumbled with the hem of my pants, staring at my feet, certain I'd trip and fall at any moment.
Turning 30 had been like a weird rite of passage of its own. Like exiting the Labyrinth of the 20s – only to leap straight into a brand new set of winding paths. But what really bothered me was the feeling that, again, I was on a journey. On this strange, floaty, in-between phase where ambition, identity, and meaning all collide. But never truly reach a destination.
When would I finally find the exit?
I reached the center of the Labyrinth. Picked up the key that was resting there: the key that would, metaphorically, spiritually, or in full bullshit – you decide – help open the doors to the next chapter of my life.
Then, I turned and faced the white chalk lines again: it was time to find the way out.
And I wanted to be out. Just done with it. Give me the answers. Show me the way. Tell me what to do, how to do it.
It doesn't work like that, though.
In my rush to find the way out, I suddenly realized: I was lost in the Labyrinth.
Metaphorically, yes. I've been lost. But literally too. I got lost among the winding white lines, not sure which way was forward anymore. I looked ahead, then backward. I'd been that way… I was sure of that. But then, the path forward looked improbable too.
My heart raced twice as fast now. My hand could barely hold its grip on the torch. Darkness pressed down on me. Which way which way which way?
I just want out out out.
But I was lost.
I've been lost many times before. Perhaps never this much. The difference is that now, being lost comes with a sense of long-term duty. I no longer have that no-consequence mindset that I used to live by during my 20s. Things shifted. Now, I understand that my life, my achievements, who I want to be: they all depend on me. On my actions.
And man, that's daunting. Perhaps that's why I feel so lost: how do I become the person I want to be, if I can't even tell what way to follow in a freaking handmade Labyrinth?
But I've also grown to understand that every time I get lost, I learn to find myself a little more, a little faster. As if, with each step, I'm slowly, painfully, intentionally becoming myself.
The Labyrinth teaches me my own pacing. It forces me to face the darkness, to trust myself.
And then, before I realize it: I'm out.
It really happened when I let go. Instead of trying to calculate the route, to overthink and analyze my steps, decisions, past present future. I simply submitted myself to the path. I walked it, eyes closed. I let it take me.
And there was the exit.
The Labyrinth is a recurring event. For all of us. And it might have taken a witchcraft rite for me to put metaphor into literal sense, but for you – well, take this text and interpret it into your life.
What's the Labyrinth you have to trail? Where are you getting lost? Treat it like your personal rite of passage. Then shine a torch on it. Walk its winding paths without rush: let them carry you.
There's always a way out.
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