The Labyrinth

(NOVEMBER 2008)

Truthfully, I am more of a skeptic.

I’m not a big believer in spiritual healing, Feng Shui, or acupuncture. I don’t put much stock in superstition, stain removers, or the South Beach Diet. I scoff at strange men in jumpsuits practicing tai-chi in the dog park. I dismiss shrinks. On weekends, I pity glassy-eyed vegans in Whole Foods, stockpiling capsules of St. John’s Wort and fish oil pellets into their carry carts like gluttons at the Old Country Buffet. In all honesty, I sweep them into the same dustpan as horoscope junkies and tarot card party-goers. I cringe at the term, “soul mate” (especially during saccharin-sweet romantic comedies), roll my eyes during yoga, and jeer every time I read an article about the supposed health benefits of chocolate. I stopped believing in Santa Claus at nine. I struggle with the concept of an omniscient almighty Creator. And even as a child, I never accepted that a chapped kiss from a gay prince aroused Sleeping Beauty from eternal slumber.

However, I am willing to try anything once. Especially something that defies cliché.

Last week, my friend, Sarah told me about a wholistic health spa southwest of Chicago run by a gaggle of Franciscan nuns.

“Nuns?” I defied, certain I had misheard.
“Yes, nuns. Petite virtuous ladies with sandals and short hair. Their answering machine signs off ‘Peace be with You.’” Sarah paused, insistent. “They are the real deal.”

My interest peeked. A Catholic convent operating a full-service spa with bikini waxes, gong vibrations, and reiki meditations? This was definitely worth a 65-minute drive down LaGrange Road next Saturday. Did the bishop know?

*****

We steered the mini-van down meandering asphalt lined with massive quaking oaks, skinned of their leaves for the winter. The grounds were dotted with miniature Nordic chapels that conjured images of the Seven Dwarves returning from lumber work on a stark frigid night. A dried-up ravine veined through the acreage and ducked behind the main structure, the Motherhouse. Along the bushes, two fake deer posed as lawn ornaments and in the distance, a dijon-tinted country house squatted under the shaded arms of an evergreen tree. I guessed before I had even spotted the sign, Sacred Sound and Wellness Spa.

A tinkle of a bell chimed when we entered through a glass door and into an intimate waiting room, smelling faintly of jasmine blossoms. Four oversized plush chairs ideal for napping curled around a coffee table and trickling water statue. On the far side, a tidy assortment of herbal teas with ceramic mugs hugged the edge of an old cherry work desk while the shelves above stocked books on prayer and Catholic meditation. A small needlepoint crucifix dangled off-center above the entryway.

Sister Anne emerged from the hallway with a radiant smile on pale skin, extending both arms as if we were family visiting from abroad.

“Welcome,” she cooed in the soft caress of a mother with an infant asleep in the next room. “We are so delighted you are here.” She embraced both of our hands by cupping them within her own. “What services can we offer you today?” Her fingers were thin and warm.

I scanned the brochure card tented on the coffee table:

Massage Reiki Spiritual Facial Gong Vibration Floating Meditation

No waxing. But, the prospect of being slathered in lotion and rubbed down in nothing but my underwear by a sacred sister of the church was a tad shocking. I had memorized The Sound of Music. Those women were pious, solemn, and cloaked in yards of matronly dense black wool.

“Do you perform the actual massages?” I asked, cocking my head to the side, sizing up her four-foot stature.

“Oh, no,” she chuckled easily. “We have certified therapists for all that. I’m just here to ensure everyone departs with positive energy.” She curved her hands in front of her as if outlining the circumference of a basketball.

I raised an eyebrow. It sounded incredibly Berkeley-esque for the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit doctrine.

Sister Anne beamed at us and gestured to the front door. “While you are waiting, you must walk the labyrinth before your session. It is so peaceful and really aligns the spirit. It is just down the path before the creek.”

Labyrinth? Had I ventured into a C.S. Lewis novel? Sarah and I exchanged glances.

*****

The labyrinth wasn’t nearly as impressive as I had envisioned. It was a pancake flat concentric pattern of linear bricks and paths of white stone, half-buried in decaying autumn leaves. I had pictured a grand mysterious structure with eight-foot walls like the hedge maze in The Shining. Instead this obstacle elicited the thrill of a slide on a preschool playground.

Sarah rounded to the opposite side and began treading up one of the entry points. I grimaced into my scarf, but not wanting to appear unenthusiastic, strided up the path in front of me. The gravel crunched beneath my sneakers and the eerie echo of a crow reverberated off the tree skeletons. The daylight was beginning to fade as the wind picked up and bristled the skin around my coat collar. This was so ridiculous. I could see the next turn. Where were the challenges? The dead-ends?

I plodded along in silence, staying within the bricks and swerving around the corners, pivoting in the opposite direction that I had just traveled. I could hear the shifting of stones on the opposite side, but I didn’t speak. I wasn’t sure how seriously Sarah was taking this. For all I knew, she was praying.

As soon as I figured I was getting close to breaking into the core, the path would divert and clip me back out to its outer rings in blatant defiance. I trampled along in avid concentration like a schoolgirl stepping over sidewalk cracks in the pavement. I spotted the back of Sarah’s red jacket. She was stationary in the middle. She had reached the coveted center. I still lingered pathetically along the far edges. What kind of trail had I gotten on anyway? The extra-long route? I scanned the alleyway ahead. It couldn’t be more than a few yards now.

I quickened my pace, but still the twists and curves paced on in lethargic sequence, relentless and haunting. What was wrong with me? Had Sarah figured out some secret method? Was this some kind of practical joke? I felt my face flush and breath accelerate as I contemplated leaping over the bricks a few times to cheat closer to the center. I panicked and whipped around, ready to abandon the mission.

Suddenly, I realized Sarah was no longer perched at the axis. She had slinked off in the distance and was meandering toward a field of long-necked Canadian geese, pecking at the November earth. I was alone.

I came to an abrupt halt and closed my eyes. I breathed in the cold and felt the vapors of exhale moisten my chin. I rarely shut my eyes during the day. I rarely ceased all motion. But, I was alone and the opaque darkness pacified my mind like a child’s blanket. Stillness seemed to settle over my body and I heard my voice in a foreign whisper, “No one is timing you.”

I would walk. Steadily. Calmly. In patient rhythm. Even if twilight descended and the stones disappeared beneath my feet like the ocean floor in deep currents. I would walk the path. Trust that I would get there eventually. Trust that I would not be led astray or looped in a revolving circle.

I would walk the path.

I did reach the center. Just a short distance ahead. I followed in sequence as the space converged and filtered into the vast gray core of ancient design. My confidence swelled. I stood there for a few minutes, my heels pressed together to fit within the precise center stone and I heard their wings. The flock of geese paraded overhead in gorgeous geometry, exchanging places in silent negotiation. Their massive wingspan churned the air, rocked the ginkgo branches, and fixed my gaze on their flight. All within fleeting seconds. I wondered how I appeared to them from the sky, standing straight as a bicycle spoke, in a labyrinth of lines and circles and ashen rock.

“Is your spirit aligned?” Sarah’s voice startled me from behind.
I turned and nodded with a smile, surprising myself. “I’m sorry I took so long.”
She looked at me quizzically. “I hadn’t noticed.”

*****

We were quiet as we traced our way back along the cement and I found myself contemplating her question. Is your spirit aligned? My spirit. I knew she meant the question in jest, but I did feel absolved of something. Something elusive and intangible.

My spirit is twenty-eight years old. Divorced. I am coming to know her. Last July she visited her OB for advice on pre-natal vitamins. The following Tuesday she discovered her husband’s affairs. She is not on the path she thought, but she’s beginning to accept a divergence to one that will inevitably compose another life. One that might just stretch and wind. One that might be just as good.

As we walked away from the labyrinth that late afternoon and into the warm blonde light of the center for our treatments, I recalibrated. Although, I generally consider myself to be a skeptic, I’m willing to admit that I can also sometimes be a believer.