At the Heart of the Labyrinth

We begin our journey into the labyrinth. There will be times when it seems as if we are merely retracing our steps, and other times when it is as if we are actually moving farther away from the centre and back towards the outer rim. But always, and in spite of what our senses appear at times to be telling us, we move inexorably closer and ever closer to the centre and what we might discover there.

Unlike walking a maze, which has a variety of alternative paths to follow, and which therefore so easily can lead us into disorienting confusion, a labyrinth, in spite of its many convolutions, has only one path which we may reliably and trustingly follow all the way to the centre. So in spite of its maze-like appearance it is still possible to trace a path from the entrance to the very centre in one continuous line, even though we at times must necessarily double back upon ourselves. The labyrinth is therefore also promising the one who walks it that the centre always will be reached, no matter how many twists and turns in the path might be involved.

So there is a clear difference between a labyrinth and a maze, even though the two terms are sometimes used interchangeably. The confusion which exists between the terms is perhaps understandable, given the story of the most famous labyrinth in history, the Labyrinth of Ancient Crete housing the dreaded Minotaur which, because of its many alternative passageways, was actually a maze!

This difference between a labyrinth and a maze asks a question of us: the question as to why, when the winding path of the labyrinth is so ultimately predictable in its destination, would we spend our time walking it at all? This question becomes even more pointed when we consider that various existing labyrinths, either carved in stone on a column in Lucca Cathedral in Italy, or inset into a floor in tiles as in the cathedral of Chartres, or even crafted into a landscape with stones or furrows of earth, have no actual ‘walls’ as such, but can readily be viewed by us in their totality.

These true labyrinths have no need for a confusing puzzle. The point is to follow the path itself, to walk or trace out with our fingertips that continuous line leading to the labyrinth’s mysterious heart. It is the sense of gathering energy, of being on the way to something, which is what matters. And just as the form of the Grail is said to change according to who is seeking it, what that ‘something’ is which lies at the centre of each labyrinth will vary according to who is tracing out the path.

For some the winding path will represent a journey which draws them ever inwards to a spiritual truth. For others it will serve as a renewal of vital earth energies, as a reinvigorating of the flow of subtle currents beneath their rhythmic steps. And for others it might express a desire to regain a lost contact, both with their ancient forebears who constructed the labyrinth and with the earth itself. So for our ancestors – and for us – to trace out our steps to the labyrinth’s centre may well bring the prospect of true peace and equanimity when we reach its heart.    

Are We Still or are We Moving?

Are we still or are we moving? Even when our senses tell us that we might be keeping perfectly still, we know that we are moving, both with the Earth’s rotation through its cycles of day and night and with the movement of the Earth itself as it swims through the dark ocean of space. But to our ancestors these movements were unknown, unrecognised – and unthought-of. In those distant days, before science started to tell us otherwise, stillness was simply stillness.

But let us put science aside. If we are still, are we still moving? Supposing that we are lying ill in bed with a fever? Just as a burning fever is necessary before the healing can occur, we sometimes must undergo a critical turning point where we are turned around, inside out, undergoing a radical shift, to face a truth within. In life it is often suffering that leads us to open doors within ourselves that we probably would not have opened had we not first experienced this suffering. The suffering creates movement: a movement towards a process in which true healing can begin.

Our ancestors might not have been aware of the Earth’s movement through space, but movement for them came in other, perhaps more richer forms. For them, movement was a process: that sense of a journey which moves ever inwards and outwards once more. In mystic - and mythic - terms, a journey towards a centre is also a journey towards an edge, and it is this paradox which finds its most powerful expression in the form of the labyrinth.

And yet, such a paradox exists only in our everyday material reality, and is seen as being paradoxical only by our everyday senses. Once we are in the labyrinth and we walk the winding path which leads us inexorably towards the centre, we enter a timeless mythic landscape. Such paradoxes will then become meaningless, and the centre which is also an edge becomes a reality: a revealed truth. The labyrinth is a three-dimensional lesson offering a great and simple truth: that a movement – any movement – is a movement towards stillness, and that movement and stillness are themselves an eternal dynamic between action and rest.

Are we still or are we moving? We follow the winding path within ourselves and discover at our innermost centre, at the very core of our being, not the confines which we had imagined, but new infinities offering a true healing of the self.

The Angel of the Labyrinth

Resourceful Ariadne saw me not at all, although I am sure that she felt my presence as I glided silently at her shoulder. How ingeniously she wound the skein of thread that would be unwound by Theseus, there in the tortuous corridors of the Labyrinth. Ah, bold Theseus, claimed by myth as a hero for slaying the Minotaur that waited for his arrival at the heart of the winding ways. Hero indeed! The wretched monster already knew its own destiny, and needed only to await the arrival of the son of King Aegeus for it to be fulfilled.

I tell you that Ariadne’s deed was more heroic, providing as she did the means for Theseus’ return. And what was her reward? To be deserted by him on the island of Naxos, left behind like any castaway, to be rescued by a god who showed clever Ariadne more honour than he ever did.

All these things I have seen, for I am the witness of history, although history sees me not. Secretly I stand at the gate of every labyrinth, and as you enter the gate of your own labyrinth you will be sure to pass me. But you as well will not notice as I slip my skein into your hands. Unknowingly, you will begin to unwind it as you enter the turning ways. And at every turn it will be laid down, and every measure of it records the event which you experience. Here at this turn you made the decision to go either to the right or to the left, never being sure which path might be the right one to follow. Here farther along, you fell in love, and the path ahead changed for you because of this. And here, you suffered a loss, and the path changed direction once again.

All this is known, because all of these things, these life events, are recorded on the unwinding skein as they happen. Look closely: you can see them written on the skein. All which you experience is faithfully set down, a true document of your passage inwards. 

But what you cannot know is what will be written on the part of the skein which has yet to be unwound, because you can only discover that by unwinding it. And you can only unwind it by travelling farther on your journey. And since you cannot see what is ahead of you, you must have trust. You can read readily enough what has been written as it unwinds behind you. But what is yet to be written is negotiable, and up to you, and dependent upon the paths of choice which lie ahead of you in the labyrinth. And I, who have wound the skein which you now unwind, will help you to make those choices if, like Ariadne, you allow me to help you to reach the labyrinth’s heart.

Painting: Labyrinth, by Jake Baddeley.

Spiral

The spiral weaves the winding path

the dance begins with sacred tread

from field and meadow, home and hearth

the feet are led.

They gather on the cold hillside

in winter silence, winter sun

they dance along the winding form

they dance alone, they dance as one.

All seasons flow into the earth

all seasons flow into the land

they dance through lives

they dance through time

and each beginning is an end.

But endless is the winding path

and timeless are the feet that tread

and silent is the loving earth

on the lone hillside.

Artwork by Valerianna - RavenWood Forest - Massachusetts

The Winding Path

The winding paths of labyrinths fascinate us, and seem to pull us into their mysterious patterns. Following their paths carries us to their heart, whether those paths can be traced with a moving finger (as with the engraved labyrinth on a column in San Martino cathedral) or are large enough to be walked around (as with the famous labyrinth set into the floor of Chartres cathedral). But what was the original significance of these patterns?

The labyrinth is an archetype. It is a tangible metaphor for one’s own spiritual journey through the winding pathway of one’s life. The point of building a labyrinth, as emphasized in myths and dances, was always about a process of initiation. When you walk a labyrinth, you follow a single circuitous path winding inwards and out again in one direction. The way to the centre of the labyrinth leads to the experience of the turning point. Without this turning point it is impossible to leave the labyrinth.

In Ancient Greek Asklepieions - sanatoria founded on the healing principles of Hippocrates - the labyrinth had an essential function as part of the healing process. Then as now the philosophy was that the true essence of initiation into the hidden knowledge is knowledge of the Self. In order to achieve this knowledge, one first has to meet one's lesser self, one's personality. And so, after the patient had gone through the first three phases of treatment in the Asklepieion, he was brought into trance by way of a dance of progression through the labyrinth. The parts of his being - his physical, etheric and astral bodies - had already been  'loosened up' during the first three phases. Now his spiritual core - his 'I' or self - became the crux of the therapeutic process.

And while the person snaked on to the sounds of solemn music, approaching the centre of the labyrinth in a meditative follow-up of steps, the dancers saw specific images appear before their mind's eye. Then they would become aware that they saw, not just the labyrinth of their surroundings, but the labyrinth of their own life-walk. The catharsis comes with the discovery that they did not lose themselves in the labyrinth, but instead found their own inner selves. In the labyrinth we do not meet the Minotaur - we meet ourselves. Only through the purifying effectiveness of the catharsis do the inner transformations become possible, which, according to Jung, is always considered a profound religious experience. 

When we walk the labyrinth, we are engaging not just our senses, but our whole bodies, our physical selves. And so walking the labyrinth becomes a form of prayer which is prayed, not just with the mind, but with the whole being. It is this physical involvement which the labyrinth demands of us that becomes a form of ‘body prayer’, allowing the process of the turning point to become a real and vivid experience.

But even a physical labyrinth need not be necessary  to achieve the experience which a labyrinth has to offer. For life itself is a labyrinth, a winding path which all of  us tread, and ultimately it is up to us all individually to what extent we choose to make that experience a conscious one.

Desire change. Be enthusiastic for that flame

in which a thing escapes your grasp

while it makes a glorious display of transformation.

That designing Spirit, the master mind of all things on earth

loves nothing so much in the sweeping movement of the dance

as the turning point.

Rainer Maria Rilke