The gift wasn't addressed to me. It had no  tag or festive paper. Truth be told, my grandmother had no idea that there would ever be a Twylla to pass along her book to. No one even remembered that the book existed for almost 100 years. My aunt, the last surviving child of my grandparents' six, discovered it "somewhere" and passed it onto my brother, among other memorabilia. He thought that as a writer, I might like it. "Like it," of course, is an understatement. It is the most precious of Grandma's possessions I could have ever imagined holding in my hands.

I didn't open it immediately. I waited for  a quiet morning  when it was just Grandma, the book and me. I took it to the Hendrix College library (see last blog posting), still empty of students. I sat at a table with my hands on the crumpled plastic bag, recalling a photo taken of Grandma when she was newly married. I imagined her touching the pages, finding her own quiet moments for reading.

I slowly, carefully – so as not to damage a single fragile page – removed it from the plastic.

Little Women, one of my favorites, given to Grandma (May) by her older sister, Carrie.
All I could do was breathe.  Without the inscription, it would have still been a treasure, an 1880 edition – published only 11 years after Louisa May Alcott submitted it to the Library of Congress as a newly written book. But with the inscription, it held a story of its very own. A gift given from one sister to another – like sisters Meg, Jo, Beth and Amy, whose stories filled the pages in front of me.
For the next hour, I turned every page, pausing to read a paragraph here and there. I  secretly hoped that I might find a letter Grandma had written, stuck between pages, then forgotten. Maybe she had left words in margins or favorite passages underlined – tangible remembrances.
But nothing, until near the end.
I turned a page and discovered a single brown hair.

Had it floated to the page as she was reading? Then she had closed the book and set it aside, with no way of knowing that the next person who would see it, 
would be...me?
I will show the book to my own grandchildren and tell them stories of their great-great grandmother who taught me how to play Scrabble and dominoes, let me help her pin sheets to the clothesline, sat beside me at church every Sunday, altered my wedding dress. And who, once upon a time, had a sister who gave her a special book. 

I've been spending even more time walking the labyrinth lately. Those of you who read my blog regularly will recognize this photo as my adopted labyrinth on the campus of Hendrix College, about a 10-minute walk from our house. It's a shared adoption with the community. But I rarely encounter others, until recently when I discovered messages they had left in the center. I'll get to that later.

Circling the labyrinth is a meditation for me. I trust that the single path will take me to the center and back, so my mind can rest from needling questions such as "Am I doing this right?" or "What if I get lost?" In fact the longer I walk, the more my mind and body typically begin to calm as I concentrate on one foot in front of the other. Yet recently, Worries follow me every step of the way, nipping at my heels no matter how vigorously I shoo them away. 

What's different about these worries is that they are not mine alone; they are shared. You have them, too. First, it was (and still is) the pandemic and now, the unconscionable murder of George Floyd and its unfolding – often violent – aftermath. Covid-19's nagging health anxieties have been compounded by fear, anger and outrage at injustices too long endured and rarely redressed.

As a labyrinth facilitator, I offer opportunities for people to learn about and walk labyrinths. However, I don't walk with them. I stand at the entrance and hold space as the walkers enter, circle, then exit. I am present for them. Wherever they are on their journeys, whatever emotions they may experience during the walk, they know I am there – not to intervene, fix or critique – but to provide a calm, caring environment. It's a unique opportunity for me to quieten my own swirling thoughts and be a compassionate presence to others.  

The more I try to be intentionally present to people in my daily life, which may simply mean talking less and listening more, I find myself gradually regaining a hopefulness that has faded over the last three months. Holding space for myself as well, with self-compassion, mindfulness, and acceptance of what I can and cannot control, gives me renewed energy to find meaningful ways to connect with others. 

And knowing that people with similar worries are holding space – being present for me and one another – is sustaining, which brings me back to the messages in the labyrinth.

​Painted rocks keep showing up in the center, with no clue who left them, and they often disappear by the next morning.