 I joyfully left my wipes, gloves and hand sanitizer in the front seat of the car. The sign in the parking lot said, "Lock up your valuables." That directive used to refer to my wallet. For the next hour or so, I wouldn't need them. I could touch anything I wanted and never have to protect or sanitize. It was a new definition of freedom in a world that feels like one big germ.  I stepped onto Huckleberry Trail and breathed deeply of freshness. This 3.5 mile hiking trail begins 30 minutes from our home at one of my favorite Arkansas state parks, Woolly Hollow. The name and place sound backwoodsy, in the best possible sense, where Nature immerses the visitor in her peacefulness. Yet, as I strode farther into the woods, I found myself dragging along worries and concerns of the day, at a pace that felt more like a workout than a saunter (one of my favorite Thoreau words.) Finally a robin caught my attention with its rebuke, "Slow down; take notice." I stopped. The silence caught me off guard like suddenly closing the door on a noisy party. I looked for the nearest place to sit down.  A perfect sitting rock lay right in front of me. For the next 10 minutes, 20 minutes, or perhaps just 5, I sat and listened with eyes open and closed, feeling morning sun on my back and hearing the sound of stream, bird and breeze. And when I continued sauntering, I paid attention.
 At the end of the trail, I reached out my hand and touched a tree, a parting connection to a place which felt like the normal I miss more every day.  It's texture, smell and calming spirit were still present when I returned to the car.
I did not wipe them off.
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 I'm on overload. TV news at home, radio news in the car, New York Times Morning Briefing on my phone, social media news via computer. . . the latest number of cases, possible cases, deaths, closings, government actions/inactions, tests/not enough tests, quarantines, handwashing, more handwashing, social distancing, stock market plummets and toilet paper lines. I tell myself – that's enough! Get up off the couch. Turn off the TV. But I linger, absorbed in the real life drama of how the coronavirus is changing our lives by the minute. My chest tightens, and I can't recall when I last took a deep breath. It's time to move. No, not sell my house and relocate to a place where COVID-19 sounds like unintelligible gibberish, but simply put on my shoes, jacket, hat and walk into fresh air. Ten minutes away is one of my favorite places, a labyrinth, on the campus of Hendrix College in our hometown of Conway, Arkansas. Anyone who knows me, knows that labyrinths are a central part of my life. Walking their ancient, circular design is a meditation for me – a calming experience from entrance, to center, and back. No way to get lost, but rather a single path to follow, one step in front of the next. The labyrinth can be a metaphor for what we may be experiencing in our lives, particularly in these unsettling times, when life feels more circular than linear... and change is a constant. And in times of change, walking the labyrinth reminds me to take my time, to pay attention to the journey along the way. ....which is just what I did as I walked through my neighborhood, across the pedestrian bridge, through the Hendrix campus to the labyrinth. 
Ten minutes turned into thirty as I allowed the emerging signs of spring to determine my pace. By the time I reached the labyrinth, my body and breathing had relaxed and thoughts of the coronavirus felt like yesterday's news. Labyrinths, nature and communication with family and friends are my principle ways of coping with a landscape that appears less familiar every day. They are constants that ground me, despite the upheaval, as do my morning cup of coffee, fresh flowers on the dining table, and gratitude journal on my nightstand. May you find nourishment in your own heathy practices..... and peace on your path during these challenging times.  ***********
To locate a labyrinth in your area, refer to the World-Wide Labyrinth Locator where almost 6000 labyrinths are listed globally. If none exists, you can print a finger labyrinth and trace the design in a slow, meditative manner. (If no printer is available, trace the finger labyrinth design as it appears on your computer screen.) To learn more about labyrinths, visit The Labyrinth Society and/or Veriditas website, a nonprofit located in Petaluma, California, which provides information, labyrinth experiences and facilitator training. For the past thirty or so years, an early morning walk has been part of my routine, except for Wednesdays and Sundays when I take a break. In retirement, I at least wait until the sun comes up to head outside. Not to rub it in too much for family and friends waking up to snow, ice or rain, but the sun has actually been in glorious view for the last two weeks I've been in California. I finish my coffee after Drew leaves for his job in Menlo Park, and wait for the sun to edge its way onto the wetlands outside our apartment windows. Not for too long, though. I do have friends expecting me.   A wetlands trail winds its way just a stone's throw from our apartment, past waters and grassland, to an overlook 1.7 miles in the distance. About five minutes down the gravel path, my walking partners appear. Canandian geese, vacationing in the Bay area, greet me and pick up the pace. I can't tell whether they're chastising me for keeping them waiting or complaining about the rush hour traffic on nearby Highway 101, but they seem to be in a constant state of annoyance. Of course, since I don't speak "goose," I could have it all wrong.  Tired of too much walking and chatter, they stop for breakfast, allowing me time to catch my breath and take in the view. Seagulls, ducks and sandpipers gather on still waters, yards beyond a protective boundary. Their collective voices triumphantly rise above the continuous din of engines behind me.  Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse movement and the tip of a pair of ears. For the past few days, I've noticed a jack rabbit skirting the trail, often crossing it just ahead of me, dashing into tall grass. I whisper goodbye to the geese and tiptoe in slow motion toward the ears. They pivot, twitch, then escape with a blur of fur into deeper thickets. I freeze with my camera at the ready, set to highest magnification. A moment later Jack steps cautiously from behind a bush, and I snap a burst of photos hoping one will capture him. And the next second, he's gone.  With the sun warming my back, I arrive at the lookout and gaze out on the natural beauty that surrounds me. Were it not for the vision and hard work of people I'll never know, these wetlands would be overgrown with buildings. And the inhabitants ? Who knows. I turn to retrace my steps and see a graceful reminder of why this wildlife refuge is more than a place of beauty. It is a home.  *For additional information: Don Edwards National Wildlife Refuge, Bair Island Redwood City, California Beginning |
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We continued to build the arrangement, positioning the flowers so each one enjoyed its own space yet fully contributed to the whole. Once finished, Meiko pointed to a trifold screen and asked that I formally display my piece for a photo.
For days afterward, the sight of my first Ikebana endeavor brought me a feeling of peaceful contentment, and pride.
"I made that!" I'd hear myself say, to no one but myself.
As much as I like crossing things off lists, I decided to revise instead. My Before 70 List now includes "More Ikebana classes."
I wonder what might be on your list?
I met Hilary Cooper-Kenny in 2012 when I visited her on my 50-state labyrinth journey. She created a labyrinth in the backyard of her Kingsbury, New York home and described it as her "serene" place – in contrast to the busyness of her Crazy as a Loom (yes Loom!) Weaving Studio.
I have followed her blog, Crazy as a Loom, ever since. Recently, I was leafing through a completed journal and found a scrap of paper stuck to one of the pages. On it, I had written "tiny life" Hilary blog post 2017. I must have planned to revisit it, but never did. I read back through her posts for that year and found the two words, embedded in a sentence among a page of paragraphs. .
I have to stay grounded in my "tiny life," she wrote.
.
Tiny life? Hilary? I wanted to dash off a very belated comment....
"What do you mean a tiny life? I love reading about your life – your looms, weavings, pots of hearty soup in the winter, visits from your grandchildren, the pets that died and the ones you adopted, your multiple cups of tea that keep you fueled and warmed in the 1790's house you restored, the friends who drop by, books you read, the (literal) headaches and heartaches, and the honesty that flows from it all."
Thankfully, I didn't need to read further than Hilary's next line for reassurance that tiny wasn't meant as a judgement.
"I like my life," she continued. "My day to day is productive, creative and mostly happy."
It's a life like most of ours, not lived out on the world stage, or even in the local paper (when there is one).
A life not measured by size or reach, but rather by authenticity.
Perhaps when I copied Hilary's words I was wondering whether my own life was tiny, significant enough, worthwhile enough in the grand scheme of things – all those middle school comparisons that lead us nowhere, but to more tiny-ness. Two years later, I look at the paper and know what Hilary was saying all along, as she surrounded "tiny life" in quotation marks.
There is no such thing.
I invite you to read Hilary's blog and check out her website.
I have to stay grounded in my "tiny life," she wrote.
.
Tiny life? Hilary? I wanted to dash off a very belated comment....
"What do you mean a tiny life? I love reading about your life – your looms, weavings, pots of hearty soup in the winter, visits from your grandchildren, the pets that died and the ones you adopted, your multiple cups of tea that keep you fueled and warmed in the 1790's house you restored, the friends who drop by, books you read, the (literal) headaches and heartaches, and the honesty that flows from it all."
Thankfully, I didn't need to read further than Hilary's next line for reassurance that tiny wasn't meant as a judgement.
"I like my life," she continued. "My day to day is productive, creative and mostly happy."
It's a life like most of ours, not lived out on the world stage, or even in the local paper (when there is one).
A life not measured by size or reach, but rather by authenticity.
Perhaps when I copied Hilary's words I was wondering whether my own life was tiny, significant enough, worthwhile enough in the grand scheme of things – all those middle school comparisons that lead us nowhere, but to more tiny-ness. Two years later, I look at the paper and know what Hilary was saying all along, as she surrounded "tiny life" in quotation marks.
There is no such thing.
I invite you to read Hilary's blog and check out her website.
I drove through the gates of the Mercy Center in Burlingame, California in search of its labyrinth. I had heard of the Center's quiet beauty and contemplative spirit from friends who had personally experienced it, but my trips to nearby San Francisco were few and far between. With Drew's new job in Menlo Park, I suddenly found myself a convenient 25 miles away.
The sun had begun to filter through leaves onto the labyrinth's path when I arrived at 8:30. Two women were placing signs throughout the turns for a group walk later that morning. I sat impatiently on a neighboring bench, eager for them to finish so the labyrinth and I could spend some private time together.
When I finally stepped onto the sandy path and began circling, I purposefully ignored the signs. I wasn't interested in a theme-based walk, where I was encouraged to contemplate a suggested topic. My aim was to remain "open" as I walked, allowing whatever thoughts that bubbled up to lead me where I needed to be. But try as I might to look away, my sideways glances increased. Perhaps remaining open meant paying attention to what was in front of me.
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I quickly caught on that a key word was repeated in each message, and that it was no kumbaya kind of word. It packed a punch.
Hope is....
strength
power
a sense of purpose
empowerment
a refusal to accept or confirm... despair
ACTIVE
Hope is....
strength
power
a sense of purpose
empowerment
a refusal to accept or confirm... despair
ACTIVE
.My own sense of hopefulness had been waning of late. Just that morning I had angrily switched off the car radio, tuning out news of yet another senseless mass shooting. Then there's climate change, inhumanity at immigration borders, ongoing poverty and homelessness, prejudice, racial injustice. . . The list can seem neverendingly dismal.
And yet, the messages surrounding me confirmed that hope is more than an illusive state of mind, a vague wish that things could somehow get better. Its strength is in active practice.
I stepped out of the labyrinth's center with a quickened pace and a spark of hope that felt powerful.
And yet, the messages surrounding me confirmed that hope is more than an illusive state of mind, a vague wish that things could somehow get better. Its strength is in active practice.
I stepped out of the labyrinth's center with a quickened pace and a spark of hope that felt powerful.
Returning to the bench, I opened my journal and wrote a question on the next blank page:
How can I practice hope in my daily life?
I invite you to join me.
How can I practice hope in my daily life?
I invite you to join me.
For the past month, Drew and I have been living in a constant state of change. We bought a new house, just three houses down the street from our current house in Conway, Arkansas – a more convenient move than across the country, but a move nonetheless. Then, we moved across the country! Drew accepted a job as Head of School at Alto International School in Menlo Park, California; so two weeks after moving in our new house (our permanent residence), we drove 1913.3 miles to our new apartment in Redwood City. A lot of newness. "All's good," as the expression goes, but different.
I can deal with different as long as everything's not different. But a week into our Arkansas move, sitting on the floor among piles labeled "Arkansas," "California," "Goodwill," "consignment," "trash," I concluded that life would never again be the same. There was not even a space in the kitchen of our new house to put my chalkboard, which somehow felt like the last straw. Whereupon I indulged in at least five minutes of tearful self-pity.
Every month I enthusiastically write a quote on the board in my neatest former-2nd-grade teacher printing. I search for just the right words to inspire me, and hopefully others, as we enter that space. The chalkboard with its message felt like an anchor in my frenzied life, a physical reminder to reflect and be present. But it wouldn't fit.
Until my perspective changed.
I can deal with different as long as everything's not different. But a week into our Arkansas move, sitting on the floor among piles labeled "Arkansas," "California," "Goodwill," "consignment," "trash," I concluded that life would never again be the same. There was not even a space in the kitchen of our new house to put my chalkboard, which somehow felt like the last straw. Whereupon I indulged in at least five minutes of tearful self-pity.
Every month I enthusiastically write a quote on the board in my neatest former-2nd-grade teacher printing. I search for just the right words to inspire me, and hopefully others, as we enter that space. The chalkboard with its message felt like an anchor in my frenzied life, a physical reminder to reflect and be present. But it wouldn't fit.
Until my perspective changed.
Image credit - Homebody: A Guide to Creating Spaces You Never Want to Leave, by Joanna Gaines Leafing through Joanna Gaines' book, Homebody, as I removed it from a box, I found a familiar image. It was my chalkboard (actually Joanna's since I ordered it from her website, Magnolia Market,) but in a different position!
I hurried to find the tape measure, and to my delight discovered that by turning the chalkboard vertically, it would fit perfectly on a wall in our new kitchen.
All I needed was a handyman who could drill holes on the other side and hang it for me.
Luckily, I happen to be married to just such a guy.
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And with one slight – yet monumental – turn, differences became unique possibilities.
Not that the challenges have disappeared. I still can't remember my new addresses, but the changes are more manageable and some days, even exciting!
*Nesting - quote taken from the Nesting shop in Concord, Massachusetts
Not that the challenges have disappeared. I still can't remember my new addresses, but the changes are more manageable and some days, even exciting!
*Nesting - quote taken from the Nesting shop in Concord, Massachusetts
When I was a sophomore in college, I aspired to major in history. American history, especially, awakened my imagination beyond names and dates in a textbook, to people's day-to-day stories buried beneath them. Sometimes I even felt that I was living in the wrong time period, that I should have been a pioneer, a suffragette, or stationmaster(mistress) on the Underground Railroad.
I scheduled an appointment with the professor of my Western Civ class to map out coursework for the next two years. I'll never forget his monotone response to my enthusiasm...
"There's no point majoring in history unless you're prepared to go straight through and get your PhD."
To my twenty-year-old self, his timeline felt like an unattainable eternity, with all-or-nothing the only options. At the time, it didn't occur to me that Dr. ?, in all his academic pomp and circumstance, could possibly be....wrong.
That pivotal moment swerved me to another major (speech pathology) and different life's journey, with its own joys and rewards. Throughout the years, however, I've often pondered what happens to an unrealized passion –a dream deferred –as Langston Hughes asks in his poem. Does it dry up "like a raisin in the sun," or does it live on – stronger, more determined to survive in its own distinctive way?
What happened to my dream of becoming an historian, of studying and enjoying history as a lifelong passion?
Here's a clue from the book on my nightstand...
I scheduled an appointment with the professor of my Western Civ class to map out coursework for the next two years. I'll never forget his monotone response to my enthusiasm...
"There's no point majoring in history unless you're prepared to go straight through and get your PhD."
To my twenty-year-old self, his timeline felt like an unattainable eternity, with all-or-nothing the only options. At the time, it didn't occur to me that Dr. ?, in all his academic pomp and circumstance, could possibly be....wrong.
That pivotal moment swerved me to another major (speech pathology) and different life's journey, with its own joys and rewards. Throughout the years, however, I've often pondered what happens to an unrealized passion –a dream deferred –as Langston Hughes asks in his poem. Does it dry up "like a raisin in the sun," or does it live on – stronger, more determined to survive in its own distinctive way?
What happened to my dream of becoming an historian, of studying and enjoying history as a lifelong passion?
Here's a clue from the book on my nightstand...
And the Audible book I'm listening to on my morning walks....
And the slew of historical places I've visited and PBS documentaries I've watched.
And the delight I felt while helping granddaughter Anna research Harriet Tubman and prepare a life-size poster of her for a 3rd grade project.
The list is endless. That is the point.
There's never just one way to honor your dream.
Whatever speaks to us, we must pursue, for it is a part of who we are.
I encourage you – or better yet – encourage yourself to realize your dreams.
Find your own path. And take a step!
There's never just one way to honor your dream.
Whatever speaks to us, we must pursue, for it is a part of who we are.
I encourage you – or better yet – encourage yourself to realize your dreams.
Find your own path. And take a step!
I stood on the front porch of the cabin we were renting during spring break with our daughter and her family. Reflexively, I took a deep breath of coolness and exhaled slowly. The full moon was rising over the outline of an old cotton gin nearby. Frogs and crickets eased into their evening conversation, cranking up the volume as darkness settled in.
A train whistle signaled its approaching presence.
Any other evening at our home in the city, I would no doubt have been indoors. The moon would have knocked, but I wouldn't have answered. There was supper to fix and Wheel of Fortune to watch.
A train whistle signaled its approaching presence.
Any other evening at our home in the city, I would no doubt have been indoors. The moon would have knocked, but I wouldn't have answered. There was supper to fix and Wheel of Fortune to watch.
Early the next morning, my gaze followed the stream of sunshine across the wooden floor, up and out the window. An invitation.
With one flick of the quilt, I shunned my methodical morning routine of exercise, meditation, coffee, breakfast, shower, makeup, wardrobe selection and To Do list. . . slid on shoes, grabbed my jacket and camera (phone). Time was a-wastin'!
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I had seen similar sights before, of course,
barn, fence, open field, grove of pine, flower and robin.
I had felt the freshness of dawn.
Yet, somehow, I had forgotten
Or had forgotten to notice.
*Coulter Farmstead cabin is located near Washington State Park, Arkansas
Welcome!
After finishing my book, Labyrinth Journeys ~ 50 States, 51 Stories, I knew I wasn't finished writing or journeying.
Please join me as I continue both and see where they lead me (and you!)
~Twylla Alexander
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