Exploring the Labyrinth_ A Guide for Healing and Spiritual Growth - Melissa Gayle West [37]
Here are some questions to help you set up your central altar:
What objects most powerfully evoke for me the symbolism of Center?
What objects remind me of the Sacred, of my own higher self?
What am I working on spiritually right now? What object might remind me of that? (One of my favorite things to place on either altar is a small ceramic replica of an open hand, teaching me about receptivity, openness, and surrender.)
FINGER LABYRINTH ALTAR
If you have made or bought a finger labyrinth, you can experiment with altars there as well. My finger board is the centerpiece of a tabletop altar. Candles flank the miniature labyrinth; a cast of my daughter’s open preschool hands graces its entrance, reminding me of the importance of entering the labyrinth, no matter what its size, empty-handed and openhearted.
Besides these basic components, the finger board altar changes with the seasons and with my intentions. I put arrangements of seasonal flowers and greens on the altar. I add more candles at Winter Solstice, eggs at Spring Equinox, a tiny ceramic box my daughter made for me one Mother’s Day.
I have placed the labyrinth altar between the kitchen and the entrance to my therapy/writing studio in a separate wing of the house, marking the boundary between my home and my “work.” When I go from washing dishes to writing, passing the altar helps me be mindful of the transition. When I move from a full day of seeing clients back to being mother and householder, the altar reminds me of that as sacred work too.
Clients sitting in the waiting area can see the altar, especially if I have lit candles. They know they can trace the labyrinth while they are waiting for their session. Both the altar and the labyrinth at its center remind them that therapy is sacred work.
When I use my finger labyrinth, I like to light the candles on the altar before beginning, saying a prayer just as I do at my outside labyrinth. I then either trace the finger board as I stand in front of it or take it to a comfortable chair if I need more time. When I am done with the journey, I replace the labyrinth, say a prayer of gratitude, and extinguish the candles.
MAINTAINING THE LABYRINTH
Late afternoon in the city. With the faint roar of the freeway at my back, I stop for a moment at the entrance to my labyrinth to see what needs to be done. This is not walking time; it is grooming time. I notice that the rope which delineates the labyrinth’s circuits is becoming entangled by overgrown grass, so I spend the next forty-five minutes gently pulling it out from the thatch. As I work, I contemplate how I allow the presence of Spirit in my life to become obscured by the overgrowth of day-to-day details. The roar of traffic recedes; body and soul tune instead to the cadences of the creek that runs nearby, the breeze in the cottonwoods overhead. I am restored, as the labyrinth is restored.
“There’s no such thing as a labyrinth that doesn’t require maintenance!” asserts Sig Lonegren, author of Labyrinths: Ancient Myths and Modern Uses. “The question then becomes, ‘How can I integrate maintenance of my labyrinth into my spiritual path?’ Just because you’re weeding your labyrinth or straightening rocks doesn’t mean your mind and your spirit can’t be doing something. If you look at maintenance as a creative spiritual activity, I think it’s actually more powerful than walking.”
Toby Evans, creator of the Prairie Labyrinth, agrees. Evans has created a majestic 166-foot-wide labyrinth on her property, mown out of native prairie grasses she sowed with the help of the Prairie Restoration Project. The Prairie Labyrinth is high maintenance, as stray grasses—eight feet high by midsummer—fall over daily into the path, particularly after a high wind or rain. Evans has to hand-prune these strays as well as mow the labyrinth path with her riding mower, but she doesn’t begrudge