Saturday's Labyrinth - The Unknown

A new labyrinth on a foggy morning

There is so much right now that feels like we are moving into the unknown.  What will the climate be like in 10 years?  What will the state of our nation be in 10 years?   Where will some of our treasured institutions be in 10 years?  Where will I be in 10 years?  My family?  Will the Broncos finally have a consistent QB 10 years from now?

Entering into grief and mourning is very much a journey into the unknown.  I have felt grief somewhat from afar for most of my life as people in my family who have passed away have been a bit more distant relatives than immediate.  I have served in  well over 200 funerals in 25 years of ministry and some of those people have been ones I’ve been closer to than others, but none have been to me a parent, or a spouse, a sibling, or a child.  This coming week I’ll remember two people who had a transforming effect on my life.  Lisa died a year ago on Tuesday and then another friend who was a source of wisdom, insight, support, and elder-ship died seven years ago on March 9.

His name was Phil and who he was is near-impossible to put into words other than to say he came into my life and into the lives of many others and showed us what true wisdom is.  And he died as a true elder in the deepest sense of the word. I vividly remember seeing him in his hospice care room surrounded by people just wanting to soak up the wisdom of his life.  When several of us who journeyed with Phil still get together, at some point a piece of Phil’s wisdom is raised or the question is asked “I wonder what Phil would think about this?” In some of our last conversations, Phil spoke of his anticipation of unveiling the mystery of what was next. He didn’t go into death in fear but instead in wonder, curiosity, and hope.   Around this time in 2017, I wrote in my journal of how two of us spent our last time together with him reading the poetry/prayers of Rilke and how meaningful that moment was.  I just wish I had written down which of Rilke’s writings we had read that day.  I also wrote down a quote that he shared either with me or with a group when he said that one part of maturity and wisdom was “learning to live within your fear.”  In his final days, he shared with everyone who came in that he wanted to spend his last few days in solitude and silence so there was a final day of words and presence and then he entered into the mystery in the way that he desired.  I have known no one else who died as beautifully as Phil did.

This morning’s labyrinth was a step into the unknown.  I discovered last night that Xavier University had built a prayer labyrinth in late 2023 to honor one of their former presidents, Michael J Graham, S.J..  So that was Scout and my destination this morning and it is a truly beautiful space that has been created.  And it will be even more beautiful in the Spring and Summer.

The photos don’t show it so well but it was also a rather foggy morning and the whole experience spoke to me of the unknown.  The unknown of what is ahead in the fog.  The unknown of what this new labyrinth would be like.  The unknown when change comes in life (which it always does).  And the truth is that every change can bring an element of grief because most changes have some element of loss in it.  Even some good and healthy changes may stir elements of grief.  And of course, losses such as the death of someone dear, the loss of a job, a scary diagnosis, or a host of other things, can bring about grief.  And grief is a deep unknown - what will life be like without that person?  When will I find that new job?  Will I make it through these treatments?  What will this new change in life be like?

And grief is a deep unknown.  I have been so blessed by the wisdom and words of John O’Donohue, especially in his book To Bless the Space Between Us.  He writes this blessing about grief:

For Grief

When you lose someone you love,
Your life becomes strange,
The ground beneath you gets fragile,
Your thoughts make your eyes unsure;
And some dead echo drags your voice down
Where words have no confidence.

Your heart has grown heavy with loss;
And though this loss has wounded others too,
No one knows what has been taken from you
When the silence of absence deepens.

Flickers of guilt kindle regret
For all that was left unsaid or undone.

There are days when you wake up happy;
Again inside the fullness of life,
Until the moment breaks
And you are thrown back
Onto the black tide of loss.

Days when you have your heart back,
You are able to function well
Until in the middle of work or encounter,
Suddenly with no warning,
You are ambushed by grief.

It becomes hard to trust yourself.
All you can depend on now is that

Sorrow will remain faithful to itself.
More than you, it knows its way
And will find the right time
To pull and pull the rope of grief
Until that coiled hill of tears
Has reduced to its last drop.

Gradually, you will learn acquaintance
With the invisible form of your departed;
And when the work of grief is done,
The wound of loss will heal
And you will have learned
To wean your eyes
From that gap in the air
And be able to enter the hearth
In your soul where your loved one
Has awaited your return
All the time.¹

Do you hear the unknowns throughout his words?  He shares of the reality that no one else truly knows what this loss is like for the person going through it because everyone’s loss and grief is unique.  He lifts the reality that one day may start happy and then something triggers a shift that was unexpected.  There are words of ambush and push and pull that reflect the sense that grief can physically move us in ways that we cannot anticipate.  But there is hope - I love how he begins the last stanza... “Gradually you will learn acquaintance with the invisible form of your departed...and you will be able to enter the hearth in your soul where your loved one has awaited your return all the time.”

And do you notice the structure of what he wrote? The longest and fullest stanza is the last one. The others before it have 6, 4, 2, 5, 5, 2, 6 lines - they feel like the scatteredness of grief and there’s no consistency or pattern. But then the final stanza - 10 lines - with words like “done” “heal” “learned” “air” “hearth” “awaited” “all.” A stanza of healing and hope.

But getting to that place takes time.  It takes time to navigate through the loops and turns of grief and loss.  It takes time to move through the fog of the unknown into the ever changing new reality that is emerging.  I received a message from a subscriber to this site sharing about a major injury from which she is still recovering and I could (even in the text of an email) hear the grief in her life of a body that isn’t what it was and wondering if it will be again.  Another shared in a public comment about what I heard as grief over a lack of intimacy with others in life.  These are griefs and these are daily steps in the unknown as well. These may be moments in the first stanzas of this blessing.

I wish I could simply write to them and say that tomorrow it will be better.  It might be, but it also might not.  Do I feel differently about Phil’s death now than I did when I was crying in my car after what I knew was my last time with him seven years ago?  I do, but I still dearly miss him as I know many others do as well.  Is my grief over Lisa’s death different today than a year-ish ago?  It is.  But like I wrote yesterday, I wish I could have another of those morning conversations taking in a beautiful sunrise.

Another aspect of the labyrinth that I love dearly is that the center can always be seen. There aren’t tall hedges in between.  Even at the farthest ring of the labyrinth, the heart is still present.  That’s how I hold the presence of the divine/God/Spirit in these shifting times.  There may be times that I feel more distant but I can still look out and reach out and know that I do not walk alone.

If you feel so moved, I invite you to share a grief in the comments.  You don’t have to put specifics if you don’t want to - even just a single letter or a series of dots - it isn’t about me or others knowing the details.  Instead it is simply an act of naming and lifting that grief or that unknown or that loss and knowing that you are not alone.

A few more photos from the morning...

One thing about this labyrinth is that it is lighted - there are lights all around the outside and illuminating the rocks around it (last photo). I want to visit at night.

As this is a new labyrinth to me, there’s no 2022 video to share. It’s to us to add our voices.

GPLJ,
Ed

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1. O'Donohue, John. To Bless the Space Between Us: A Book of Blessings (pp. 117-118). The Crown Publishing Group. Kindle Edition.