I move through the labyrinth on my knees, like a supplicant on a pilgrimage to a holy place. I pluck every dandelion, every blade of grass. Seedling trees and other wayward plants nearly obscure the stones that mark a path to the center. I must remove them, too.
Every spring the same exercise awaits me. I make my way, revealing the path, inch by inch and foot by foot. Where the moss threatens to envelope a rock, I pull up the rock and turn it over—showing another side, darkly moist but clean of moss. It sharpens the edges of the path.
In the labyrinth, clearing and clarifying the path take time and patience. All vegetation except the moss must go. Even the rocks may need to shift slightly. Some need to be turned over or repositioned after winter’s frost and settling. Each stone helps mark the path. I make the labyrinth my metaphor as my queer life turns, inward and then outward, perpendicular to and then parallel to a center. But as I follow the path, I trust it will lead inexorably toward a center. Continue reading
