I walked a labyrinth today. It was a beautiful, centering experience under a cloudy sky. The sense of peace and purpose I felt afterward was palpable. And then I left.
You should know I have no sense of direction. I was driving home and got turned around. Google maps said turn right, but I tried to turn right too soon, into a one-way street, going the wrong way (“you were only going one way”, my father would have said). Realizing my mistake, I swerved to miss a group of bikers and almost hit a car. The driver honked his horn, honked it some more, looked at me like he wanted to kill me, then gestured. And my serenity was gone…just like that.
I started crying and had to pull over because the tears wouldn’t stop. I suddenly realized I wasn’t crying because of that driver. I was crying because I missed my dad, and I have no idea where it came from. He died 25 years ago. I have sufficiently grieved the loss, or so I thought.
Grief isn’t linear. I miss my father terribly. He was kind, strong, and supportive. I’m so grateful I got to be his daughter. It’s just been a minute since I felt the pain so strongly. But today I let the tears flow. And maybe that’s what the labyrinth was for me. I thought it was to provide clarity in other areas of my life, to help me let go of baggage. Instead, maybe it was to reflect on beautiful memories of my precious Daddy, grieve this profound loss, and simply be human. All of that is allowed.
I detoured on the way home to walk Radnor Lake, a lovely area in Nashville that connects me to nature. I happened upon deer, blue herons, turtles, and chipmunks. The sky had cleared to a gorgeous blue by that point, and it was reflected in the water.
Today I’m grateful that I don’t always end up where I think I’m going. And I can set intentions all day long, but being able to surrender to the moment as it unfolds is a gift. I got to center myself, grieve, walk, and experience nature. So far, it’s been a really good day.
