Labyrinths have always held a special allure for me. These intricate, maze-like pathways are more than just puzzles; they are ancient tools for meditation and spiritual exploration. As someone who appreciates the contemplative nature of labyrinths, I make it a point to visit them whenever I can. If you’re also fascinated by these paths, resources like The Labyrinth Society and the Worldwide Labyrinth Locator are invaluable for discovering more about labyrinths and finding ones near you.
Following a recent visit to another labyrinth (which I described in a previous post), I found myself drawn to the labyrinth at Peter Becker Community in Harleysville. This particular labyrinth offered a uniquely different experience, setting it apart from many others I’ve encountered.
What immediately struck me about the Peter Becker Community labyrinth was its design. It’s a contemporary three-circuit layout, drawing inspiration from both classical and Chartres labyrinth designs, yet distinctly modern. Instead of the tightly packed paths typical of many labyrinths, this one features inlaid pavers with generous “negative space,” created by carefully landscaped bushes and low walls. This design transforms the walk into something akin to a peaceful stroll through a thoughtfully designed garden, rather than a confined pathway.
Upon my arrival, I noticed several individuals already present at the labyrinth. However, they weren’t there for a meditative walk. They were groundskeepers, engaged in the task of removing and replacing a bush, diligently maintaining the grounds. After a brief exchange of greetings, I chose a bench at the labyrinth’s edge to sit and observe. I didn’t announce my intention to walk the labyrinth, and as it turned out, I never actually stepped onto the path that day. Yet, there was something compelling about simply being present at the edge, amidst the activity of others working to care for this space. It prompted me to question whether the act of walking was necessary to gain something meaningful from the labyrinth experience. Could sitting in contemplation at its edge be equally, or perhaps even more, insightful?
This experience sparked a deeper question within me: “How can I cultivate and recognize more ‘edge places’ in my own daily life?” This thought was partly inspired by considering the residents of Peter Becker Community. For many who live here, venturing out to distant labyrinths isn’t always feasible. This on-site labyrinth provides them with accessible opportunity for reflection and peace. Similarly, I realized that my own busy life often limits my ability to seek out labyrinths as frequently as I’d like. This led me to ponder: what resources are available to me in those everyday moments, days, or weeks when a dedicated labyrinth visit isn’t possible? How can I find those “edge” moments closer to home, more consistently?
The thought crossed my mind that I could simply ask the groundskeepers for a few minutes to walk the labyrinth. I’m sure they would have graciously accommodated me. However, an unexpected feeling arose – a sense that the lesson in that moment wasn’t about seeking accommodation or assistance. While learning to ask for help is a valuable lesson in itself, it didn’t feel like the core message of this particular moment. Instead, the deeper lesson seemed to be about discovering how to find that liminal “edge” space within my existing circumstances, even when external access to places like rivers or labyrinths is limited.
To further engage with the labyrinth, even without walking it, I made a quick sketch of its path. Tracing the lines back and forth several times, I found a surprising sense of focus and connection. This reminded me of my stylus labyrinth at home, a tool I’ve often used when a physical walk wasn’t possible. This stylus labyrinth became a tangible “edge place” I could access anytime.
And what about the natural edges nearby? The lake, just a mile from my house, immediately came to mind. Its shoreline offers another readily available “edge place” for contemplation.
Beyond these, I considered the daily edges marked by sunrise and sunset. As a teenager, I had a habit of walking to a nearby cemetery to watch the sunset – a forgotten ritual. Could I rediscover such a place near my current home? Could I structure my days around these natural transitions – sunrise, midday, sunset? Could these moments become meaningful markers, creating “edge places” within my daily routine? And could I embrace these moments, even in the presence of others, without self-consciousness, just as I was doing at Peter Becker Community, sitting at the labyrinth’s edge while groundskeepers worked nearby?
It was remarkable how these reflections and ideas unfolded without even walking the labyrinth. Perhaps the conscious act of arriving at this “edge” – the Peter Becker Community labyrinth – was the key. Maybe the intention and presence at the edge were more significant than the walk itself. Perhaps the daily practice I need to cultivate is precisely this: the conscious choice to arrive at the edge, wherever that may be found.
