I Walk the Line

It was a great delight this morning to walk the labyrinth at Sheldon, home of the Society of Mary and Martha and a retreat centre in Devon. The labyrinth here is a full-sized replica of the one at Chartres, with one special difference: this one is outside.

No faint-hearted pilgrims here; nor do you tussle with tourists and cathedral seating to be able to pray your way in and out of it. You do however have the weather, attendant puddles and wind-blown brash from the trees, as well as rabbit droppings to contend with: and why not?

I’m struggling to read my way into a tome about the enneagram at the moment [Beesing et al (1984), The Enneagram: a Journey of Self Discovery, Denville, NJ: Dimension Books Inc.]. It is a struggle because the authors have cast the nine ‘types’ of the enneagram as the result of compulsions, avoidance techniques; ‘sins’ even. I have previously written of Peter Drucker’s view that one develops best when concentrating on those things which one is good at, if they are identifiable, rather than those things one is not good at. The message of Beesing et al seems to run to the contrary: ‘no pain, no gain’.

My inclination is that Drucker has it right, and concentrating on sin is not helpful. Yet I am drawn to my experience of the puddles and the droppings on this morning’s pilgrimage around the Sheldon labyrinth. Our journey through life is seldom along a clear path.

This morning I did something quite different to my normal way of walking a labyrinth. Rather than gaze prayerfully at my feet, a habit I’ve developed largely in order to keep to the path, I kept my head up in order to feel part of the landscape. It gave me a strong sense of place, and lo: I did not stray from the path. Perhaps starting out from an awareness of sin can be of use, but maintaining an holistic perspective is desirable. We are, after all, not alone in our sinfulness; and salvation is at hand if we but look up and notice.