The town hall meeting was unusual. There were floating fairy cakes and vegan cookies. I’m sure I caught sight of a dark cat sitting outside in a tree I hadn’t noticed when I entered the hotel and watching through the window.
I was glad I found a space in the back where I could watch, unobserved. I was also glad I had tucked a deck of tarot cards in my pocket before walking to the meeting. As I listened and watched the interactions between community members, I pulled cards, setting them aside in a pile that I brought back to the house and looked at later. Very interesting. Interesting indeed.
Paddles the puffin hovered by the punch. I caught head nods between several of the women as they entered, and Rose and the two Daves whispered the entire time. We ended up voting in a new mayor. I thought we had been voting for an interim mayor, but I guess it doesn’t matter since no one else was interested in taking on the role. I slipped out as soon as I could.
I’ve been spending a lot of time at the park. On the map, the park looks like a long, green rectangle. One might assume it is just a lawn with a few scattered trees, but maps can be misleading. Especially here, maps seem to have little grounding in reality.
Living right across from the park, it has become my habit to walk each morning. I take my sketchbook, and I record something before returning.
The park is definitely not simply a green rectangle.
I have only begun to explore, but my favorite spot right now is a long corridor that feels like an arched tunnel. The trees are dense and tall, and the canopies touch at the top, blocking the brightest light. The path is cool and quiet, narrow, just big enough for two people to walk shoulder to shoulder. The ground is dirt with scattered moss.
The corridor seems to be infinite.
I do realize how these entries will appear later when my logs are complete. Nothing here is as it seems.
Rationally, I know that the park ends at the preschool. If you walk the street, the park is only a few blocks long. But in this protected corridor of trees, you can walk for miles. There aren’t any outlets. The only way in is through a small opening near the front of the park, just behind the bench and tree where I first arrived.
I only happened to notice the small gap one day. It may have been uncharacteristic of me to step through and into the unknown space. I am always afraid something will run out at me.
The corridor is enchanting. It is peaceful. I’ve seen nuthatches and chickadees moving in the trees, and a raven has frequently landed on a low branch ahead of me, seeming to watch silently as I pass. There is always a slight wind, and the sun filters through the dense canopy, creating dappled mosaics on the path.
I am always careful to make sure no one notices as I slip through the entrance and into the shade. I don’t know if others walk here, too. I’ve walked farther each time before turning around. I haven’t reached an end.
I have found a few odd things. I’ve noticed mirrors propped in a few trees with lower branches. I also found three empty frames sitting at the base of trees.
I have left each as I found them, undisturbed.
The corridor has created a conundrum in terms of the physics of the park, but a much smaller area of the park has held my attention this week, a section that seems to be interacting more directly with me.
I remain confused, and yet I seem unafraid. Somehow, I am open here in ways I have not been before.
At the corner of the park, the end nearest my house, there is a small grove of trees, a circle of ginkgo that appear to be several years old, full bodied, their leaves in full gold. Boughs touching, they encircle an empty clearing.
When I first found the grove, I stood in the middle of the space and turned slowly in a circle, marveling at this tiny nook, hidden from those simply wandering the green spaces but available to any who step closer to the ginkgo and look beyond.
I wondered what the intent had been. There weren’t any benches, but the clearing was bare, almost as if it was being routinely swept clean.
The next time I visited, wanting to sit inside the circle and sketch the trees, there was a small pile of river rock sitting in the middle of the clearing. Each was a bit smaller than my hand. I picked one up and felt its smoothness as I wondered who had placed them here.
Looking at the small pile, twelve or so, I sat on the ground and idly lined them up in a ring around me. The circle complete, I sat, closed my eyes, breathed deeply, and let myself listen to the wind.
When I opened my eyes to leave, there was another pile of stones ahead of me, just outside the circle. I stared at them in surprise before leaving that day. It was very curious.
I thought several times about the rocks after that. Maybe I had imagined there were more stones than there had been? Maybe they had all been there at the start? I knew these things were not true. I knew I had used every piece of rock to make the circle. I knew the pile that remained when I left had not been there when I arrived.
I cannot explain these things, and there are times when I wonder if I am okay.
Do people really walk through plum trees and into new villages where magic seems to be everywhere? Of course not. I cannot explain what is happening here, but the unknowing is comforting. The magic is not one that seems to threaten. It seems, instead, to soothe.
I went one more time to the grove, and there were even more rocks in a pile at the edge of the clearing. The small circle I had made was still there, but a few stones had been shifted. The circle had been opened.
A small circle in the center of a grove with a small opening...
“A labyrinth,” I whispered.
“A labyrinth,” I said, again, more loudly. “Was there supposed to be a labyrinth here?”
The trees rippled.
I thought about other labyrinths I have walked, most larger than this space, but a few have been small. It would be nice to have a small mindfulness labyrinth so close to the house.
“Where would I find enough river rock?” I mused.
A rock rolled in front of me. Then another.
When I got back to the house, I dropped my things on the small table, plopped down on the deep turquoise couch, and looked out the window.
“The gingko grove wants me to build a labyrinth,” I said. “Can you believe it?”
A book landed on the couch next to me, almost causing me to spill the cup of coffee the house had readily supplied.
Classical Labyrinths: Construction Manual by Robert D Ferre.
Of course.
“You know I’ll have to clear this with the city, just to make sure there are no restrictions on arranging rocks in the park.”
The house was silent.
“Someone surely runs the park,” I mused.
“Maybe someone will want to help me lay the rocks?”
“I might need a permit?”
“I’ll have to ask the mayor, I guess.”
The lights flickered.
“I told you there is a new mayor.”
The lights flickered again.
I sighed. A nap seemed like a good idea.
“It would be nice if you could tell me what I need to know about the mayor. The old one or the new one.”
At that moment, a large gray cat emerged from the shadows and jumped onto the couch.
For a long moment, it stared at me before letting out a single mewling cry and dipping its head to rub it against my free hand.
“You’ve been the one making all the noise,” I exclaimed with a laugh, rubbing the cat’s head.
An endless corridor, a grove of ginkgo, and now this.
“Do you belong here?” I asked softly, noticing the cat had one green eye and one blue.
Every light in the house went on.
“Clearly, that’s a yes. What will we call you?”
The cards this week were not the soft and whimsical set I would have liked to match with the time spent in the park and the time I’m spending trying to understand the things that do and do not make sense. The story the cards offer is rarely as tidy as that. If a circle of rocks had turned up, it would have been far too easy.
This week, I asked: What am I carrying as I explore these spaces? What is taking root without my having chosen it? What in this place asks to be encountered rather than explained? Admittedly, with the need to put a request to build a labyrinth in the park in front of the mayor, I asked a few other questions I hesitate to include even here in my private journal.
The cards suggest that something tender may be beginning, regardless of what I want or expect, something I may not have chosen and may not be choosing. It is unclear whether this is attachment, enchantment, awareness, receptivity, grief softening into feeling rather than numbness, or even early seeds of belonging. The cards suggest a level of doubling, the layering of absence and presence coexisting. There is also the suggestion that something buried or dormant is being summoned, a narrative that hints at a rising chorus or collective call. Some of the cards are a bit worrisome, but cards can be wrong.
Note to readers:
The nature of this project is that there are weekly installments from writers who have characters that live in Millcreek Village. Most installments at least obliquely respond to a community prompt. The stories will logically move in and out of time as readers get bits and pieces told from different perspectives.
Here are a few of the Millcreek Village stories that informed Az’s entries and observations this week:
Comments
Nothing yet. Say the first thing.
Sign in to join the conversation.