6th Annnual Photo Alphabet – Invitation to Labyrinth

I is for Invitation

Central Park, New York City

Invitation to Sit a Spell © 2013 Bo Mackison

When I see a bench in a garden, it’s an invitation for me to slow down and sit for a while.

“Dawdling” my grandfather would have said, but gardens are meant for strolling, sauntering, absorbing, meditating, observing. I always think a garden bench is the fine invitation to stop and sit a spell.

~~~

J is for Journeys.

Pictograh by Native American Artist, Agate Fossil Beds National Monument Visitor Center

Journey Life Map 2013 Bo Mackison

On my cross-country trip last May, I stopped at Agate Fossil Beds National Monument in Nebraska.

The ranger spoke extensively of this replica pictograph created the Lakota Sioux. A single drawing, the most significant of happenings, would summarize a year or a decade or even a hundred years. Over time the Lakota told their story in a spiral of tiny drawings.

Their journey begins with a simple drawing, representing the creation of the world.

Next is a drawing of a mastodon, then the animal’s fossilized bones. Hundreds of drawings make up the pictograph, drawn on animal skin. It is a pictorial map of their history.

Wouldn’t it be an impressive project to capture memories passed down from our ancestors, add our own, and create a spiral map like this.

It would be an illustrated, spiraling journey of a family.

~~~

K is for Kettle.

Marigold Teapot

Kettle © 2012 Bo Mackison

There are times when nothing will do except to put the kettle on and brew a pot of tea.

If I’m in the mood for to settle into a good book, or write a few letters, or perhaps I just want to sit and daydream, a cup of tea is always a welcome addition. And the brewing of the tea itself is one of the best mindfulness practices I know.

A slow practice, a sacred ritual.

~~~

L is for Labyrinth.

Turns on a Labyrinth

Labyrinth © 2013 Bo Mackison

I am a seeker of labyrinths.

I walked a labyrinth on the edge of the Sonoran Desert in early spring. What an extraordinary experience, connecting with the rhythm of the labyrinth pattern. Now I seek other labyrinths to walk. I journal after walking the labyrinth, and then I work my journal writing into poetry. Here is one from earlier this year:

Labyrinth, A Journey

I walk in circles, around and back, around and forth.

There is beginning, middle, end.

Guided by lines of crooked rocks,
an invisible hand on my shoulder,
encourages me, presses me onward.

Take a step,
One more turn,
Approach the center.

And there I stand immobile, my breath fragmented.

The labyrinth’s center, a large pock-marked rock
resting place for mementos and memento mori
small rocks, rings and bracelets, dog tags, holy cards.

Center – the farthest distance from beginning or end.

I move on.
But no longer do I walk a meditative pace.

I am anxious to leave,
ready to bolt, yet
I do not disregard the worn path
the labyrinth’s unspoken boundary.

I stumble to its exit, blinded, my feet guided by the rocky lines,
expelled from its sacred interior
into the other world. My world.

A ghost keeps vigil, its eyes the eyes of the cactus wren
perched on the spire of a tree cholla.
Its whisper, low and moaning, travels the arroyo
carried on swirling winds.

~~~

Want to read Part II? Here it is — Elephants to Highways

Coming tomorrow, Part IV :  Metaphors to Place

Labyrinth Visit

Labyrinth

Labyrinth © 2013 Bo Mackison

Shrouded in haze, the labyrinth,
in a barren place, air molecules heavy from a passing thunderstorm.
A few raindrops and faraway rumbling, then closer, long and onerous,
like a door sliding closed in the distant skies,
grating, heaving, cloud against cloud.

Turns on a Labyrinth

Turns on a Labyrinth © 2013 Bo Mackison

I draw close, hesitate at the labyrinth’s entrance.
I am here, I have yearned for days to travel the hours here, to walk the passage, and now
I stop, uncertain. What am I looking for? An answer? A calming? Reassurance?

Cracked Stones and Dead Weeds

Cracked Stones and Dead Weeds © 2013 Bo Mackison

I stop at the only tree near enough to study,
a crab apple, stunted in the shade of ancient oaks.
search its dead branches, its leaves a premature yellow,
faded, rusted with scab.

But on one branch there is a green twig,
a cluster of three pink leaves unfurling.
Peer at stones at my feet, uneven and broken, to regain my bearings
and a scraggly branch pokes sharply into my shoulder as I pass.
“Listening?” it seems to inquire.

Labyrinth Stones

Labyrinth Stones © 2013 Bo Mackison

The plastic wrist band from an earlier event
gouges my skin, the band a bright cherry red, blood-red.
I pull at it, but the security band has no give.
I read its black print, ignored earlier in the press of a crowd.

“Void if detached!” Void?
I am void if I choose to detach from this path I follow?
This walk, exhilarating yet difficult.
This path that questions me as I form questions to ask of it?

Ancient Oak

Ancient Oak © 2013 Bo Mackison

Nothing in the labyrinth appears alive,
shriveled brown weeds, crumbles of oak leaves,
worn stones, chipped and cracked.

The ancient oak sentry is dying.
There are no other’s footprints, only the circular
indentations of raindrops from last night’s storm.

A fleeting thought, the impulse to flee the necessity of loss.

Acorn Oil Lamp, Rusted

Acorn Oil Lamp, Rusted © 2013 Bo Mackison

Thoughts tumble in my mind. Who will reclaim this labyrinth?
Shine the rusted acorns oil lamps, trim their wicks?
These oil lamps, like rusty upturned breasts, no longer of use,
their offer of light in these shadows forgotten.

I walk the path. Towards the center. Wait and listen. Retrace the path.
Relinquish control so I can hear the whispering answers, accept guidance.
I walk the labyrinth three times. I wait.

Winding Road

Winding Road © 2013 Bo Mackison

Void if detached? I choose to not detach.
I am not alone. A few ants, a brown moth in camouflage.
I pick up a tiny white and black feather, a half walnut-shell.

I am in the labyrinth. Alive. Me.
I glance at a squared stone as I ready to leave. Clinging to its surface,
a bit of heart-shaped moss, bright green.

Alive.

—————-

Bo Mackison is a photographer and owner of Seeded Earth Studio LLC. Recently she has also been pondering labyrinths and  journeys.

Desert Labyrinth

Desert Labyrinth

Desert Labyrinth ©2013 Bo Mackison

Labyrinth, A Journey

I walk in circles, around and back, around and forth.

There is a beginning, a middle, an end.

Guided by lines of crooked rocks
and an invisible hand on my shoulder,
subtle pressure encouraging me forward.

Take one more step,
Make one more turn,
Move into the center.

And there I stand immobile, my breath fragmented.

The labyrinth’s center, a large pock-marked rock
laden with mementos and memento mori —
small stones, rings and bracelets, a dog tag, holy cards.

Center – the farthest distance from beginning or end.

And so I move on.
No longer walking a slow meditative pace.

I am anxious to leave, ready to bolt, disappear,
still
I do not disregard the worn path,
the unspoken rule of the labyrinth.

I stumble to its exit, blinded, my feet guided by the rocky lines,
and the labyrinth expels me from its sacred interior
into the other world.

The ghost keeps vigil, its eyes the eyes of the cactus wren
perched on the spire of a tree cholla.
Its whisper, low and moaning, travels in the arroyo
carried on swirling winds.

—————

Bo Mackison is a photographer and owner of Seeded Earth Studio LLC. She explores creative photography. poetry, and emotion in a new series featuring desert lines.