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

Pictographs, Buffalo, Mount Rushmore, Memories

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

Pictograph by Native American Artist © 2013 Bo Mackison

Day 7 – Nebraska Panhandle to Black Hills

Scotts Bluff, Nebraska. 7:10 a.m. 34˚F. Sunny. Windy.

Smoke hangs in the air as I head north, leaving town.
Cook Oil Road.
Gas Engine Road.
Narrow valleys shrouded with heavy fog.

Wild turkeys on the roadside look ready for a butterball feast,
No kin to the elongated, scrawny fowl in Wisconsin.
Black calves peer though the wire fencing,
one has a pure white face, striking in his difference.

Agate Fossil Beds National Monument on the Nioroba River.
The ranger unlocks the Visitor Center, it’s early on a Friday,
He story tells his way through the exhibits, proud of
the people in the murals and their discoveries and kind deeds.
A calendar pictograph covers the wall – a peoples’ history. Striking.

Horses in Custer State Park

Horses in Custer State Park © 2013 Bo Mackison

Trees appear in the distance as I drive
the battered road in Ogallala National Grasslands.
Antelope stare, then break into an elegant run.

Ardmore, Nebraska, nearly out-of-town before I notice it’s a ghost town.
Old houses and churches, broken windows in faded businesses, out of business signs,
old cars, but no people, no voices. No signs of movement, of living.

Driving turns hypnotic, I jerk alert when I see a curve sign.
Enveloped by soft greens, soft mounds, soft sounds, I continue –
Me, my car, the narrow asphalt road.

Historical Sign Ahead: Wood Stage Memorial Marker.
Cheyenne River, a narrow ribbon of brown.
Wild Horse Refuge. and the hills turn Crayola Crayon Green.
Cascade Falls, Black Hills National Forest.
Bison chili at the Blur Bison Cafe in Hot Springs.

Buffalo Right of Way

Buffalo Right of Way © 2013 Bo Mackison

Wind Cave National Park,
I skip the cave tour and watch the buffalo instead,
often I wait, my foot on the brake, as the buffalo ignore me.
Huge beasts, shaggy and disheveled, shedding their winter coats.

Mount Rushmore from Afar

Mount Rushmore from Afar © 2013 Bo Mackison

I detour through Custer State Park, relive memories of a family summer vacation
twenty years past; there was a pop up camper,
a hotel-preferring husband, three kids and me, all on our big explore.
Memory making moments, still precious, favorite childhood memories.

I pull out my camera when Mount Rushmore, framed in a narrow tunnel, takes me by surprise.

Flags at Mount Rushmore

Flags at Mount Rushmore © 2013 Bo Mackison

Miles down the road, I hesitate.
Stop at Mount Rushmore National Monument? I’ve already seen it…

Once more memories crowd my thoughts, I stop, pay exorbitant parking fees,
and walk to the empty benches in front of the four Presidents.
That vacation long ago…
I remember the 9-year-old boy who sat next to me for a half day,
craning his neck, staring, studying
stunned into silence by the thought of a mountain, a sculptor and a chisel.

The memory alone was worth the stop.

______________

Bo Mackison is a photographer and owner of Seeded Earth Studio LLC. A cross-country traveler by day, and an occasional poet. This is a poem in nine parts, because the trip lasts nine days. This is Day Seven.