THE POWER OF LABYRINTHS
In Houston and beyond, pilgrims find a connection to the ancient, themselves
On a corner of Freedmen’s Town, on the holy ground where Mount Carmel Missionary Baptist Church once stood, are circles of crushed granite and worn brick. They spiral past four benches studded with colorful mosaics and into a rosette-shaped center where a stone reads: “To God be the glory.”
The historic church, long a mainstay in the community founded by freed slaves, crumbled into a pile of rubble more than a decade ago. Only remnants of the foundation and the old front steps remain.
But this is still a sacred space. A place for meditation and prayer, for solitary introspection and communal gatherings. A labyrinth. It is one of more than two dozen in the Houston area, many built within the last 10 years. They are nestled beside churches and spiritual retreats, on the grounds of convents and college campuses, in school courtyards and neighborhood parks. Some are permanent fixtures sculpted with traditional materials such as stone, gravel and grass; others are temporary installations mapped out with duct tape, books and canned goods.
Drawing on an archetype that dates back thousands of years, labyrinths are attracting a new following in this era of technological noise. They offer a way to
quiet the clatter of modern life, to turn our thoughts inward. The twists and turns, which at times seem to lead away when the destination is closest, mirror the passage through life.
“At some point in every single labyrinth, you feel like you are lost,” said Sarah Gish, a certified labyrinth facilitator and creator of the Houston Labyrinth Walkers Facebook page, the heart of the region’s vibrant labyrinth community. “You just have to follow it and you end up in the center.”
Gish discovered labyrinths about 18 years ago, just after her second son was born.
“I was trying to figure out my identity as a mom of two while keeping my soul intact,” she wrote in an essay. “The labyrinth became an anchor for me.”
Now, when Gish leads monthly walks at the labyrinth at the Hines Center for Spirituality and Prayer, in downtown Houston, she advises participants to “pay attention to what you are seeing, what you are feeling.”
Somewhere, in those questions, along the curving spine of the labyrinth, lie the answers they seek.
Labyrinths, unlike mazes, are unicursal paths — meaning there is only one way in and one way out. They are not meant to confuse, but to illuminate. There are no dead ends.
They represent a connection to the ancient, to the labyrinths of ancient Greece, the “neverending circle” of Celtic mythology, the medicine wheel of Native Americans, the pilgrimages of medieval Christian tradition. Many of the labyrinths in Houston are inspired by one inlaid into the stone floor of the 13thcentury Chartres Cathedral in France, which has an 11-circuit design divided into four quadrants.
The pattern appears at the University of St. Thomas, where a labyrinth, fashioned from slate tiles and encircled by rose bushes, sits in the serene shadow of the Chapel of St. Basil. At St. Paul’s United Methodist Church, where the roar of traffic and construction cranes belies the tranquillity found in concentric circles made of pavers and bricks.
At the Ruah Spirituality Center at Villa de Matel convent, on the east side of Houston, where a labyrinth carved in the earth stretches 84 feet in diameter and takes about 25 minutes to complete. The outer circle is adorned with 114 luminations, or spikes, and the path is carpeted with silky-soft Bermuda grass, meant to be walked barefoot.
A jasmine-laced trellis leads to the labyrinth, which was created two years ago to commemorate the 150th anniversary of the Congregation of the Sisters of Charity of the Incarnate Word.
“Walk mindfully and allow yourself to unwind, notice your surroundings and be aware of your thoughts,” a plaque entreats visitors. “The circle of the labyrinth is a symbol of wholeness, and the path of the labyrinth can be a metaphor for our journey in life.”
On a recent Sunday, artist Reginald Adams watched as two children darted through the verdant labyrinth, which he and Jay Stailey, a retired high school administrator-turned-labyrinth builder, helped design and construct.
Creating a labyrinth, noted Adams, “is like throwing a pebble in a pond. It ripples out and you never know whose life you will touch.”
For many years, Adams had visited labyrinths as the artistic director of the Sacred Sites Quest, formerly run through the Boniuk Institute at Rice University. The program takes high school students on an exploration of sacred spaces such as temples, churches, synagogues and mosques and culminates in a community service art project.
Four years ago, the capstone project was the creation of a prayer garden and labyrinth in Freedmen’s Town.
Two dozen students and more than 100 volunteers, representing a cross section of Houston, turned a “vacant space into a sacred space,” Adams said. They used bricks from the Mount Carmel building, which had collapsed and had to be razed after years of disrepair, and designed “Heart of Serenity” benches to create “bastions” in each of the four corners. One of the original congregation members, still grieving the loss of the building, said it felt like the church had been given back to the community.
For Adams, the experience was transformational.
Adams, who now runs Sacred Sites, has integrated labyrinths into the program. He has helped lead students on builds across Houston and in France and Ecuador. Later this summer, a group will travel with the Houston Grand Opera to construct a labyrinth for the Rossini Opera Festival in Pesaro, Italy.
Adams and Stailey have collaborated on more than a dozen labyrinths, including the Freedmen’s Town and Villa de Matel builds and temporary structures made from everything from Post-it notes to grass and fertilizer. On one project, at a community festival, the labyrinth was formed by nonperishable food products, which Adams planned to donate to the Houston Food Bank.
Instead, spectators and festivalgoers started “shopping” off the labyrinth, picking up canned goods they needed. “Oh wow,” Adams said. “It was powerful.”
As an artist who has produced more than 250 public art projects, Adams said he had never experienced the kind of response sparked by labyrinths. Month after month, he hears people say a labyrinth changed their life.
“I couldn’t ask for a more meaningful way of leaving a legacy in a community,” Adams said, “and leaving the legacy of the hearts of the people if I wanted to.”
Labryrinths also shifted the direction of Stailey’s life.
Stailey, who spent 25 years as a high school administrator, turned to labyrinths in 2005 as he neared retirement and was casting about for his next incarnation. Out of curiosity, he plugged Houston into a search on the Worldwide Labyrinth Locator, which charts the locations of more than 5,500 labyrinths around the globe. He was stunned to see so many — at last count, 30 — in Houston.
Twice a month for several years, he walked the University of St. Thomas labyrinth, stilling his mind, “pondering what would happen next.”
Building labyrinths was not part of his plan, but that’s where the path took him.
He began studying labyrinths, trained with Lauren Artress, an Episcopal priest and leader in the labyrinth movement, earned a labyrinth facilitator certification and collaborated on the Freedmen’s Town project.
Since then, Stailey has worked on dozens of labyrinths, experimenting with materials, design and purpose. At the end of April, he went to Atlanta to create a temporary labyrinth for an outdoor performance by the Core Dance Company. He used LED lights and canned goods to form the circuits in a field of clover. A tree stump became the center.
The performance, titled “The Walk,” took place just as the full moon was rising in the east and the sun was setting in the west, Stailey said. “It was just spectacular.”
Stailey also leads monthly full moon walks at the Freedmen’s Town labyrinth.
On these nights, Stailey leads a procession — sometimes of two or three, sometimes a dozen — along the 11 circuits. Some nights, he will play music. Other evenings, the only rhythm is the sound of footsteps on crushed granite.
“The people who need to be there are there,” Stailey said. “I really believe there’s real power in the labyrinth to heal. It’s important for somebody every time.”
They celebrate the summer solstice, spring equinox and birth of the new year. On the Day of the Dead, they bring photos to honor the departed. At Thanksgiving, they offer up prayers of gratitude.
As they round the labyrinth, the moon moves up into the heavens. Over Freedmen’s Town. Over the city skyline. Over those walking a spiritual path, as pilgrims have done for ages.