I was in the Asheville area for a week prior to my move here. It was a beautiful, crisp fall day in October, 2001, when my friend took me to a labyrinth near Brevard. The Chartres pattern had been made by setting bricks down into a grassy field. My friend went first, and I followed shortly thereafter, delighting in the sound of the leaves crunching beneath my feet. Alas, the leaves were the same color as the bricks and, for the first and only time out of several hundred walks, I missed a turn and ended up at the beginning rather than at the center. As I cried, I processed this turn of events. Often what you get from the labyrinth is a reflection of where you are in your life, and this was perfect: I was confused and uncertain about my direction, including the impending move to Asheville. Once again, the labyrinth had spoken to me.
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