It wasn’t easy to park near the spot I had in mind, but my Godmother had told me about another place very close by that had more space and a nice garden. A spooky old graveyard’s a spooky old graveyard, I figured. We’d blow through and get home to mom’s in time for 5:00 cocktails.
The first bit was as expected, very old and eerily phrased markings on the stones left to honor lost loved ones.
Some were more ornate
Some were heartbreakingly simple
By the side of East Avenue on that hot summer afternoon, we perused these relics and couldn't help but let our minds wander to the loved ones that had been left behind. How they must have felt, much as we did on that day, when they had lost Mary and Stephen and poor old D.L.M.
Grief knows no century, no wealth, no cause. It's just a big gaping hole where your Dad is supposed to be.
We continued along through the churchyard, toward the gardens out back.
It was really beautiful there, all that old stone and grass and lovingly tended plants.
We found ourselves in the healing garden:
Who could help but find healing in this place?
Further along the footpath, we came upon a labyrinth laid in stone among more lovely greenery. There was a welcoming sign of explanation:
The photo quality is poor. If only I had a Mistah along. Here's a closer look at the welcome sentiment:
Okay, so it's a totally cool, beautiful labyrinth! Considering ourselves sufficiently capable of figuring out how to use a labyrinth, we read through our welcome and just skimmed the "how to" section at the bottom of the sign long enough to see that it was suggested that we remove our shoes to feel the pavement beneath us more completely.
Shoes off? Check.
We started at what appeared to be the beginning:
and around until we reached the spot at the very center.
Feeling pavement completely? Check.
That was nice. Easy. Now what?
We went back for another look at the guidepost, maybe there was a special challenge we could undertake.
I read this bit out loud:
Turns out, children will often race through the labryinth