A Labyrinth for the Pandemic
It had been, like, ten days since the Governor declared a state of emergency due to the pandemic and I was stir-crazy. The three of us - me, my wife Cassie, and our toddler Charlie – were sheltering-in-place at our late-sixties era Colonial. Charlie’s daycare was shut down; so was the local Y where I work out religiously on an elliptical four nights a week. Cassie missed going out for coffee and getting together with her Bunco friends from the neighborhood. As far as we knew, there were no vaccines on the horizon.
Working remotely from home was an abrupt change. One parent was responsible for keeping Charlie occupied (and clean) while the other worked on their laptop or sat through a Zoom meeting; then we switched off like that several more times throughout the workday. Fortunately, Charlie regularly naps for two hours after lunch. Cassie often joins him, worn out from all the household chores she takes on herself. I know; that’s on me too.
Being unable to exercise was adding to my stress so I got to thinking: what if I went for a walk while Charlie’s napping? But it had somewhere I could maintain social distancing. Right away, I thought of the sprawling business park located ten minutes from our house. When I broached the idea with Cassie she said, “You go for it, Rob.”
I slipped one of those powder blue masks into the back pocket of my jeans and drove to the Home Depot adjacent to the park. The roadway across from the parking lot first runs past a line of loading docks usually crowded with tractor-trailer trucks. Further on, a single sedan emblazoned with the name of a private security firm stood watch outside the closed corporate offices for Toyota. Next came an open stretch of vacant land where my feet occasionally sidestepped a discarded nip bottle on the shoulder. The unobstructed wind swept through me there; already, the asphalt road was beginning to irritate my sneaker-clad feet. Unexpectedly, a single tractor-trailer truck rumbled around the next corner, leaving a faint scent of diesel in its wake. I kept to the right, joining up with a sidewalk that runs along a row of low-slung buildings housing high-tech companies or makers of medical devices. Suddenly, a wild turkey charged me from the shrubbery surrounding one of the office buildings. Without thinking, I let fly a kick that caused the turkey to veer sharply and retreat. Christ! I shouted; miffed, I threw up my arms and did a U-turn back to the car. When I opened the front door to our house, Cassie was waiting with Charlie in her arms, his face streaked with tears.
“Your turn,” she said, handing him over.
I returned two days later with a route mapped out in my head. The walk began the same as the first one did, but this time I moved further inward through the heart of the business district before returning via the outer perimeter to where my car was parked. The walk took just over an hour and got me home before Charlie woke up. After that, I walked the same route every other day; there were exceptions, of course: a conflicting Zoom meeting or Charlie unable to go down for his nap - but with Cassie’s blessing, I developed a routine.
On those early walks, my mind would pinball between random memories and daydreams before settling down to ponder the state of my so-called “career.” Becoming a father had already changed my perspective. I mean, Charlie’s forever; he’s like an unfolding story that Cassie and I are writing together. Work, in comparison, is impermanent, unfulfilling and devoid of social value. Nothing I will ever accomplish in that arena will last like Charlie. In truth, these walks have bestowed a great gift on me: clarity about what comes first.
Lately, it occurred to me that my route through the business park is akin to walking a labyrinth, albeit one on steroids. One night after Charlie went to bed, I did some research on the internet to test the validity of my analogy. The top search result showed the stone labyrinth in the 13th century Chartres Cathedral in France, explaining that it provided a safe and practical alternative to undertaking a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. A labyrinth, I also learned, is designed to lead the walker into a restful center and back out again with a deliberate circuitousness intended to foster introspection along the way. I read that last part out loud to Cassie, who looked from her phone, puzzled.
“Not to exaggerate,” I said, “but that’s kind of how the business park works for me.”
“If you say so,” she answered neutrally.
“By the way,” I added, “thanks for being ok with my walks.” Cassie smiled magnanimously, and I relaxed.
I try to keep the purpose of a labyrinth in mind when I go for my walks these days, but it’s a challenge sometimes. All the unknowns generated by the pandemic won’t stay put in the compartments I’ve confined them to. This refuge-in-motion, I remind myself, is not an excuse to perseverate over things I can’t control. Occasionally, a co-worker will call me with a question or a request while I’m at the business park. A tractor-trailer truck will roar by, and invariably I’ll get asked: “Where are you, Rob?”
“Walking my labyrinth,” I report back.
With today’s walk, I begin a new discipline of syncing my breath with my footfalls as the route unfolds before my relaxed gaze. A mysterious spaciousness opens up in me then, extending far beyond the business park yet rooted in every step I take.
© Richard Lehan
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Richard Lehan
Richard Lehan is a fiction writer living in Massachusetts. Most recently, his one-act play "Conflagration" appeared in the Autumn 2024 edition of Rushing Thru the Dark magazine. Previously, his short story "Ambulatory" appeared in the Spring 2024 edition of Coneflower Cafe magazine; another story of his "Ambulatory" appeared in Story Sanctum in December 2023 and was included in their year-end anthology Tales from the Vault. His flash fiction "State Forest" also appeared in the 2024 edition of Stolen Shoes Literary & Art Magazine.
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