The Labyrinth of Love…

When you have a client experienced in all things mind, body, spirit, you listen when she makes suggestions based on acupuncture needles in your feet and pulse examination. She, after all, studied with the Dalai Lama’s doctor and has well-being hookups to his monks.

“You need a trip to the labyrinth,” says she after studying my shakras; which evidently tell her I’m stressed, anxious and need a boost in my adrenals. Not one to argue, I venture forth as she leads the way to the Franciscan Renewal Center on our path to inner peace. Well, my path. She’s already there.

This Catholic girl is soothed by the brown-robed monks from the movies roaming about so early in the morning. Mary, and all manner of sister saints are sprinkled about the desert. The church of my childhood feels almost foreign since the death of The Norwegian. People say, “Faith got me through.”

For others of us it’s more of a, “I did everything you said and look what happened.” Not mature. Makes no sense. But grief is a minxy rat preying upon whatever it can grasp. It shuffles through the garbage of the mind, rubbing its rat claws together in delight.

At the labyrinth, we wind to the center where people leave both gifts and problems. Painted rocks depict what the faithful give over to the maze. Depression, anger and guilt make appearances. My rock has no mark of outward sign but I’m hopeful a bunch of things stay with the rocks in the center of a twisty maze in the desert.

We sit with Mary for a bit and weave our way to a small chapel. It is a strange, tiny space filled with those who’ve traveled here before. Truly. This girl, who believes in anything but rarely experiences the supernatural, can feel…something. Is it people, or essences, or perhaps faith? I can’t say. What I can say is something is there. Safety? Spirits? God?

I vow to be mindful and watch for clues. When The Norwegian died, I assumed I’d have a personal ghost steering me this way and that, creating the sort of ethereal love story of which romance novels are made. He didn’t come.

Sunday finds me deep cleaning the crevices in couch and chairs. No coins. Listening to music while deep vacuuming leads to sitting cross-legged watching old videos, wishing MTV would return to its roots. You Tube travels to every song shared with The Norwegian, who could never get the words right. Out of nowhere comes Meat Loaf’s “For Crying Out Loud.” I laugh aloud at the thought of blasting the church with our fave ballad at his funeral. Those in the know advised against it. It’s followed shortly by Chris Young’s country swooner, “Gettin’ You Home.” You know–the Little Black Dress Song? Yeah, that one.

Perhaps there are times I get my ghost. He’s just delivered through backward glimpses to moments no one knows about but me and my favorite dead guy. I still think an affair with a ghost might be kinda hot, non?

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