I own a PDA, “personal digital assistant.” On it, my days are a multihued schedule of reds, blues, yellows, and other colors. Almost nothing happens in my life that is not scheduled and/or recorded in this device.
In 2000, when my husband presented me with a PDA, I initially reviled the gadget, fearing that it would come to have more power over me than I would have over it. The contraption sat unwrapped for almost a month before I finally succumbed to its beckoning, “Come, enter the world of the organized.”
Within an hour of tearing open the plastic covering, I was possessed by my new possession. As I had feared, I no longer owned it; it owned me. Over the course of the next few days, I transferred every jot and iota of information from my hand-written calendar to this electronic calendar. And then, once electronically recorded, whatever appeared on my luminescent screen seemed to carry more weight than if I had written the same activity in pencil on my paper calendar. Once I noted an appointment or chore in my electronic log, I felt compelled to do it whether or not I truly had the time to complete it.
Then last February, my PDA crashed. All of its information inexplicably floated out into cyberspace. Even when I tried to retrieve data that I had backed up on my computer, its screen went blank as though some giant technological vacuum had just sucked my life away and I felt as if I had crashed just as my PDA had.
Labyrinth
Next to my laptop, I keep a miniature table-top labyrinth. As I leaned back in my chair ready to let out a primal scream, this simple spiral caught my eye. I paused long enough to allow the adrenaline surge to pass and then took up the smooth wooden stylus to begin tracing the labyrinth’s path.
As I followed each curve, I contemplated what I needed to cast off and realized that my anger was the heaviest weight I was carrying right then. At the center, I paused to consider how to more fully release that anger and to consider what, if any, good may have come from the crash. Then a calm settled in as it dawned on me that a greater power than I had just wiped my past and future plans away and had given me a chance to begin anew. In a sense, my past sins had been erased and my future was open to limitless possibilities. Rather than dealing with a nightmare, I had actually been given miraculous gifts – forgiveness and the potential to redesign my future. Then I was ready to retrace labyrinth’s path to the exit.
Possibility
A labyrinth is a metaphor for the spiritual journey to God and our return journey into the worldly realm. My crash and burn experience of last February led me to see the possibility of taking a theoretical labyrinth journey to God, of taking a period of time when I would cast off all extraneous responsibilities until I was standing naked before God.
And so, late this past spring I began ridding myself of non-essential jobs and tasks. I found out that I was involved up to the roots of my hair in tasks and jobs that held no deep meaning or purpose to me. I was involved in too many activities not because of a deep passion or commitment to a mission but out of obligation or presumed responsibility. It was time to rid myself of these time wasters that did not serve God. Many people who were used to me saying, “yes” to their volunteer requests were often taken aback by how easily I was now saying, “no.” With this new freedom, I found more time for my love of singing, needlework, reading and to be with my children and husband.
Despite the pleasure that I am finding during this shedding period, I am aware that it is coming to a close, that I am nearing the center of my imaginary labyrinth. Recently, an aspiration of mine that I have kept buried for the past 20–25 years has resurfaced. As I sit in the center of my theoretical labyrinth, I am grateful that I have the time and space to explore this dream with God’s help and either to work toward fulfilling it or finally releasing it.
My time in the center may be painful and produce some raw emotions – nakedness is never comfortable. Nonetheless, I believe that I will rest there safe and shielded in God’s love and that, when the time is right to begin my return journey, God will cover me with whatever protection that I need to re-enter “normal” life.
My PDA is still a rainbow-colored calendar. Now, however, my labyrinths, real and figurative, have helped me to see that it is merely a guide or a map and that I am free to take detours or blaze new paths if God is leading the way.
Ann Loar Brooks has an M.A. in Church Ministries and has served as the director of Christian education for parishes within the Episcopal Diocese of Maryland. She writes from Baltimore MD.