Into the labyrinth

Ever since I was a child, my mamá spoke to me about Chartres Cathedral. While some kids get fairy tales before bed, others get tales of an ancient place in France I suppose.

She had been there a couple of times in the past and, the tale went, she left the cathedral a different woman to the one that had walked in. She would always add something about it being dedicated to Mary and having sacred geometry, as well as a special labyrinth.

After attempting (and failing) to visit it the last couple of times I was in France, I was hoping this would be the trip I would finally make it... if she would have me.

I have complete trust in life’s timing, in my experience, it is always perfect.

After a short yet interesting train ride from Paris, in which I saw a deer boldly staring at us (“wow, she really is unfazed by high speed trains” I thought), and I also realised - and proceeded to ignore - an old gentleman sitting across the aisle was drawing me in a little sketch book ("I guess I've also become unfazed by weird things happening around me"), I made it to Chartres. 

It is quite something to see the cathedral from afar as you approach the city. She stands majestically in top of a hill, which was also an ancient Druid sacred site.

After a brief sweaty walk from the station to the cathedral, I was welcomed by a dazzling array of stained glass in radiant blues, reds, and yellows.

Once my eyes adjusted to the low lit environment and technicolour rainbows, I realised that before me was the labyrinth I had heard so much about.

As is my M.O. in all situations, from holy encounters to house parties, I first took a moment to take it all in.

There seemed to be a benevolent yet strict labyrinth guardian, an older gentleman (in his 80s+?) who would break in gentle trot (slowed down by a slightly hunched back) after clueless tourists who would walk through the labyrinth without following the instructions. There were kids running around (to the dismay of the guardian who would mutter phrases in French as they zoomed past him), people of all ages were moving at different tempos through the path, and a blonde lady seemed to be quietly crying after having arrived at the centre. 

After allowing my senses and nervous system to settle while strolling through the main nave, I decided to go back and start my journey through the labyrinth.

As I entered it, time collapsed. I felt my mum walking it several decades ago when she was around my age. I felt thousands of people throughout the centuries walking these very same stones. I felt their prayers and love, and was moved to also convey my own love and prayers to everyone that had been before me and everyone that will come after me.

I noticed how all of us in that moment in timelessness were sharing the same experience, walking the same path (not only in a literal sense, but also in a human sense - from birth to death), and yet each of us doing so in completely unique ways. 

As a pilgrim, your sole responsibility is the next step, following the lines and curves, going in and out. You know you can trust the path, for there is only way to follow, and so the question becomes how you choose to go from the first to the last step. 

At times, as you walk through the twists and turns you think you're about to get to the centre… only to be moved to the very edge of the path. You keep walking, for you know that despite appearing to be further away from the destination, you're exactly where you are meant to be, you are on your way, getting closer and closer to your destination.

As you do the final turn and are taken in a straight line to the flower in the middle, you land into the centre point of it all. The path simultaneously releases and holds you in the embrace of its heart.

After walking the labyrinth back out, I decided to find somewhere to sit in the cathedral. 

As I admired the breathtaking glass windows, I found a statue of Jesus. I approached him feeling as excited as one that has unexpectedly spotted a best friend (as you might already know, he is very precious to me). 

As I sat in the wooden bench in front of him, I realised this was one of the most beautiful portrayals of Jesus I had ever seen. There was none of the usual agony, pain and blood. He stood embodying a wise gentleness, pointing at his heart. 

A physical manifestation of his teachings: the journey home to the sacred heart - to Love.