I am a labyrinth mower.

I don’t plan them out. I’m not schooled in the art, science, or spirituality of labyrinths, so what would be the point? I just turn my nose into the deep grass and go.

When I was younger, I wasn’t a huge fan of labyrinths. What was the point? Walk to the center, walk back out? I preferred the maze, the challenge of dead ends and loops. The quest of the journey through, to the other side. I created a hay-bale maze with mom some years ago at Breedlove Farms. We took glee in creating dead ends and loops that would complicate someone’s way.

Now I prefer the labyrinth. The challenge is not finding your way through confusion and puzzle, but finding your way to… to meaning, to understanding, to center. And the practical challenge in creating one is to avoid cutting yourself off from center, from yourself.

I mowed my first labyrinth on the two-acre hill at the southwest corner of Fairpop Farm. The long path was rough with fox and rabbit holes, briars, and ant beds. The walking journey to center and back took me over an hour. I walked it twice. A year later I mowed a giant heart in the field, and then just north of it, I mowed another labyrinth on the other side of the fence. I didn’t walk this one.

How silly, I thought, not walking the labyrinths I create, until I understood that I wasn’t creating these in order to walk them. I was creating labyrinths for the same reason other people walk them. Mowing a labyrinth was my meditative journey to center.

Mower Meditation

Mowing on the Kubota mowers my mom used to ride has been a way of connecting with her during her illness and after her death. I walk away from the task feeling like I’ve had a long conversation with her. We’ve done a bit of screaming on the Kubota together, but mostly we’re quiet together, remembering places she got stuck, branches that are a nuisance, things she complained about, things she loved. We problem solve, reflect, and open up to the path before us.

Mowing has become a meditative practice for me. Mowing labyrinths, I suppose, is deep meditation. I have mowed five different labyrinths with mom “riding” along, and my heart came away from those a little less broken.

Google captured some of my labyrinths. I mowed another on the farm yesterday. I hope Google catches it before it grows over.

None of my labyrinths are perfect, but I’m not striving for perfection. All of my labyrinths have taken me in, centered me, even when center is north of middle or tucked away in a corner. I leave a labyrinth more present and less afraid of the path before me.

Are you one of the few people left in this country who still mows their own yard? Consider pointing your mower into the deep grass and creating a journey into center of your own. Your neighbors might scoff, but your heart might heal.

©Pennie Nichols. All Rights Reserved. 2024