Did you know Chatham has a Labyrinth? (Also, essay in which I solve a Zen koan)

Does a Dog have Buddha Nature?—Zen koan

I started walking the labyrinth a few weeks ago.  There was something I had read in a Daniel Pink book about labyrinths and their meditative quality. Dena and I had Indian food that day and with nothing else to do, I mentioned that Chatham has a labyrinth, maybe we should go find it.  I had been studying Buddhism for several weeks.  My mind was still a mess.  We found the labyrinth, it was named after someone I don’t know.  I know nothing about her story.  Some of the rocks were out of place, and in other spaces it seemed a bit overgrown, untended.

Weeks ago my Buddhist readings took me to the study of Zen.  At it’s core Zen has a simple philosophy about words, whether written or spoken, they are entirely inadequate for our experience.  I suppose this is the purpose of labyrinth.  Dena asked no questions.  We just walked. Does there even have to be purpose?

Three weeks ago, I attended a Quaker service, right before writing group.  I had a few hours to kill, and so I returned to the labyrinth.  When I was younger I assumed that the term was synonymous with maze.  It’s not, the entrance and exit are one in the same.  And its as if you are compelled to walk to the center, just because.  Why else would you be here? There is no big secret. So if you are wondering what it is at the center of the labyrinth I will share with you. 

A pile of dogshit.

 

Three weeks ago, I walked the labyrinth and fortunately looking down, I noticed a pile of dogshit.  After a few moments this became incredibly funny to me.  I planned to write something all Zen about it—how we journey, and journey, and seek answers to mysteries, and sometimes the revelation is that everything is still just still a pile of shit.  I intended to write about this, and I cannot remember why I did not.

So the following week I returned to the labyrinth and wound my walk to the center space, and I looked for the pile of dogshit, only to find that someone had stepped in it.  And now this is ten times funnier to me.  There is a tension in Zen between discipline and spontaneity.  By restraining myself from even writing about this, I write something infinitely more fascinating several weeks later.  And this leads to so many better questions:  who was this dog? Was he with an owner? Did the owner instruct him to take a shit in the center of the labyrinth, or did this dog intuit that this was just a quiet and perfect place to take a shit?  They say animals have a sense of magnetic north.

If you are wondering the pile of dogshit is still there this week.  It’s appearing more weathered.  I will be sad to see it go, completely.  It was there at the center of the labyrinth at the perfect time.  One of the early methods in Zen Buddhism was called direct pointing.  No point in naming the moon, because words and labels will be inadequate to capture everything the moon is. 

If you want to join me some day, walking the labyrinth I will be kind enough to directly point where not to step. But, I won’t tell you not to step in it. I might be robbing you of something worth discovering.