I walk a labyrinth alone, shuffling my steps to follow the intricate inwardness of the path, skeleton of the divine circle, maze of the praying soul.
It is a pilgrim's progress toward the center, where the last line abruptly ends, indifferent to whether your prayers have been answered. The journey curtails, moving around and around, the finish found before the beginning begins.
This decorated circle of communion subdivides into monastic cells, the walls permeable to the Spirit, impervious to doubt. The circle pivots on its axis, perfectly aligned with itself, perfectly identical to itself. No cycles to bring change. No mutation of form. Only the mystifying distance of pi.
The labyrinth looms like a celestial formation encircling heaven and Earth. Dante walks it, with Beatrice by his side. A circle of new love, new life. Every next step encircles the entire journey, enlivening the heart. Agape outruns Eros in a race of heavenly calm. All prayers divinely divisible by pi.