I enjoy walking labyrinths. Labyrinths are maze-like structures that have been used as spiritual tools for centuries. There are many of them around, and I am in the habit of trying to visit a lot of them. For more information about labyrinths, check out The Labyrinth Society. Find where labyrinths are in your area at the Worldwide Labyrinth Locator.

This was a different sort of day for me. I had an appointment with my psychiatrist in the morning, and then I had to pick my kid up at camp six hours later. Those two things were nowhere near each other, but I decided not to bother going home between these commitments. I just drove around, got some errands done, and took the long, scenic, nostalgic route between them. It was strange – normally I feel much more comfortable if I can get some time at home. I’ve always been someone who appreciates having a “home base,” a place where I feel at home, from which I can stretch and grow. But today I was happy to just be on the road, with only vague notions of what I’d do for several hours. I knew that this labyrinth was here — it was kind of on the way to camp, so I thought I might walk it.

The roads I traveled were mostly roads I knew, from various places in the area I’d lived. Some had memories attached, memories of homes I’d once had, memories of friends I’d visited, memories of all kinds of things. I’ve left tiny parts of myself scattered throughout these counties, bits that sang for me as I drove, singing old songs I hadn’t heard in years, old songs I must have written myself. It was a day of melancholy nostalgia, just the kind of day I like. The wildfire haze fit the emotion well.

When I arrived in Wilkes-Barre to seek the labyrinth, the nostalgia deepened. I recalled visiting friends who were students at Wilkes University, the college where the labyrinth was located. I remembered my very first high school girlfriend, who lived just a few blocks away. I thought of the mental hospital where I spent eleven days.

Finally I reached the labyrinth. It’s interesting. It’s a six-circuit classical, with large paving stones for the path, and grass walls. At first glance, it was hard to tell it was a labyrinth. It just looked like concentric circles. The turns in the path are very subtle, and I wonder if I might have had trouble walking it if I didn’t have as much experience with labyrinths as I do.

So the question I brought into the labyrinth was this: What or where is my home base?

As I walked in toward the center, I listed a lot of possibilities. The house I live in now. The house I grew up in. The camp I was heading toward today, which has been a holy place for me since childhood. My baptism. My college, or the friends I still keep in touch with from there. Labyrinths. The church. Doctor Who. And more…

And when I reached the center, I heard these words come from my mouth: “Is it writing?”

It’s writing, isn’t it? My home base is writing. That’s why walking labyrinths work so well for me — it’s not just the spiritual element of walking the path, it’s also the fact that I always, always write about them. Even if I don’t blog about my walk, I always journal about it. It’s not a labyrinth walk without a few minutes in my journal afterward. Labyrinths drive me to write.

And whenever I write, whether it’s journaling or blogging or authoring a book, writing is what anchors my experiences, makes them real, gives my memories color and texture. Writing is the alchemy that turns wisps of thought into bulwarks of meaning.

And that means that I don’t need to crave any place or home or particular people — as long as I have a notebook or a keyboard. I just need to make the time to write and write and write, and I will eventually receive what I am looking for. Or find something else even better. Writing is my home base. I really like that.