For at least twenty years, I have enjoyed walking labyrinths. Labyrinths are maze-like structures that have been used as spiritual tools for centuries. For the past nine years, I’ve been walking labyrinths throughout the northeastern United States, and blogging about them. To learn more about labyrinths, check out this page at the Labyrinth Society. To find labyrinths near you, try the Worldwide Labyrinth Locator.

It was a Thursday morning in October. I woke up in a hotel room in Poughkeepsie, New York, well-slept and ready to go. I had a plan to walk a lot of labyrinths today. When I went out to the car, there was a chill in the air that yesterday hadn’t had. It felt much more like October today, and I was pleased. I searched for “melancholy piano” on Spotify, and started on my way, feeling very autumnal, very moody, very much me.

I arrived at St. James Episcopal Church in Hyde Park.  The labyrinth is in a meditation garden on the church property. The labyrinth is a seven-circuit classical, with a grass path and inlaid brick walls. I entered the labyrinth with this question: Why is autumn so holy and so dangerous for me?

Autumn is my favorite time of year – I love the feeling of the chilly breeze, the smell of decaying leaves, the colors of the trees, the way the sun makes everything amber in the late afternoon. But despite this, it’s also my most dangerous time, and what I mean by that is that it’s the time of year when thoughts and ideations of suicide might come up. Both my inpatient hospitalization and my partial hospitalization (almost thirty years later) happened in the month of November. So I thought this would be a good question to begin the day. At yesterday’s labyrinths, I asked about creativity – today I planned to go deeper.

As I walked, I noticed how good I felt this morning, how autumn I felt. I felt like I was crackling with energy.

Autumn is the most liminal time of the year. The time when death and life come closest. Why else would the days around November 1 be so filled with holidays recognizing that, like All Saints, Halloween, Day of the Dead, and so forth? Autumn is the time the mist lifts, and you can see into the void. But when you look into the void, the void peers into you as well. (I could hear running water behind me, a fountain in the meditation garden, or perhaps the darkwater itself.)

In autumn, I look into the void, because I am always looking for that void. That’s just part of how I’m wired. In autumn, I can see it more clearly. It is deep, deep beyond measure, beyond imagination. And in that depth, I believe, lives God. And in that depth also lies death.

The void calls to me. It is God calling, “sinner, follow me.” It is death calling, “come and see, come and rest.” Both are compelling. Both are a call to transcend myself, to allow my self to be absorbed into something greater. They’re not so different, God and death. God is life, but that’s not quite right – God is resurrection. Life from death. The void. Liminal.

I don’t actually believe in resurrection, and least not the way it’s usually presented. I don’t believe in life after death. But I believe there is something to it. There is life out of death. There is life from death. There is life within death. Or something like that. I yearn to know more about it. And when I feel the pull of God at the void, I want to cross that boundary. I want to cross it and encounter God. I don’t know what that looks like.

Or – perhaps my suicide attempts and ideation at this time of year could be interpreted as an attempt to experience something close to resurrection. Since I’ve always come back from them, and always grown through them, and always eventually feel even more alive – are they a way to experience a smaller version of resurrection – almost death followed by intense life? Have I been raised several times from the almost dead?

It’s all connected, holiness and danger, death and life, God and depression. That’s where I live. The autumn is my liminal home.

One thing I noticed, that any labyrinth creator might keep in mind: This was my third labyrinth on this trip with grass path and inlaid brick walls. But this one was much easier to walk even with fallen leaves on it. And I think the reason is the bricks were placed horizontally in the ground, not vertically. This made the wall wider, so it was much easier to see. Also, tall grass wasn’t able to cover it as well for the same reason. Something to consider if you ever want to build a labyrinth of your own.