It’s all mist and veils to start with –
except for the title,
a line lifted from another poem,
a flame to which I touch
the wick of my small candle.
Carried to the blank page,
it flickers in currents of air
exhaling the breath of so many spirits.
I cup my hands around it
till fire takes hold
of wick and wax,
and I see the opening,
take my first step into the labyrinth.
Though mist still shrouds
the circuits and turns,
candlelight shows
where to set my foot —
and no more.
How this roundabout
twisting-on-itself path
will lead to the center
I do not know,
nor can I yet fathom
what I will find there.
Sometimes the way is overgrown
with brambles and gorse,
thickets so tall and tangled
they hide the center.
I carry no machete,
no pruning hook or shears,
only bare hands
to unravel thorny vines.
Do not shun your doubt and fear.
Be patient. Be humble.
Taste the blood on your torn finger
and heed the spiderweb
as you slip past its dark weaver.
Curious and awestruck
audacity
will take you
where you want
to go.
Dear reader, at this time of winter darkness, about to light the fourth candle on the Advent wreath, watching for the return of light heralded by the winter solstice, and admittedly overwhelmed by the consumerist frenzy that hijacks Christmas in our culture, I wish you sanctuary — your own pool of light in the labyrinth — and a pathway to hope in the New Year.
The Kingdom of Enough 