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ast summer, I decided to build a labyrinth in the garden. I have always admired labyrinths, and as a child I walked to a churchyard not far from where I lived to visit the one installed there centuries before.

When I travel now, I walk any local labyrinth I can find. I’ve walked ornate tile labyrinths in the middle of cathedrals, humble labyrinths in quiet churchyards, and simple forest labyrinths constructed out of local stones. I’ve walked labyrinths on beaches and labyrinths in the middle of wide, green, manicured lawns. I’ve found beauty in labyrinths on remote outcrops overlooking the sea and those surrounded by a ring of trees, with roaring cities just outside. (The labyrinth at the Battery, on the very tip of Manhattan, would be such a one, with traffic, construction noise, and the sound of hawkers offering deals on boat trips to Staten Island just outside the space. That labyrinth is serene despite its location. There’s a lesson for me in that.)

The labyrinth in my garden is based on the Chartres Cathedral labyrinth built in the 13^th century. The original Chartres labyrinth is large and intricate, offering those who walk it a chance to reflect. Labyrinths in their nature are meant to represent a pilgrimage, a spiritual opportunity to connect with the meaning of life, death, and faith. I appreciate that intention. When I built the one here, constructing it in summer heat on slightly sloping ground was a mathematical challenge and an act of physical endurance—done slowly, with infinite care, and sweating, sweating, sweating. That was a kind of meditation, too.

June 2025

I’ve seen stunning garden labyrinths made of pavers and velvety grass, but the labyrinth here is simpler, lined in river rock. The paths are made of mulch. It is a gentle walk, soft on the joints. My beloved search dog Gambit loved to walk it in the last month of his life. He had the beginnings of arthritis in his hips, and the soft ground cushioned every step. In this week after I have lost him, I walk the labyrinth and feel his presence there, still.

In late afternoon sun, April 2026

When I built the labyrinth last summer, neighbors had no idea what I was doing. Some of them, peering over the fence from the sidewalk, still aren’t sure what it is or what it’s about. One sweet young woman, with a chattering, wild-eyed terrier puppy porpoising on his leash, asked. I invited her to walk it, with or without her puppy, any time she liked. She was intrigued.

“Maybe not with the puppy,” she laughed, “until he learns some manners.” Pickle was in puppy kindergarten and had not yet learned to love a leash.

“When he’s ready,” I told her, “the labyrinth is a great place to practice slow walking, turns, sits, and stays.”

“You wouldn’t mind?”

“I wouldn’t mind.”

Connecting with a dog is an act of meditation, too.

I’ve been intrigued with how wildlife has responded to the labyrinth. Birds seem to enjoy foraging in it. Perhaps the mulch gets buggy overnight. One very early morning I saw a mama possum, babies on her back, trundling across the northern edge of it on her way to a tree. When a Texas brown tarantula set up shop in the space as I was building it last year, I built the labyrinth around him, ringing the hole of his burrow with a circle of stones for his protection.

Texas Brown burrow, 2025

Texas brown tarantulas are beautiful, often maligned, creatures. They are shy. Sometimes I’d see him scuttling across the labyrinth in the early morning. If I walked the labyrinth when he was peeking out of his burrow, he’d reflexively duck back at the shadow of me. Over the summer I watched the progress of his silky web across the opening of the burrow, where he would hide in the shadows and wait for dinner. In winter, he sealed up the entrance to retreat deep into the earth and brumate. He has emerged in a different place this year, the opening of his burrow just outside the labyrinth, next to one of the rocks that borders it.

All of this fascinates Pancake, my cat, who enjoys the labyrinth activity from her window. Ecck-kccck-kcccck-keccck, she chatters, imagining what it would be like to catch wild creatures. Every morning, Pancake is at the window before first light, waiting to see who will visit the labyrinth.

Hey, she seems to say. You meditate your way, I’ll meditate mine.

Pancake, waiting

© Susannah Charleson, 2026