This is a process that would not be rushed.
Each stage was time consuming.
Cutting fabric into strips, tying knots, braiding
everything together in a continuous loop.
Sewing it all, around and around, countless spirals outward.
An often uncomfortable journey, I had to kneel, to crawl, to hunch in order to travel along its route.
It took upwards of 20 hours to sew not even half the rug together.
I had to reconcile what I was trying to force with what wanted to happen.
This labyrinth would not be finished in time,
at least not in my time.
It was "time" to think about what else I had to offer this dark moon.
The anxiety of racing the clock was leading me away from aligning with the energy of the slow and steady work I had chosen for myself.
As the circle got larger, I was averaging one circumference an hour with 19 more, increasingly larger, circles to go.
It was jumping in the elevator, walking up the down escalator, dancing on the treadmill kind of work.
There were things I needed to accept about the process,
like that dance and movement breaks necessarily consumed time, in order to ease the discomforts of hunching over a needle and thread for hours.
I needed to adjust to understanding that this project is going to take far longer than I imagined.
And let the process of tediously sewing each row together, centimeter by centimeter, become ritual.
The more I allowed myself to dance, and dream, and reflect as I worked on the rug, the more I felt like I was living into the medicine of the labyrinth.
I released my firm hold on my deadlines and desires,
and focused on the introspective journey that creating this tool provided.
I made a circle altar with all the perfectly imperfect, "on the road" circles I have created this month.
allowing me to honor what is becoming, instead of what I desire to become.