Getting to the Center of the Labyrinth
My Return Trip to Bainbridge Island, Washington
I packed light, a few sweatshirts, leggings, and hiking boots were all I needed. I was to leave the baggage of hospital nightshifts and an undetermined future behind. Outside my airplane window I imagined all my life stressors were landlocked in those little green and yellow acre squares from high above. I really didn’t care if a three day trip to Washington was just a quick fix to life’s challenges — an unsustainable one. I needed time away.
During one of my layovers I began to write stupidly in the middle of the Denver airport trying not to appear silly and serious, trying not to appear anything at all.
I wrote, “I’m really good at doing that. Letting my thoughts evaporate and pretending I don’t feel a thing about my shift last night or why I booked such an impromptu trip.”
Here in the Denver airport I was trying to figure out where to start. I was searching for a trace of inspiration that would lift me off to my final destination. But this trip was beginning to feel much different from my last. I wasn’t travelling to Bainbridge Island for an adventure. I was visiting because I was sad.
So I continued to write in the airport, exposed, as passengers walked up and down the aisles on each side of my periphery. Then in one orchestrated gesture, as if in a dancing round, these nameless bodies scattered towards their gates, suitcases trailing behind. They had to attend to their work meetings, their husbands, and their wives. All I had to do was ride ferries, sleep, and drink island wine.
I woke the next morning to soft thuds of rain pebbling on the windows of the getaway room I rented. Tea kettle to my right and a little buddha statue on my left — this was Cilla’s place. Sweden born and well travelled, her home was like an eastern oasis, open to all, celebrating each visitor with its orange-red lanterns and moroccan beads that fringed the entryways. I was tempted to put them on.
Instead I resorted to my own coat and boots, and stepped outside in to the mid-morning glow, strolling along familiar footpaths I had stumbled on four years ago.
“Had that much time really passed?” I thought.
There was Coleman dock, the boats bobbing in the harbor where I had left them. They felt lonesome out there as do most things during those vacant winter months.
Checked my phone. No open bike rentals. No ubers on the island. I would have to be more reliant on my mind than my lower limbs.
So begins the not so easy trip through one’s inner labyrinth.
During the trip I kept a small notebook so that I could scribble down the thoughts that often stick behind my forehead. I was returning.
Buying a warm beverage at the waterside coffee house, overlooking Puget Sound was no novel experience. But somehow that was sort of thrilling.
I could clearly see who I was four years ago, sitting to my right on that dusted ledge, a past shadow figure, reading a book. There were so many unanswered questions, gaping wide, and reaching out to the person who is now able to answer them.
Yes, you are still an artist.
No, you have not found a life partner.
Yes, you will be rejected.
No, it won’t be so bad.
Yes, you will make it career wise.
But, no, you will not like it.
Overall, you care less, but at the same time maybe more.
Or perhaps the things you care about have rearranged themselves.
I have learned over the years that when one’s mind is made up, this diminishes fear; knowing what must be done does away with fear. — Rosa Parks
This quote was on display at the Rosa Parks exhibit inside the Bainbridge Museum of Art, one of my favorite spots on the island. I sat and stared up at the colorful worded plaque and tried to take on its meaning.
I had reached a crossroads in my career as an emergency room nurse. I had been paralyzed with fear when I realized it was not the route I wanted to be on. So I began to think about what must be done. I weighed in my current responsibilities and what I could do in the interim while applying for other positions.
I thought about all the things that could replace fear, all my dreams and aspirations.
Around the corner I stumbled on Elizabeth Donally Davidson’s work, The Poetry of Ordinary Things. The gallery showcases Davidson’s lifelong interest in rejecting perfection through the ancient technique of coil building.
I pictured Davidson pinching and straightening out snakes of clay so as to represent “the forces that shape our lives.”
I wanted to ask Davidson to fasten my own coils so as to make sense of my own life, to allow for all the worn down pieces, battered and ruined, to coalesce into one of her handmade vessels.
An hour had passed and I had grown an attachment to this museum. I was truly enjoying myself and so I bought a piece of artwork at the gift shop and a glass of cabernet.
The remainder of my evening I spent wine tasting and walking along seashell vin diagrams etched in sidewalks. I felt in unity with my surroundings, could easily pull inspiration from the Olympic mountains, sea ports, and city skylines.
Eventually, I came across an alehouse which was hosting a “drink and draw.” The room was packed with busy hands and moving pencils, gliding and stopping to the sound of a timer.
I wiggled my way onto a bench across an artist named Rod. With scrunched eyebrows, we drew our versions of the live model, dressed in a royal blue gown, who with a mute face, reconfigured herself every 60 seconds.
Rod could call themselves a published cartoonist but I was merely a tourist.
I find it funny how these ferry rides stand out the most to me even after hiking Snoqualmie Falls and experiencing the variety which the city had to offer. Maybe it’s because I like how appropriate it is to say things like, “sorry, I’ll have to excuse myself. I need to catch my 9 o’clock ferry!”
But here I could connect with myself and reimagine my life. I thought about the idea of returning somewhere and hitting safe shores, thought about living a life surrounded by beauty, and began to repeat to myself the things I most identify with. Like a buddhist I began to chant:
forms, feeling, movement
forms, feeling, movement
forms, feeling, movement
(It was only fitting since one of the passengers was performing tai chi beside me on the top deck)
At the end of the day, maybe all I have to figure out in this life is how to translate whatever I’m doing into this artistic trifecta.
If it wasn’t hiking, wine tasting, or riding ferries, visiting the Mosaic Labyrinth at Hall’s Hill would have been my only goal for the trip. This beautiful stone spiral was designed by a garden artist named Jeffrey Bale, and I was determined to walk it.
However, on day one I quickly realized getting there would not be feasible without a car or bike. That is until the stars aligned and I was notified that the only driver on the island who could take me there and back was in my vicinity.
(Shout out to Benji. Thanks for the tour. I will be back to visit the Bloedel Reserve and witness your famous crab cookoff!)
When I arrived at the site I thought about how everything leading up to this moment was considered the inward journey. And so I walked along the paved pattern towards the center of the labyrinth, thinking of all the things that had been making me so unhappy back at home.
Finally, I reached the center. Here I could receive insight into what my life could actually be like. I thought about how free I felt on this island, and all the activities I was naturally drawn to. I told myself I would no longer seek to prove myself and I would drain out that pit of fear, then fill it with more ceramics, drawing, and outdoor hiking. I would create safe spaces that I could return to and feel more connected to myself.
Now as I write this I have taken the outward journey, returning back to the world with all that I gained from my visit to Bainbridge Island, Washington.
Thanks for reading and for being here!
❤ Sof
