Solvitur Ambulando

Latin for, it is solved by walking

There’s a labyrinth near

Balboa Park, my mom

says. Amother memory,

familiar space—the

places I spent time as

a child. Another

landing strip, I need

feel the earth beneath

my feet. Before I fly

home. When are you

going home? I avoid

the question, instead

say, I went to a

labyrinth once in

France. I think it

was Chartres. Built

into the nave. She

asks what a nave

is and I say, it’s

the largest part of

the church, comes

from the Latin word

for ship, symbolic

of navigating the

turbulent seas of this

life. Symbolism

and synchronicity,

miracle and metaphor—

words I ingest with

gusto. We head to the

patio courtyard of a

church near the park.

Beneath three palm

trees, we begin. They

say begin with one

question, but I have

so many. That spin, I

begin with baby steps.

Meticulous to stay in

the lines. I watch each

step, slow switchback.

Then wide, like arms,

like Bernini’s arms at

St. Peter’s. Embrace.

I somehow know I

will be ok. I arrive

at the center. Exhale.

Pause. Then begin

the return. First

wide, a mama’s kiss on the

cheek. Before bed. And a

whisper in one ear, I love you.

And in the other, you’ve

got this. Then baby steps

again. A returning, a

womb-remembering.

Before even breath. I

close my eyes. Feel my

way home.