By way of longer introduction, let me say that I harbor three joined passions: a love of history, a study of philosophy, and my Pagan spiritual practice. My continual quest is to keep the three passions coherently balanced. Only one physical artifact in my life embodies the combination of these driving forces: the seven-circuit Cretan labyrinth that my husband and I built in 2003. We named it “The Walk of the Fallen” and dedicated it to the American service members dying in the war in Iraq.
In May of that 2003, my mind was a storm: the war we’d just entered was ostensibly “won, ” yet every cell of my body questioned what that term actually meant. Philosophically, as an American, I was concerned when I heard the language of freedom used in relation to so much death. Historically, as former member of the Armed Forces, I saw reruns of past attempts to graft our unique brand of democracy onto other cultures without a full understanding of, and respect for, those very cultures we were striving to help. Spiritually, as a Pagan, I felt a sense of grief and anger, which often eroded my volatile, yet reasoned responses to the events unfolding before America’s eyes.
My standard reaction to mental or emotional stress is always physical. I need to exhaust my body into a state of stillness is to find peace of mind and spirit. The level of internal disarray I was felt that May demanded a sizeable dose of back-breaking “cure.” Additionally, I felt a command from on high: find a tangible way to acknowledge and honor the dead of this war. A hand-built, permanent labyrinth was my intuitive answer to so many diverse needs. J.E. Cirlot’s “A Dictionary of Symbols” reports that a labyrinth “may be interpreted as an apprenticeship for the neophyte who would learn to distinguish the proper path leading to the Land of the Dead.” This seemed to fit the “need” bill.
I began in August, and almost at once, wild dreams dominated my sleep, snap-shots of Iraq from perspectives that couldn’t possibly be mine. I was gifted with the view from a helicopter’s door, watched the dust rise behind a Stryker vehicle, saw dusty children reaching out hands for treats and water, and looked down upon bloodied hands before waking with a taste of sand in my mouth. By day, as I drank water to cool off from the hot summer temperatures, I found myself weeping for those who struggled by on smaller water rations in higher temperatures. As I began to write the names of the dead, in preparation for the dedication ritual, a sense of urgency consumed me. It felt as if all around me wanted me to rush, to finish, to be sure of completing this one task of my life. I never felt more frantic to complete a task in my life.
In October, 2003, the beautiful, winding Labyrinth was complete, with four tons of sandstone forming the walkway. Snow fell upon it like a blanket of blessing just before its Samhain consecration. We illuminated the stones with 400 luminarias, each bearing the name of a dead service-member. I read the list, a young trumpeter played taps, and the rain came like tears from above. At the end of the day, I felt hollowed out, emptied of weariness, sorrow, and every other emotion.
And now, as the fifth year of this “won” war commences? Almost daily, I walk those stones with a list in hand. I wonder if those men and women are somewhat shocked to find themselves among the dead? In order to keep a calm and comforting manner and to keep from weeping, I sing as I wind my way to the center, a song to invoke courage for the crossing and welcoming at journey’s end. In that first year, full of grief, I harbored hope that a visible sign of the losses would move someone, anyone, to find a better solution to the problematical war. I was met with a blank wall of public perception and was very disheartened. Few visitors appeared on the public openings around Veterans’ Day each year. Those who came alternately were moved to tears or argued with me that the number of the dead could not be as high as the lights and flags signified.
Since indifference seemed to be the main reaction to my efforts, I have had to re-center myself in the original reasons for building. I reminded myself this was not primarily about me; it was about the men and women whose names I record daily. Each spring, I weeded the thin earth between the stones, focusing on what I wanted to see pulled out of American life. I planted sweet smelling herbs and tough sedums and reminded myself that gardens need minding, as do nations. I paid more attention to the deities I honor. I calm myself there, before a stone altar so I can contain the tears that spring to my eyes for nineteen year olds who will never see twenty and for 47 year olds who won’t hold their grandchildren.
One cannot feel sorry for oneself walking a pathway for the dead, at least not so long as one still lives and breathes. And yet, out there working this spring, with arthritic knees and cold hands, I did feel an intensity of loneliness and loss. I heard on the news, with dismay verging on panic, when a military man said he expects us to have troops in Iraq for “decades”…and he went on to say that the numbers will be lower. With only about 50,000 in country, the casualty number will drop and as he put it, “it will fall out of the news” and his inference seemed clear—they will be forgotten. I have studied enough history to know how easily it will be forgotten; but don’t want it to be lost in time. Because the old saw is too true: those who forget the lessons of history are doomed to repeat them. 
