Today is World Labyrinth Day. I first came across labyrinths when I was at university and participated in a day of reflection as part of UN Peace Day. Since then, I have always been fascinated both by their ancient history and their contemporary usage. Indeed, in many senses labyrinths are having something of a resurgence and renewal none more so than in the world of palliative and end of life care.
For those not familiar with labyrinths the Labyrinth Society describes them thus:
‘Labyrinths are an ancient archetype dating back 4,000 years or more. They are used symbolically, as a walking meditation, choreographed dance, or site of rituals and ceremony, among other things. Labyrinths are tools for personal, psychological, and spiritual transformation. They evoke metaphor, sacred geometry, spiritual pilgrimage, religious practice, mindfulness, environmental art, and community building.’
The ‘labyrinth effect’ is described by John Rhodes as:
‘It appears that walking or otherwise interacting with the labyrinth might enable a set of physical responses (increased calm, quiet, and relaxation; decreased agitation, anxiety, and stress) that allows for the emergence of a set of “state of mind” responses (increased levels of centeredness, clarity, openness, peace, and reflection). In turn, these “state of mind” responses might increase one’s receptivity to flashes of intuition, hunches, nudges from one’s “inner voice,” and other types of insight regarding one’s problems, issues or concerns.’ 
And so in gardens and beaches, in forest clearings and community settings, in places of memorial and city gardens and as I noted above in hospices and some care homes you are likely to come across labyrinths in all shapes, sizes, materials and forms.
I was reminded of the labyrinth as a physical and metaphorical form after I had delivered a talk about the role of social care in palliative and end of life care.
Social care whether in care home or in one’s own home is often forgotten about when we consider end of life care yet in truth most of us would if all else was equal chose to die in our own home or in a homely setting. Enabling that to happen has surely to be one of the key priorities of the Scottish Government consultation and engagement exercise to create a new Palliative and End of Life Care Strategy which is currently being consulted upon.
The critical role of care homes and homecare in delivering quality, person-led and dignified end of life care cannot be under-estimated and was affirmed in the Scottish Care report, ‘The Trees that behind in the wind’ published some 6 years ago now.
At the event last week, I shared an insight which a frontline nurse gave me as she tried to describe her role in end-of-life care in a care home. She wrote to me during the pandemic and when I asked her how she saw her role especially in these times she said that she was ‘an in-between worker.’ She went on to say that she was very aware that she was not the person undertaking the journey of dying or coming to terms with the end of life but was the companion along that way for an individual as they took these steps forward. She was the presence in between absence and busyness; between silence and doing; questioning and content; pain and rest. She saw her role as especially valuable to those who were wracked by dementia and whose ability to associate with others or to remember events and occurrences had become so limited, for whom distress was too frequent a companion.
For many people who receive social care in later life and especially those living with advanced dementia wherever they are supported it is these in between moments which can become times of potential comfort and solace, the occasions when we drop our activity into simply being, yet for many that is also a time of real anxiety, aloneness, and fear. Presence is intrinsic to comfort, support essential for solace. In between times are the hardest ones but can also be the most fruitful.
That nurse also spoke to me of the way in which physically she gave comfort, assured presence, answered anxiety by walking with residents. She found a solidity, a sense of direction and purpose in walking and movement even with those who were very frail.
When I was in Canada some time ago, I came across a care home which used a labyrinth as a space for personal and individual reflection but also as a place for a guided exploration of the issues facing a person as they journeyed at the end of life.
I have seen labyrinths used to support the journey of those who are close to death. As we move and walk to its centre it allows us to reflect, to be, to ponder and to simply breathe. The labyrinth allows us to walk to the heart of our being, to prepare for any outcome, to be open to discover who we are even in the last moments of breath, which in essence is what I think good accompanying end of life care is all about. Unlike mazes labyrinths have no wrong turns and no missteps, but rather all steps are of purpose and value; all experiences can enrich and mould us.
Life is often described in many cultures and philosophies as a journey. We recitnise and celebrate the first faltering steps of our toddler years, we reflect on the journeys of our adulthood and middle age, and then these are replaced by stepping into the unfamiliarity of age and the end of living. A journey can be both physical and psychological.
Whether a labyrinth is marked on a beach or in our own garden, is created in a formal setting or not, or is simply one of the imagination inside our head, on a bit of paper or in the touch of a hand, I think there is strength in finding and creating spaces and places that allow us to detach ourselves from the ordinariness and mundanity of the moment and to reflect, consider and ponder. At times of real challenge, the necessity and value of such spaces becomes all the more significant and heightened.
A journey is always achieved by single steps and as we move closer to death, we engage in that most personal and individual of all journeys. Great palliative and end of life care wherever it is offered enables an individual to undertake their own journey, at their own pace, in their own direction, both inwards and outwards.
Great poets can take us into their own labyrinths where steps bring us closer to understanding and truth in subtle ways. As the seasons change and the air starts to fill with the invitation of lawnmowers, I cannot but reflect on the wisdom of Philip Larkin’s poetry around death and dying, and I leave you with ‘The Mower’ :
The mower stalled, twice; kneeling, I found
A hedgehog jammed up against the blades,
Killed. It had been in the long grass.
I had seen it before, and even fed it, once.
Now I had mauled its unobtrusive world
Unmendably. Burial was no help:
Next morning I got up and it did not.
The first day after a death, the new absence
Is always the same; we should be careful
Of each other, we should be kind
While there is still time.
Philip Larkin, “The Mower” from Collected Poems. Copyright © Estate of Philip Larkin.
 Rhodes, John W. “Commonly Reported Effects of Labyrinth Walking.” Labyrinth Pathways, 2nd Edition, July 2008, pp. 31–37.