Joel and Kathleen Bolduc (photograph by the Cincinnati Inquirer)

First Place Essay - Kathleen Deyer Bolduc

One Foot in Front of the Other reminds us that we can let go our stranglehold on our worries and let the labyrinth bring us back to center.

One Foot in Front of the Other
by Kathleen Deyer Bolduc

“Why don’t you bring your son with you? We’d love to meet him, and there are plenty of children’s activities here at the ranch. We’ll find a big buddy to hang out with him.”

Joel is welcome—welcome! It has been so long since Joel has been invited anywhere.

I’ve been asked to lead a retreat for parents and grandparents of children with disabilities at Ghost Ranch Conference Center. I fly to New Mexico with my husband Wally, and youngest son, Joel. Joel has autism. I carry my heart in my hand, hoping against hope that somehow this will be the place where Joel will successfully fit in with his peers; where he will break free of an internal anxiety so fierce it causes him to lash out with his hands.

I return from an intense morning session where we’d been exploring the stages of grief parents experience upon learning of a child’s disability. Wally, who had left the workshop early to check on Joel, greets me at the cabin door. Yet another report of hair-pulling. Even with a big buddy accompanying him to activities Joel is acting out. Will it never end? Are we going to deal with this for the rest of our lives?

Frustration. Anger. Impatience. Powerlessness. A churning stew of emotions, quickly reaching the boiling point, forces me out of the cabin . The screen door slams with a satisfying crash. I walk, half-trot, head down, avoiding eye contact with fellow retreatants, until I realize I’m lost.

“Excuse me! Do you know where the labyrinth is?” My voice, to my surprise, sounds abrasive and rude.

The woman points, says something about wind chimes. I walk between buildings, the sound of satisfied voices in the art center grating on my nerves.

Melodic wind chimes. A carefully placed pile of smooth stones. A feather blowing in the breeze. An oasis of calm in a challenging week. No wonder I’d walked right by, oblivious.

For the first time since arriving at the ranch, I am alone. The labyrinth lies before me, a large circle, its outer rim delineated by bricks buried narrow edge up; its inner paths consisting of soft-ball sized rocks, some round and smooth, others jagged and asymmetrical. The path in the circle is clearly marked. Nerve-ends jangling, I remember the brochure’s assurance that the labyrinth is not a maze; as an aide to prayer, the path to the circle’s center is easily followed.

I take a deep breath, blow it out. Breathe deeply again, will tension away; wiggle shoulders, shake hands, close eyes.

Opening my eyes, I step onto the path. To my surprise, it leads directly, too easily, to the center-most ring.

“This can’t be right!” My voice sounds foreign, irate. I turn back and walk the way I’d come, until I’m standing outside the circle, looking in, willing a clearer perspective.

The entrance path definitely leads to the center, then wanders back to a circle mid-way between the inner and outer rings.

Deciding to forge my own path, I step over rocks into the outer ring and begin to walk, counter clock-wise. I run into a dead-end, and have to turn back the way I’d come. By now my agitation is erupting in great bubbles. My breath comes in gasps. Again, I close my eyes and take a deep breath, blow it out, breathe deeply again.

“The path is clearly marked. Put one foot in front of the other and trust.” The words rise up, unbidden.

“I can do that,” I hear myself answer.

And so I begin. I step onto the path so clearly laid out. Walk slowly, deliberately. One foot in front of the other. To the center. Away from the center. One foot in front of the other. Trust. Just when I think I’ve made my way to journey’s end, I find myself back near where I’d begun.

The words come as a mantra with my breath. “Put one foot in front of the other and trust.”

Wind chime harmonies drift on the breeze. A blur of bluebird flashes through my peripheral vision. A mutter of thunder threatens as light rain begins to fall, releasing metallic scent from desert sand, dirt, and rocks. Still, I walk forward, one foot in front of the other.

Path opens, without warning, onto circle’s center. Several boulders invite rest and meditation. I sit. Skies open. Palms up, I greet the rain. Contemplating mementos left by former wayfarers, I realize I have nothing to leave but my frustration, anger, and fear of the future.

Copyright 2006, Kathleen Deyer Bolduc

Biography

Kathleen Deyer Bolduc is a nationally recognized author and speaker in the field of disability ministry. Her books include His Name is Joel: Searching for God in a Son’s Disability (Bridge Resources, Louisville, KY, 1999) and A Place Called Acceptance: Ministry with Families of Children with Disabilities (Bridge Resources, Louisville, KY, 2001). Kathy’s passions include searching for God in the everyday, sharing lessons learned in 21 years of living with her son, Joel, who has autism, spending time with family and friends, contemplative prayer, long walks in the park, writing fiction, and reading a good novel at bedtime. Learn more about Kathleen and her books on the Kathleen Deyer Bolduc Website.

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