The Labyrinth

An essay by Ellie Doyle

Untitled by Rae Klein

I stood outside the chapel with a euro coin. Turning it over and over between my fingers until the faint metal scent would become etched in my skin. It reminded me I’m still just standing here, willing the doors to open and invite me in. They never do. As I look around, I wonder if anyone can see me contemplating which angle of attack I should take. The doors remain unlocked—an easy entrance, too easy. The stained glass is dull, fading away. I could peer through and see if anyone’s inside, but I don’t. Outside in the church gardens there’s a labyrinth my grandmother helped plant years ago. The idea was stolen from, or rather inspired by, a trip she took to France the year before—a cathedral and a labyrinth. Why have an unbeatable maze outside of a Catholic Church? The irony is there somewhere.

As children, we would run outside after Sunday mass, beelining for the maze. Its spiraling nature lured us in, and the winner was the mightiest of us all. Some would cheat by hopping the hedges, some would give up after the first loop, and the rest would run blind through rows of winding paths, dizzy with excitement and confusion: You never knew if you were close to the finish or right back where you started.

I turn my attention back to the main doors—the wood peeling away at the edges, revealing years of repentance, sinners walking in and out. My fingers find the door handle, and as I pull, the air changes. Fumes surround me, the incense hitting me square in the gut. I’m seven years old again, begging, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” The familiar scene lay before me: rows of wooden seats, the old organ that gets played once a month, the confession box dividing our sins from the world by a measly red curtain. I only came for one thing, and I remember the coin in my hand, damp from sweat. I continue twisting it in my fingers as I make my way up to the altar. I find the candles, take out my lighter, drop the coin in the box, and place the last sliver of dignity I have on the shelf next to the others. Most of the time these candles are lit out of compassion, empathy for someone else. A selfless act of support for a close relative, a friend, or a stranger going through tough times. Naturally, mine is for none of the above; selfish to my core, I light the candle for myself.

I was never a fully committed member; my sceptical nature allowed me only to observe. So when I’d sit in the same seat each week listening to the gospel and what revolutionary insight would be bestowed upon me so graciously, I treated every word like a lie. My cynical mind watched as we would all stand, then kneel, then leave all without instruction, like this burning instinct that we were all born with, connected by our nature to follow. I never liked it. Yet as I now find myself kneeling down at the altar, I wish I had played my part a bit more convincingly. I could’ve conned the con man into thinking I was a believer. You see, I find myself on the cusp of being damned, near the finish and right back where I started. I stand looking at each window as it displays the stations of the cross, Jesus on his final mission. I see it now: I see the devastation.

I make my way back down the aisle, the doors creaking closed behind me. I think I had it wrong. There’s no miracle for people like me—redemption only seeks the ones who are on their knees, and I know I would rid all my faith just to prove I can leave. Empty-handed, I turn towards the labyrinth, the crunch of leaves beneath my feet, hair drenched in smokey memories, an old promise of freedom. The only way out is through. I enter the labyrinth, the mightiest of us all.

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Ellie Doyle (she/her), a 23-year-old graduate from the University of Limerick, holds degrees in English and sociology. With a lifelong passion for reading and writing, Doyle is navigating the world of literature and seeking to carve out her own unique path. Her curiosity and desire to learn push her to constantly seek deeper meaning and understanding in everything she encounters.

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