There’s a quiet sort of magic in walking the labyrinth.

Unlike a maze, it doesn’t try to trick you. There are no wrong turns, no dead ends—just a winding path inward, and a slow return back out. I’ve walked it in rain. I’ve walked it at dusk. I’ve walked it barefoot in the summer when the earth felt warm enough to speak.

Guests often tell me they don’t know why they felt drawn to the labyrinth—but that something about it moved them. Maybe it’s the rhythm. The stillness. The way it gives your mind space to breathe.

I built it for that reason—for myself at first, and then for anyone else who needed to come home to themselves. If you walk it, walk slowly. Let the past fall away. Let the present arrive.

That’s what this place is for.