Early in the year, my friend Robin and I visited the Descanso Gardens with my youngest son, Nikolai. I was seeking a labyrinth walk, nature, and a friend. I didn’t want to use a walker, so I went with a frail standing body but standing. Aware of my internal ableism, I still could not use a walker. It is heavy and takes up space. I like to be discreet. Attention makes me uncomfortable. We walked to the Japanese Gardens first and encountered a small path downwards. I refused Robin’s shoulder to help me downwards and prayed not to fall. I did not fall, which reinforced my internal ableism. With each step, I could feel the vibration inside my body, through my spine, to my head. Ta boom, ta boom, and ta boom. I tried to focus on the trees and the leaves. I don’t remember any birds. The background was calm and quiet for the few people around, kids roaming, and my son constantly talking. Ta boom, ta boom, and ta boom—infinite steps into nature. The sounds of water in the Japanese Gardens cleansed my mind as if the water pushed away each ta boom sound.

One breath after the other, we proceeded to the labyrinth; there, we walked in circles, each on our path, each working on the sounds in our minds. I could see Robin and my son Nikolai, but they appeared blurred in the background. There, I thought about how difficult each step has become in my life, each breath, and each moment. There I stopped. There I took a breath. There I looked inside; one rose far away in the background. Into the petals. Into the red. There I got lost, like a bee trapped inside, resting on the pollen. I got lost in the labyrinth. I forgot why I was walking in the labyrinth. I think I paced it several times, each time forgetting.

We slowly walked to a nature meditation session. There we stopped; we listened. Distracted, I watched children playing under a dry tree, its branches imitating a crying tree, yet with dry branches. They were creating stories and eating snacks under the branches, protected by the tree and its tears. I wanted to be one of those children for a moment, go back in time, just to play with innocence and freedom. Captive in my body, overtaken by a rare autoimmune illness, I am no longer free. I want to stretch beyond the skin, separate and run. I wonder when my skin tightens if it is my own doing and not my illness. I want to walk beyond the walls my skin has created. I want to jump high, do somersaults, and roll on the grass. I want to make a handstand and dance upside down. But my body, my one point, is static, in place in this timescape. Inside and outside are two different worlds of my being. I searched for Robin and Nikolai to pull me out of this timescape. I held my son, and we walked, one step at a time to other places in the garden. Places I no longer remember—discussions that evaporated. We just walked.