Trusting the Mapmakers
The resurrection began with me curled into a fetal position.
I cannot recall just when. In those days,
I spent a fair amount of my time there,
unwrapping to do the required things of life,
keep a job, feed myself (sometimes), play the host
to those concerned, pretending to be
far more functional than I actually was.
But I can tell you, that is where it began,
curled up and crying. Not quite stable
despite the habits that helped the pretense.
The resurrection began with a memory,
Of what I had been. There were recriminations, to be sure.
Self loathing even when it was not justified,
my high standards had failed me.
They had left no room for the most human of realities:
that we fail. It is part of the human condition.
But the memory served me well.
It told me the truth of my failures,
but also the truth of my worth.
The resurrection began without belief that it could.
But I did the work of resurrections anyway.
Others had trod this path, I knew.
People more broken than I, as hard as that was to imagine.
So I would walk it as well. A new kind of pretense,
a pretense of belief. A well worn path through mirrors.
Here is what I learned. Resurrection is not an event.
It is a process. A journey through mountains.
Up. Down. Up again. Some of it has vistas.
Most of it does not. And you walk it,
trusting the mapmakers more than yourself,
understanding, even when it seems too late,
it never is.
About this poem.
Autobiographical. And something I carry with me when I am faced with broken people in my life and work. It is a good thought. A good memory despite the way it may sound. A good lesson.
I am grateful for the help I have had along the way. And the people who made me face hard truths in a gentle way. Truly, that is an art. The art of resurrection.