MY
FATHER’S MAP
by David D.
Hambleton
My
father gave me a map his father'd given him.
I
looked upon it and familiar it was, but I knew it not.
The
language and the design were beyond all my art.
It
seemed a handy thing, rolled and bound nicely.
I
knew how to use such things, so it served me well;
As
I swatted flies and my girlfriend's behind with it,
Then
tossed it on the shelf where it gathered dust.
A
wise man I encountered in a moment of pain
Told
me of the map's worth in my search for the truth,
So
down it came from high on its perch.
Admireit, I did, as I unfurled it from binding.
The
leather shone softly, well tanned, inked, and oiled.
A permanence set it apart from all that is temporal.
Runes
and symbols of landscape were drawn on it,
But
overlain it mismatched against every chart I knew.
I
could not connect it with the decrepit ground where I stood.
On
the back simple text told a story too straightforward
Of
a lover and beloved and love broken and restored.
In
the story was a message interwoven, obvious but cryptic.
Considering
it may be a clue to the map,
I
studied and memorized and elaborated on the story.
I
shared it with friends who claimed I'd a madness.
I
found even my dad didn't really understand,
Though he'd got the best of the matter of the story.
His
means of walking that path were unthinkable to me,
And
so I gave up on that line of reason,
Assaying to work directly on the symbols and runes.
Try
as I might, study as I could,
Delving
in on cold dark nights and bright sunny days,
The
mystery eluded my feeble fickle mind.
On
certain occasions I'd catch just a glimpse
Of a meaning or a reason or a forerunner to follow.
So
I followed that trail as best I could
Through fetid fearsome fen and high on glorious mountain.
Sometimes
I found myself and landmarks were clear,
Walking
and running and floating on water or air.
Soon
enough, I'd find I'd left the old marked chart,
Following
my own notion about the where the path lay.
The
map said that way, but I thought this looked smoother,
Or
the map was indecipherable so I tried to invent
Some
track of my own through serpentine hedges
That
led off to ruin or perilously close.
My Odyssean path crossed the seas both of hope and despair,
Down through the grand valleys of Ego and
Almost
I was lost there at the quiet Pool of Introspection,
Where
Self Condemnation and Self Aggrandizement lurk;
Side
by side, pride by pride, complimentary killers
Waiting
and baiting in that humanist soup
I
admired the works in the galleries there.
Some
showed me the tormented souls of their artists,
At
once beautiful and atrocious, some just atrocious.
Animated
beetles; a petty, vindictive inferno;
A
nondescript painting captured the pain of a scream;
Andanother the disjointedness of time and everything.
In
medicine they construed to duplicate life,
And
argued in legality to take it at will;
Claiming
Euthanasia and "Unviable tissue mass";
The kinder of evils to existence in this world.
Arguments
are there waged in volumes of text
By
degree-laden bullies who abuse genuine explorers;
Educated
beyond their intelligence's capacity,
Deifying
divining mysteries of our marvelous minds,
Reifying knowledge in a semantic shell game.
Their wisdom ne'er surpassing their knowledge's lead.
Psychoses
and Neuroses hang as overripe fetid fruit.
Faux-foreign
language indicts insecure listeners.
Charges
are brought boldly, substantiated by blather,
With no point but supposition as to meaning and end.
Points
bought with foul logic and on impolite topics,
Not
to be comfortably countered in decent company.
They
victimize the young and innocent we send them,
Feeding
red meat to pups, creating bloodthirsty killers
From unwitting young wanderers feeling for their way.
Deconstructing
creation to rationalize theories,
They
violate nature and science itself
In
ever-more vain attempts to avoid the old map.
The map.
That
map
Why
such grievous pains to circumvent?
Why
so much lovely energy spent
God-envying,
linguistically verdant
Expressing
in vanity the self-important
Will
as though, being from the map rent,
As
though, being any other way bent,
Might
cover one with some better tent
Than
the one which to find we all were meant
By
our spiritual cartographer, ever benevolent
The
shadow of death hung heavy o'er those valleys
Where
Homeric heros fought like
hell in their galleys
Seeking
to carve out a niche of some fame
An
excuse for salvation in a humanist's game
Like
them, Plato and Freud grasped at gutteral glory
But
in the end they push daisies, just more of the gory
As
I walked, I gazed, in shock and then fear
For
the map began showing me things I held dear
Things
for the life of me I wanted to bless
But
try as I might, I just made them a mess
No
doubt about it, I was under attack
Before
I knew it, I fell flat on my back
Knocked
from my feet I was cowering with dread
And
hid under what I had, the map, over my head
The
runes and the symbols and story came clear
My
blind eyes could see and my deaf ears could hear
The
guns kept firing, cracking my crust
The
rounds were on point, but in the map I could trust
The
more that I trusted, the more I could see
That
there was provision planned in there for me
Provision,
protection from all of humanity's piranha
A
hiding place from the need to reach for nirvana
Then,
just as I was learning again to believe,
I
noticed a thing I found hard to conceive.
From
the map itself, I was taking friendly fire.
Blown
away were my greed and my pride in the pyre.
The
shots came in salvos remarkably well aimed
From
a single old Canon, the only one claimed
By
a marksman not missing or fouling one shot
As
the map everything needed, wanting nothing, had got.
Now
I busy myself earning a wage and wiping noses,
Kissing
bruised knees and needful lips, bringing roses;
Holding
the hurting and allowing some to hold me;
Healing
the sick and feeding the poor and hungry;
Standing
up for those without the wherewithal;
Upholding
a standard, saving some from the fall;
Teaching
those who have eyes to see and ears and will hear,
How
to not be distracted from love by all they hold dear
How
to get by in this life and on to the next
And
not to be victims, intellectually vexed.
And
I fight for the right and the freedom to so shine,
Though
not by some grandiose scheming of mine;
But
right where I fit in a plan made before time;
A plan with lovely harmony, meter, and rhyme.
I
cannot conceive the entire course set before me,
Just
a step at a time lit by lamp at my knee
As
I crouch to pass through a gate seemed too small
For
as a camel at the eye of a needle, I'm too tall.
Lit
not by my knowledge or wisdom hard bought,
But
by light from the map itself am I taught.
Down
the road as intended as best I know how
I
run the race as to win, no longer envious now
Of
those consumed with perfecting style and form
Digressing acceptably from somebody's norm.
As
best I can hear past my ego and my id
There's
now a voice deep inside that the Spirit has hid.
As
best I can see past all I've done in my power;
Led
pace by pace, hill by hill, and hour by hour;
Its
plain to see why Solomon claimed it vanity;
That being every effort of frail humanity.
All
effort to fly as an eagle made me weep.
I've
been lifted higher by following meekly as a sheep.
I
see now the lover is G-d, loving me.
Love
broken and restored is our Messiah on that tree.
Loving
G-d and my neighbor is what life is of.
Here
on the path I know indelible peace, hope, and love.
Our
Father drew us a map.
I
look upon it and know it now.
For
when I was a child, I spake as a child,
I
understood as a child, I thought as a child:
but
when I became a man, I put away childish things.