after resurrection

{ a poem for the ones who weren't ready for trumpets }

when I return from the place of death, I beg you
do not greet me with trumpet anthems or Easter lilies
instead, offer me a mug of tea with honey
perhaps the cozy sweater from your shoulders
softly brush the grime from blooming bruises,
then sit with me in silence, in birdsong
let me linger in the pale peace of morning before we speak of the journey

do not ask if I have been through hell
— honey, haven’t we all? —
ask me what the worms know,
what wisdom I have earned in the terrifying wildness between
the old Me and the new
ask, if you can bear it, what part of me I left behind,
buried and gone

next time I emerge from an inner tomb,
do not wonder at my rising,
born yet again from the belly of the Eternal Mother
I tell you, I am glorious dirt, and to the dirt I will return each time She beckons:
transformation, my dear, is a messy business
it is pain, not performance
and I do this because it is the only way I know
to save my life

-EBD
03.27.24

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Why this poem?

I wish we spoke differently about resurrection.

The resurrections I’ve experienced — the new life that has emerged around and within me following the death of a relationship, a way of being, a paradigm, or an identity — have never felt like “ta-daaaa!” moments. They’ve been gritty, weary, exhausting times, and the last thing I’ve wanted as I stumbled out of the metaphorical tomb was to be met with loud fanfare. Mostly I’ve wanted tenderness, silence, and a nap. And yet, these quiet, intimate experiences of death and resurrection are the ones that have ultimately resulted in the most profound healing and personal transformation.

I struggle to connect my experience of resurrection with the typical Christian celebration of Easter Sunday, which tends to reinforce the problematic notion that resurrection hasn’t actually happened unless it results in a polished product, ready for public display: tidy, well-decorated, smiling and almost aggressively joyful. I wonder if we’ve turned resurrection into a shiny future outcome because that story is far less vulnerable than digging into the many ways we actually experience the dirty, messy, painful and ever-present process of new life rising after death.

Wasn’t Christ mistaken for a gardener on Easter morning, after all?

Filthy, unkempt, bruised, in desperate need of a shower, and somehow — miraculously — still walking, and still extending extravagant love.

That’s a resurrection I recognize.

Peace — and mess — be with you this Easter, dear friends.