We are not healed by order—
not made unbroken by obedience
to the patterns that wounded us.
First, we come undone, unhinged.
We ache in divergent spirals.
For the healing path is circuitous.
I am—you are—we are all, now—
fumbling through the wild thickets
of what has been done to us,
of what we’ve done to each other.
But the honeybees teach us truth
through the mess of their motion—
The way home is never linear.
It’s a deep hum in the wings, a call
to a welcoming waiting to unfold.
There is no shame in the scatter,
in the holy, beautiful awkwardness
of our own homeward dancing—
no disgrace in the broken steps
of the chaos-drenched unmaking.
Because inherent in us—even now,
in this unraveling of our lives—
is the remembrance of how to fly,
how to make from all this sorrow
something golden and sweet.
