Using Maps to Lose Our Way

To some people, maps are intimidating creatures: lines that cross and connect, with different colors signifying different themes, and the world is upside down if you hold it the wrong way. And forget about refolding it!

But to others, like myself, maps are a piece of art. A window into history. A link to freedom.

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I volunteer at my church in the area where the very youngest gather. Every week there is a story, attended in a large room by all children ages two to five. They watch a puppet show, sing songs, and listen to the storyteller relate the week’s Bible story. One day several years ago, the storyteller was sharing the story of Abraham, how God told him to leave this place and move to another, even though he had no idea where he was going. The curriculum we use suggested the storyteller bring a map, but she couldn’t find one. So she attempted to explain to these young ones what a map is: Did you ever watch Mommy and Daddy prepare for a long trip? Did they get out this large sheet of paper and spread it on the kitchen table? Did they trace the lines with a marker, maybe, or discuss how they would get where they wanted to go?

One bright four-year-old boy raised his hand, and she called on him. “You mean like a GPS?” he said.

I shook my head, wondering what the world was coming to! I thought silently, Yeah, kid. Like a GPS.

But no. Not like a GPS. A global positioning system will tell you exactly where you are and where you are in relation to where you want to be. A satellite over twelve thousand miles away sees traffic and diagnoses the best route, and the robotic voice tells you to turn right in 200 feet. If you take a wrong turn, she says, “Recalculating.” Over and over until you follow her directions.

A map is different. A map cannot tell you the road is clogged with construction or that the highway is backed up because of an accident. A map cannot recalculate. You have to do that yourself.

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This is not an essay about how technology is ruining our society, but it is a reflection on what we are losing. You can use a map as an allegory for all our lost innocence, but I want to talk about the map itself.

Who created the first map? How was it created? Ancient maps look sparse and undetailed to the modern eye, but if you’ve ever tried to create a true-to-scale map, you’ll understand how difficult it is. As a former middle school teacher, I have done just that. After several lessons on maps and their use by colonial Americans, I took my students to the lake and told the teams to create a scale map on graph paper. They had to include details of the shoreline and the “landmarks” in the lake house’s yard: fire pit and lawn chairs and a stone wall. Later, the science teacher who owned the property shared a lesson on the vegetation of the area, and they enjoyed that much better; creating a map is hard!

So who does that? Who takes the time to be that detailed? An adventurer. And one who wants others to follow. Someone who says, “I took a chance to go where no one has ever gone, and now I’ve come back to show you the way!”

In order to create a map, the cartographer, whether an adventurer like Christopher Columbus or a class of sixth graders, must look at what he sees in relation to everything else. I can’t just draw a line for the lakeshore. I have to think, “How long does this line need to be on the paper so that it is in correct proportion to the wall?”

In order to create the map, the cartographer must constantly reevaluate what has already been done. If he fills in too much shading to represent the trees, then the next person to come along will not understand the distance he’ll need to cross to get to the mountain in the distance. Then bad things happen; just ask the Donner party.

Most ancient cartographers were also botanists and zoologists. They took notes on the plants and animals they encountered. They had an eye for detail and often drew sketches, so they were artists, too. They were mathematicians who understood perspective and proportion. They were adventurers who weren’t afraid of the unknown.

And that is the shortcoming with modern GPS systems. They very efficiently get me from point A to point B, avoiding the traffic in between. They are wonderful inventions if you are on a time table and need to get to point B, halfway across the country, for your cousin’s wedding on Saturday.

But my GPS will never encourage wandering. It does not allow for exploration. Even when you ask it for nearby restaurants, it gives you a list of choices and then tells you how to get there. Rarely will you stumble on that out-of-the-way bakery with the cinnamon buns that are to die for, because the purpose of the GPS is to keep you from going out of your way.

My regular summertime Sunday afternoon activity is to drive. I fill the tank, pick a direction, and start driving. When we have a set routine, we also end up with a set route. What are your regular weekly destinations: work, home, the gym, the school, the market? How many ways do you get there? You most likely take the same route every time. Most of us do, myself included. For those activities, I am on a timetable and I am not in the mood for exploration.

But do you ever pass a road that you drive by daily, or weekly, and say to yourself, “I wonder where that goes?” You don’t have time to follow that road; you’ve got to get to school to pick up the kids.

That’s what Sundays are for. Take that road, and the next and the next. No plan. No timetable. Just drive. Find the out-of-the way bakery or B-B-Que spot. See the flowers blooming in the field.

You most likely won’t get lost. You’ll periodically see signs: Montdale 2 miles that way and Carbondale 11 miles that way. An interesting thing will start to happen. That intimidating piece of crisscrossed paper, lines going every which way, that will never again fit in the glove box – that map will start to make sense. “I drove ten miles down this road and I’m only five miles from that city that is usually forty-five minutes away.” You’ll start to understand the relationship between towns and roads.

Yes, a map can be an allegory. An allegory that shows us where we were and where we want to be. It shows relationship from past to present to future. A GPS cannot show you anything except the road you’re on. It can tell you you’ve traveled 784 miles and have 233 miles to go. And that it will take you seven hours to cross the state of Virginia. But it can’t show you visually all the terrain you’ve crossed to get there.

Take a drive next Sunday. Take that road you never take, and the next and the next. No plan. No timetable. Just drive. And if you do get well and truly lost, so much the better. Pull out a map and find your way home.