Crossing the Drawbridge

Last fall, when life was carefree and happy, before I was told that I required a new right hip, before I experienced internal bleeding in my right thigh, before my anti-DNA lupus antibody climbed, and before I began my journey of surrender in pure love...when I chased butterflies as a child, and photographed flowers with no time boundary, and loved for granted...along that way of my path, there was a drawbridge which pulled upon my soul like a magnet.

Each day I ran past the drawbridge, and I watched as the small boats waited patiently, as if in prayer on bended knees. The boats requested passage on the journey with their still silence. The tower-keeper eventually opened the drawbridge and allowed passage. I never ran past the point of the drawbridge. I do not know why. At that time, I was just not at all curious about the journey for the boats once permitted to cross. I was fixated only upon the point of passage, where the bridge drew open from inside and brought forth two large wings, which lifted to the sky...a man-made structure which recognized the pure symbolism of our dialogue with God.

Despite being pulled toward the symbol, its message was lost upon me at the time. Now I realize that the drawing open was an opening to God and the still silence was a necessary gesture for those wanting passage on the journey. Thankfully, the bridge imprinted my soul even though spiritual density tried its best to block the imprint.

On my final day with the drawbridge, I was disappointed to see that no boats requested passage during my run. Toward the end of my run, I was a half mile away from the bridge, when I saw a boat pass me in the direction of the bridge. I knew what this meant. With blind will, similar to that which caused me to later chase a huge buck across the ravine during the Griffy Lake run, I sprinted toward the drawbridge with the hope I might get a photo. My camera phone had no zoom, and so I had to run as fast as my legs would carry me.

I got my photo, from afar, which I now realize is exactly where I belonged on the stage of the metaphor at that time. It was an opening up that I did not comprehend in the transcendental sense, but which I recognized on an instinctual spiritual level. It was similar to when I studied in China and I knew no Chinese, but I quickly understood what was being said in a general sense. It was a survival thing because I used to pay cab drivers to take me where no foreigners were allowed, and then I had no way of getting myself back to the beginning. I used cases of cigarettes and a written Chinese note which gave the name of The East China Institute of Law and Politics, which I knew phonetically as hwa deng sheng faw shey uey...this landed me further away from school each time I tried to pronounce it.

Like the foreigner trying to engage a language she does not know, I recognize there is something from God being spoken, but I rarely comprehend. More often, I get myself further away from my home as I know it to be when I attempt to communicate in the language for which I have no fluency. I pass spiritually phonetic chicken scratches to the passers by on the journey and inevitably push myself further from home.

All of this revelation has led to a weekly Lenten pancake breakfast with my very dear friend. I'll call her Anne. We discuss our journeys with God. We are "reading" a CD on tape together which she introduced me to which is called "Entering the Castle" and it is based upon the mystical lessons of St. Terese of Avila. I cannot get past CD 1, and my friend is stuck on CD 2. We are both digesting the material in a way that only two like-minds can do.

It is all so relevant. Everything. That is the problem. The pancakes are relevant most of all. They are most necessary. They temporarily relieve the suffering and the pain.

As I explained to my friend, a person whom I feel completely free to trust in the healthiest sense, I am on my knees now on a way I have never been. I cannot speak a prayer other than the words, "help me, help me, help me, help me...." and I utter these words all day, every day, and all night, even in my sleep. Even the Our Father seems too complicated to me right now, and so my last trek to mass consisted of me holding hands during that prayer saying in my mind the only prayer that I could say, "helpmehelpmehelpmehelpmehelpme..."

Clint Eastwood's character in the movie Million Dollar Baby, had clearly lived a life of regret, pain, and suffering. He saw hope in a young female boxer who had to shake his soul to the core to get him to feel again. In the end, she had to leave him in a very bad and unexpected way. He prayed over her body and on his knees he made the sign of the cross in a manner that only a lost and spiritually disoriented man could. Because of his deep pain and suffering, he was unable to even complete a simple gesture such a making the sign of the cross.

The point is, though, that he tried anyway: He attended mass, in spite of himself, and he got on his knees and he prayed and he signed himself...he offered up his sloppy and sad and depressed attempts to be with God. I suspect that his internal words of prayer were simply "Help me, help me, help me..."

This brings me to Robert B. I took his case pro bono in 1999 and worked on it until 2007 in an attempt to free him from a 60-year sentence for a murder that he did not commit. I blindly fought for Robert while he did his time inside. I located the person who committed the murder and put him on the stand and got him to admit that he was present at the scene of the crime and did all of the things that the murderer did. He took the 5th. Robert was never legally vindicated, but he was factually and morally vindicated. He contacted me a few days after he was released from prison. I met him downtown and he wore a polyester suit with fake alligator shoes and his hair was braided and I hugged him in the public restaurant and I could not let him go. I could not have been happier to see one of my God-given soul mates in life, free at last.

Robert wore his sunglasses indoors. He was jumpy and shy and most afraid of his surroundings. Robert was held against his will for 30-years and was blinded by the light out of prison, even when indoors. I wanted to fix his soul but I could not. I could only tell him that I respected him, that he was my hero, and that I would do whatever it took to help him on his journey.

He asked nothing. He told me that I was his hero and that he was a permanent fixture in my life and that if I ever needed anything, he would be there "to cover my back." From Robert, this means the world. These words are better than any gold or treasure any person could ever give to me. Robert's vow to "cover my back" was a spiritual commitment from his soul to mine. It was his way of telling me that he loved me and that he was thankful for my friendship.

He recognized the running affect on my body and wondered aloud whether had I been thinner back in 1999 would I have won his post-conviction case. It was an honest thought, and Robert knows no thought other than an honest one.

Not long after, Robert was kind enough to address my Tuesday evening Criminal Law class, whose members he held spellbound for 3 hours, in spite of his prison lingo and lack of any education. He moved an entire room of people with his gentleness.

On our ride home, Robert shared with me that "God is great. God is good. I thank God every day."

After he exited my car, I knew inside I would likely never see Robert again. Maybe I am wrong, but he was headed to Louisiana, where he will disappear, I suspect. I felt a deep sadness for him and for his life, and he told me not to feel sad for his life. He reminded me again how good that God is. He told me that bitterness becomes a person inside and that he wants to shine inside and he said that God is with him and with me, and asked me not to be sad for him and not to regret that I did not win his case legally. He told me that God put him exactly where he was supposed to be on his journey.

The next day, as I ran where my hip allowed me to run, I thought that if Robert knows that God is good after having spent 30-years in prison for a murder that he beyond-a-shadow-of-a-doubt did not commit, then God must be good. If Robert doesn't belly-ache, then why should I ruminate about my hip or my blood or whatever else comes to my body?

On a later run, I considered that if Robert is not bitter about love lost, then how in God's name can I not surrender in love?

Robert inadvertently helped me run through myself on my longest run.

I told him when he gets back from Louisiana to call me, and we will have some pancakes...