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Many years ago I had a friend who went by the name of Richard the Poet. "Friend" is perhaps not the correct word, because I'm not sure Richard had friends. He was someone who did not suffer fools. He was bipolar and brilliant and unmedicated and he had seen God. In some fashion. He let me talk to him because he could see that I, too, was serious about this God business.
I needed something that Richard had, so I asked his advice and counsel. He suggested that if I wanted to get in touch with God, I could write to him. So each morning for some period of time, I would park myself at the kitchen table with a pot of strong coffee and my Marlboros, a pen and a spiral bound notebook. At the top of a page I would write this prayer:
God, please help me to write that which will be pleasing to you, and which will bring me closer to you. Thank you, God. Amen.
I would draw a line under this prayer, and then I would write. Sometimes just free form, sometimes questions and answers, the questions from "me," the answers, seemingly, from God, the pen moving almost of its own accord. It was brilliant. There was a voice inside me that had been waiting to speak, and it spoke. Beautifully. Positively. Like I imagine the book, Conversations with God to be (though I have never read it). I would write, and then once a week or so I would report to Richard and we would discuss. This writing and the conversations with Richard gave me much comfort.
One day I wrote a question, and the answer came back, "I don't know."
I was stunned. Literally. I sat there, pen poised, for the longest time. Then I wrote, "What do you mean, 'you don't know.' You're God. You're supposed to know everything."
The answer came back, "I never said I was God."
The logic of this was irrefutable. So I wrote, "Well, is God in there?"
The answer came back, "Well, of course."
And in a moment, a structure that had been in me for years, constraining me and my ideas of the divine, broke apart, dissolved, and I was left with a spaciousness, an expansiveness, that was breathtaking.
I was reminded of Richard today and felt such gratitude for his help. When he was able to fight through his insanity, his generosity of spirit was astounding. He was another soul struggling through a confusion of a life, struggling toward some light he saw in the distance but willing to reach back to help a fellow traveler along. I hope that in my best moments I live up to the example he set for me.
Today I will remind myself that someone might be having more difficulty than me, and I will make a point to find that person and to lend a hand.
Horses and Mountain, Madison County, Montana
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