The following is the eighth installment of C.D. Baker’s “The Walking Stick Journal.” Each piece is a refreshingly honest look at the author’s journey into wholeness, revelation, and belonging… If you’re just now picking this up, you can find the first installment here.

---

 

 

The Walking Stick Journal

Stepping Stones of Transformation

 

An Unfolding Manuscript

 

by

C. D. Baker

Chapter Eight: Bridges

 

Bridges are connectors. They span dangerous chasms and mighty rivers to deliver us safely to our destinations.

Bridges also connect us to one another. They bring the bounties of friendship to those distant; they bring forgiveness and reconciliation to those estranged.

We work hard to build bridges and to maintain them. They can be fragile and they can require a great deal of effort.

And sometimes bridges collapse.

Then again, sometimes we realize that we do not need a bridge. That is when we come to recognize that all is already well, that all is already whole, and that there is no separation between us, after all.

 

***

January-February, 2020

 

January 6

I tell Bill that I still believe the illusion that I can control my own safety. “I need to believe it,” I say. “And I don’t know why.”

Bill thinks for a moment. He then tells me that part of me has crossed the bridge away from that illusion and towards freedom. “But your state of heart has not caught up to your understanding. You’ve left yourself behind.” 

I take a breath and picture a plank bridge over my creek. I can feel the resistance to cross; I don’t trust what’s on the other side. Maybe I don’t trust the bridge, either.

Bill leans in as if he can read my mind. “Trust is the answer.”

I look away. 

“Do something for me,” he says. “You’ll be traveling for a few weeks. Pay attention to how the bridge changes.”

§

Wednesday, January 29, hiking in the Virginia mountains: 

Dictated at 10:41 AM. Reflecting on my journey, I sit on a log and imagine myself on a bridge again. I can feel myself crawling toward some uncertain landing on a failing structure that gets flimsier the closer I get. I can’t go back, I can’t stay put, and can’t go forward. Everything is disintegrating.

Now anxious, I stand up and start walking. I just want to leave the fear behind and get to a safe place. Is that too much to ask?

12:58 PM. Text come in from Patti who is responding to something I had sent her weeks before. She tells me to renounce the lie that I can manage life on my own.

Her text agitates me; I’ve tried renouncing. 

Ten seconds later: Second text: “Be still.” 

I grind my teeth. I can’t.

§

Wednesday, February 4, on the Southern Outer Banks of North Carolina:

Noon. Am in a blustery wind staring at a gray, frothy sea. The salty spray smells good; the cold air flushes my face. This place is untamed and I like it here.

Whatever is ahead, I realize that there is no going back. Part of me–my logical mind– says I should lunge for God and hope he’ll catch me. But that’s not enough to overcome the other part–the dark and powerful inner resistance whispering, “God is not safe.”

This inner conflict exhausts me. 

12:30 PM. Not a soul in sight; just sand, sky, seabirds and a heaving ocean. 

I suddenly realize that the feeling of ‘bridge’ has changed. It started as un-walked planks across my creek. In Virginia it was a failing stretch over a devouring canyon. Then, in a hopeful moment some days before, I had imagined an arched, stone symbol of permanence leading me to some solid ground just ahead. But that deteriorated with me clinging high above a threatening river. And now, here–where bridges simply cannot span the endless sea–the entire metaphor has dissolved. 

I am disoriented.

I stare at the surf for some time and then am startled by a weird sensation. It’s like my feet can feel the solidity of the whole earth–like my legs are pressing against the mass of the entire globe. No words for this. What is happening here?

§

Wednesday, February 12, walking the beach:

I ask myself what my inner self is feeling: Desperation. I’m still being pulled apart in this tug-of-war between the illusion of control and trusting God.  

§

Monday, February 17, home in cold, damp Pennsylvania:

Walking along my creek, I remember how God intervened when I was tossed off that Dutch horse. I will always believe that an angel had caught my head. So why can’t I just trust him?

Something beyond my reach has a death-grip. 

I recount other good things God has done, like shielding me from the car that flipped over my convertible. My brain goes on to remind me that he has been trustworthy for my whole life. But I’m beginning to think my brain can’t help me here. 

I just have no idea how to cross over.

A nudging rises from somewhere: “What if you have all of this backwards? What if we don’t cross bridges to God; what if he has already crossed over to us.” 

The notion stops me in my tracks. That would mean that none of this is about me managing my way to a destination; it’s about simply recognizing what’s already here, right where I’m standing. If so, then this journey is not about arriving–it’s about awakening. 

Staring, I feel myself swallow. Something about this feels true… and good. I squeeze my walking stick and take a deep breath. But will I allow myself to wake up?