Donna Miesbach Gleanings on the Web

You've probably never heard of Charles Doss, but I was privileged to have Charles for a friend for several years before he died. Actually, Charles and I were both being published by Unity Magazine before we happened to meet. It was through a series of coincidences that we became acquainted and shared what became a very special bond. What made this friendship unusual is that when we met, Charles was in prison for a crime which he allegedly committed. Charles contested the charge until the day he died, but because of powerful financial influences on the outside, he was never able to present the evidence which would have cleared him.

Charles was a beautiful soul, and his writing mirrored that fact. I was going through some old papers the other day, and to my delight came across some of Charles' work that he wrote while in prison. Since I'd about given up on finding this, I was delighted when it finally surfaced.

Charles was a living example of the fact that it is indeed possible to make peace with what seems to be unalterable, perhaps even unjust, circumstances. I often wondered how he did it as I read the letters he wrote from his prison cell. How he chose to live his life was clear testimony to the eternal truth that the battle must first be won within if it is ever to be won at all.

Charles knew that freedom begins in one's own spirit. There are many in the "outside world" who are just as imprisoned as Charles, some perhaps even moreso. In the silence of his prison cell, which he came to think of as his temple, Charles discerned that while his station in life was difficult, it had little to do with his merit as a person. He knew these are just roles we play while we are here, roles that allow us not only to have a human experience, but also to assist others in their own growth. If none of us were called to undertake such difficult challenges, who would be here to inspire us? While it is true we do not consciously seek these experiences, there is a part of us that knows what we need to learn, and also how we may be of benefit to others.

Certainly, his was a high price to pay for such service, but most things of great value are dearly bought. That he turned his experience into such a profound and deeply spiritual adventure witnesses to the depth of his spirituality, as well as the importance of how he lived his life in that prison.

Charles spent three years on Death Row before his appeals moved him to Solitary Confinement, and then later to a "regular" prison cell. That cell was where he finished the remainder of his life. It was during his time in solitary confinement that he turned to writing poetry. Going within as he did to hear his inner voice gave him a freedom that took him far beyond his physical confines and allowed him to experience a beauty that is seldom seen with human eyes.

One of the things I learned from Charles is that even in the direst of circumstances, the soul can still sing, if we but allow it. Charles never told me this. He showed me, without ever saying a word. There are others who have done the same. Nelson Mandela is one who comes to mind, and we can, too. If we can just remember our true identity, then we will know we are not just this body, or these thoughts or feelings, or even this situation. That Which We Are is boundless, changeless, eternal, and pure. That Which We Are is what we resolve into during our times of quiet meditation. As we bring the memory of that experience back into our daily living, we are better able to surf the waves of life and not be pulled under by them. I believe Charles knew this. How else could he have written as he did?
I marvel at how Charles was able to retain a sense of his absolute worth as an individual under such potentially crushing conditions. His example is potent testimony that it isn't so much what happens to you as what you do with it that makes the difference.

Charles' life is silent evidence that if we can just trust - and accept - what life brings to us, then surely we will come to know, as Charles did, that all is well, and all will be well, regardless of what is happening around us. If we can just trust in that, the rest will take care of itself.

Charles is gone now. His timeless work, much of it unpublished, has slipped into obscurity, except for those few hearts on which his light still shines. His is a legacy we would all do well to follow.

I guess my life is but half finished.
Therefore, there is ample time
For me to sit in this chair tonight
And entertain myself with thoughts
Of the quiet love I feel for the human race.
But even if I knew beyond the least doubt
That I would perish tomorrow,
I would sit in this chair tonight
And entertain myself with thoughts
Of the quiet love I feel for the human race.

Today I grew another millionth of an inch.
I perceive that my stature is now as high
As the thousandth part of a daffodil's stem.
My rate of growth is not spectacular,
But it is constant. I am able to see
That before this present eternity is finished
I shall be able to stand on tiptoe
And touch the stars.

I feel the beauty in this earth
That flows to man from God,
Suffusing skies along the way,
Enriching seas and sod.
No little atom left untouched,
No stone by Him unturned,
To make the earth a regal place
That every man has earned
By dint of simply being His,
Contained within His hand,
At one with all the butterflies,
And little grains of sand.

This silent place within my soul
Has never known a storm:
Though icy winds whip round my frame
This silent place is warm.

Those various calamities
That everyday I face
Are not at all acknowledged by
This deep and silent place.

Small wonder that I hasten there
When I'm assailed by riot
To seek the never-changing gift
Of sweet and timeless quiet.

Bright vistas are my prospect
Of hills, of plains, of tides.
Infinitudes of vistas
And paradise besides.
Shall I of thirst make protest
Who shall inherit seas?
Shall I of hunger whimper
Who feast on memories?

Not fifty years encagement
Will make my heart despair.
I am the pampered recipient
Of gold beyond compare.
These multitudes of empty hours
My soul has rendered into flowers.