Mari’s Blog
Changing the world takes being present as all that you are
While you know you have not allowed yourself freedom of expression, you believe you have allowed yourself freedom of thought. You believe you have allowed yourself freedom of feeling. And yet if the truth be admitted, you know that even this is not quite true. You know that you censor your own thoughts and feelings, accepting some and not others. D:Day 9.7
As I sit at my cabin window each morning, I am here for a certain feeling of freedom that comes of habitual presence. It’s a time of being free of thoughts that concern anything in particular. Not “things to do.” Not “sensitive situations.” Not next week’s events or next year’s obligations. This morning I realized I’ve been chastising myself for mind-wanderings that do not meet my definition of freedom. Even when an idea arises that is just the right idea to free me from some knotty little problem with something I’m working on, I get a little miffed. I have told myself I’m not “supposed” to be thinking of “that” at this time.
Case in point. This morning an idea arose that had to do with the ACIM Conference next year. 
Its theme is Change your Mind/Change the World, nice, broad theme that each presenter is asked to speak to in their way. No problem. But in submitting my description of my presentation, I failed to put this theme in the title and was reminded that it needed to be there. As I was sitting with my meandering thoughts, a new title presented itself: Changing the world takes being present as all that you are. It felt just right. And this is what suddenly made me realize that I’ve been attempting to censor the very freedom I’ve so desired.
This realization came on Friday morning, and in the evening, just before I was about to begin my grandson Henry’s bedtime ritual, a ritual that always includes reading, I took a moment to check email and received one about . . . reading. My friend Paula had been reading The Secret Garden. And so I wrote a response that was all about reading, and that led to memories of my young self and the flyers that would come to us, at school, from Scholastic Books. This started when I was in fifth grade and eager to read and especially keen to choose my own books. I would pour over the contents that were offered and receive my new books with a pleasure approaching nirvana. Although I can recall few titles other than Silas Marner, I can still remember the feel and particularly the smell of those books.
That email exchange felt like the freedom I’d been craving as I abandoned myself to that memory. It was sparked by my friend and in response, what rolled out felt like the most natural thing in the world. It’s what happens in relationship.
This exchange added to the other—an exchange I’d had with myself—and resulted in a new understanding that what “comes” to us is the effect of a cause that is in our nature, that has basis in our lives as lived thus far, and the lives unfolding before us. What “comes” is the combining, the relationship between life and Self.
Yet this unfolding is not unlike Henry’s Friday visits with his best friend, Caleb. Over years of being consistent and diligent, having his friend over is effortless. I know this little boy and delight in him almost as much as I do Henry. Both boys, at nearly nine, are beginning to have real conversations with each other and with me. They tell me about things and it thrills me. I continually get to know them better. And this all formed out of the years of devotion that preceded it—not unlike what I do each morning, or my time spent with A Course of Love.
It was many years ago that I realized that the inner life, contrary to what I’d seen it as before, was not about thinking. In ACOL, Jesus makes a distinction between thinking and thought, and guides us to recall moments of what we call “thoughtfulness.” He does this to help us distinguish the new way from the old. Chapter 12 of the Dialogues became a wonderful re-read after this little squabble I had with myself. “Thinking” is described as the “active and often unwelcome voice “ in your head, the voice of background chatter. (D:12.10) “Thoughts” are described as “the more meditative version of your “thinking,” often even resulting in a conclusion to your thinking, a summary of the finer points, as what might come to you in a reflective moment at the end of the day. Again we will see the idea of thoughts “coming to you” at such times. This is not the “thinking” of a conflicted and struggling mind, but the “thoughts” of a mind at rest.”
Finally, Jesus says that, “You do have, right now, and have always had, true thoughts that come to you from your Self, the Self joined in unity. These are thoughts you did not “think,” just as the first receiver of these words received them as thoughts she did not “think.” (D:12-11)) He goes on to say that “Union isn’t achieved with a flash of light from above,” but that it quietly infiltrates the self in its unguarded moments. (D:12.12)
I fully believed I had come to respect meandering mind in all its vast wanderings. Now, being less than embracing of “useful” thoughts seems as silly as discounting all the steps that have led to such lovely times in the companionship of two small boys, or intimate email exchanges that elicit memory and bring pleasure.
Yep. Changing the world takes being present as all that you are.
Coming to voice
Bring your voice to this continuing dialogue. This is all that is asked of you. This is the gift you have been given and the gift you bring the world: your own voice, the voice of Who You Are. A.49
It’s Sunday night. Way too late to start a post. I had one written . . . wrote it yesterday . . . or maybe two days ago. I figured I’d posted enough about taking my mom to church, and writing as I usually do on Sunday morning, my church-going with my mom has, just possibly, found its way into a few too many. But I didn’t decide due to that. A situation had arisen that I found intriguing in a way I like, and so I wrote about it. I figured I’d come on this morning, add a photo or two, and I’d be done.
Since then, Halloween happened. Daylight savings time happened. And “Learning in the Time of Christ,” happened to me.
The Addendum to A Course of Love, “Learning in the Time of Christ,” needed to be added to the audio of ACOL that was recently submitted for production. I spent my day finishing a small amount of the final recording, and then the editing of the full piece. I’m bleary eyed with it, but it’s loading now, the last requirement in this excursion into doing my first audio book, and one that we learned of belatedly. Getting it done quickly was rather important.
Recording means I read. I bring the words to voice. Editing means I listen. The words enter me. Doing this with this incredible Addendum to A Course of Love moved me greatly. Each of these actions felt significant, as significant as being alive, as living, as having the chance, each day, to both speak and listen, listen and speak. To give and receive, and to receive and give.
A while back, I attended a class at the Loft Literary Center and took photos of the poster I’m displaying here. I learned later that there are several variations of it, but I doubt any other one would have gotten me to use my phone’s camera. The end of “Learning in the Time of Christ,” reminded me of it. There is hope and joy and promise in this image and in these words. Tonight, there is no better use for my voice than to share some of them here with you.
A.46 What continues of this Course is its dialogue. It is on-going.
A.47 Gather still with those with whom you learned and grew and became new, but gather in ever-wider configurations. This dialogue is going on all around you. I am with you and will never leave you comfortless. Call on me, for I am here. Talk to me, and I will hear you. Listen, and I will respond. I am in each voice that responds to you and your voice is mine as you respond to others.
A.48 Go forth not as completed works of art but as permeable energy, ever changing, ever creating, ever new. Go forth with openness for revelation to happen through you and through all you encounter. Go forth joyously on this adventure of discovery. Be ever new, ever one, ever the beloved.
A.49 Bring your voice to this continuing dialogue. This is all that is asked of you. This is the gift you have been given and the gift you bring the world: your own voice, the voice of Who You Are. This is not a voice of separation or of the separated self but a voice of union and of the One Self. It is how union is expressed and made recognizable in form. It is what will usher in the new and change the world. It cannot be accomplished without you— without your ability to stand in unity and relationship as The Accomplished.
A.50 Beloved brothers and sisters, You are The Accomplished.
Called into being
Expressions of love are as innumerable as the stars in the universe, as bountiful as beauty, as many-faceted as the gems of the earth. I say again that sameness is not a sentence to mediocrity or uniformity. You are a unique expression of the selfsame love that exists in all creation. Thus your expression of love is as unique as your Self. It is in the cooperation between unique expressions of love that creation continues and miracles become natural occurrences. C:20.30
At church last night, sitting in our new spots, which I would guess we will not be in much longer—I got tears in my eyes considering what it will be like to go to Mass without Mom. It was an extravagant Mass, the “installation” of our new pastor Fr. Adams, the young priest returned from Venezuelan conflict to pastor not one but three parishes. This was the third of his three ceremonies, one at each parish, this one with three priests and two deacons on the altar. One, the bishop’s representative, praying for him to have God’s grace to fulfill his duties, seemed to be doing a bit of a sales job. It sounded a bit like this: “We know we’re asking the impossible of you, but with God’s grace, you can do it.”
I wrote of Fr. Adams in a March blog when he was a visiting mission priest and said, “He seemed frail and perhaps unwell,” and gave as a primary cause the noise that he spoke of. Something in me related to him for that. He couldn’t escape the noise—and he needed to. During yesterday’s Mass, Fr. Adams didn’t have much to say. The other priests did all the talking. But in his homily as a visiting priest, he spoke not only of the noise of living in a Venezuelan village, but of how the people would “hand you their hearts.” I suspect that’s what kept him going.
I felt sorry for Fr. Adams. And yet similar words used in another way inspired me in my way. “God gives every single one of us the grace of our own vocation.” “Let all of the people of these three diverse parishes meet Christ in you and you in them.”
“God gives every single one of us the grace of our own vocation.”
You could find this sentiment in the second Treatise, A Treatise on Unity’s focus on “calling.” Calling and vocation both speak of something unique that exists in us as a given, a particular feature of our creation, something ours to do or be in this life. Diverse descriptions of callings in ACOL speak of teachers and farmers and those caring for young children and creating a home. There is a sense that Jesus is saying that when you live by this inner calling, this gift, you will live truly. You will be following your heart. You will manifest the Christ in You.
Vocational ideas were in me this week as I took the plunge and sent off a description of my presentation for next year’s ACIM conference. It was due by the end of the month and so I waffled. Send it now, or wait? Give myself some time to change my mind . . . or commit? Such is the way of things like conferences—commitment is asked for. Will you come? You must decide. Will you agree to the terms? Decision needed. Send a photo. Register. Check off the items on a list. All necessary. Requirements—prescribed ways of doing things—and a need to be innovative, are part of all vocations. You are asked to do something no one else can do, and you are asked to do it within certain guidelines. You and I are, in many ways given our “thing to do” in its original form at our birth, and given it again and perhaps again and again in the fullness of our lives, as Fr. Adams lived his vocation in Venezuela and will do so again in Minnesota. But of course, that’s not the end of the story.
The amazement of being who we are is how many-faceted we are in our wholeness. My 
presentation will be loosely based on being all of who we are . . . on leaving no part of ourselves out of what we bring to each other and the world. This requires, of course, acceptance of all that we are—not just of the parts that sound good or feel good; it suggests acceptance that we are more than our parts, and that yet, all parts of us are essential. It suggests acceptance of our humanity and our divinity. It also suggests acceptance of the mystery:
This list of different callings could be endless, and each could be considered unexplainable. Those who seek an explanation before following a calling, who look for reasons of a practical nature, who would seek guarantees of the rightness and outcome of following such a call, seek for proof they have already been given. The call itself is proof. It is proof of the heart’s ability to be heard. Of the heart’s ability to recognize the unseen and to imagine the existence of that which will reveal its true nature and its joy. T2:2.7
The wonder is that our callings do not suggest that we give up any part of who we are, but that each of us bring all of who we are into being.
Moving through
If you can’t remove yourself from life, what choice have you but to join with it? Love it. Love yourself. Love yourself enough to accept yourself. Love will transform normal, ordinary, life into extraordinary life. Loving exactly who you are and where you are in every moment is what will cause the transformation that will end your desire to remove yourself from life. All those frustrations you currently feel have a purpose: To move you through them and beyond them—to acceptance. D:Day8.2
After an annual school-break excursion with my family to the small river town of Red Wing, I came home in time to take my mom to church. It was another passage. I pulled up to the front of the church to walk her up the ramp instead of the steps she was able to climb the last time we attended Mass. The parking was uncharacteristically tight and ushers ran up to tell me I couldn’t stop there. I said, “I need to walk my mom in.” A young man rushed forward eagerly. “I’ll do it,” he said. I bent to help Mom out of the car. “Is that okay?” “I guess,” she said uncertainly. But the young man was so sweet that I thought it would be alright, and left her on his arm, parked the car, and returned. Then I looked for Mom in our usual spot and she wasn’t there. Finding her, I said, “You’re not in our usual spot!” She said, “It was too far to walk.”
And so, in such small ways, life changes again.
At home a few hours later, I worked on Red Wing pictures for two hours—pulled them into my editing program, cropped them, named them, and added them to a Red Wing Album. Then I went back and deleted the files I’d started with. But . . . they were deleted completely . . . gone from my camera, from the files showing on the computer, and from the editing program too. I couldn’t believe it. There were a couple of pictures that were so good. I still mourn that I’ll never see them again. This annual trip is half photo taking excursion. Each year we stand in the same places. I wailed inside. “My family counted on me to get these pictures. And they’re gone.” All that was left were 15 pictures that I hadn’t thought good enough to go into the album. The two on this page are from those, and still, I’m glad I have them.
It took me a while to reconcile this loss. To come to believe it had actually occurred. I wailed again, “They were irreplaceable!” I took the photo card out. Put it back in. Did file searches for 2015 and Red Wing. I thought I’d done all the right things. I felt buffaloed. I blamed it on the new Windows 10. I cursed and I stayed up way too late. I just did not want to accept that those pictures were gone!
I do not want to accept that my mom can hardly get to Mass anymore either.
The closing hymn of the Mass was “Lead Me, Guide Me.” I thought of it this morning as I came to write of my series of unfortunate events; as I came to my computer journal to lament.
The chorus goes like this:
Lead me, guide me along the way./For if you lead me I cannot stray./Lord let me walk each day with Thee./Lead me, oh Lord lead me. (by Doris Atkers)
I believe in lamenting. This hymn’s words are full of faith, but the sound of it is still one of lament. How else do you come to accept all those feelings and get all those feelings out of you? This has worked for me so many times that I can’t believe it has anything to do with going astray.
I’ve been pleased to see so many books recommending journaling your way through the rough patches of life. Books that say, Put it all out there unvarnished. Wail. Flail. Fling your words at the page. Don’t leave anything out. Don’t judge. Don’t get stuck in wondering why. Just get it out. Swear if you want to. Over many years I have found this process to be life-saving. A decade or more ago, my sister told me, “Once you write about something, you think it’s over.” She was talking of all the things I didn’t tell her, the private things that I didn’t share in conversation. I thought it was as true a statement as she’d ever said. Sometimes, when I push things out through writing, I am done with it. Whatever it was, and the charge of it, has left me. At other times, there is much more that needs to be done before the situation is resolved. Often I’ve been able to tell the difference, but at other times not.
In A Course of Love, Jesus calls this “moving through.” Whatever each of us need to do to move through the various situations of our lives and the feelings they instill, are essential to recognize, if sometimes slow to come into focus. Journal writing is sharing with myself. Other writing is sharing with others. At times, conversation and action are needed too. Many things—like the plight of an aging parent—or the misfortunes of technology—take both an internal and external engagement. Attention to a process of moving through can bring the sweet and uncomplicated acceptance of what is . . . a completion that can still be tinged with the poignancy of the heart’s aching desires.
The purpose of the final lessons are both unlearning and moving through unlearning to new learning. These lessons must be accomplished in life and require an engagement with life. This engagement is a promise, a commitment. It requires participation, involvement, attention, being present. C:24.4
The sensuous allure of being alone
Such is the world that God did create: A world so lovely and so peaceful that when you see it once again you will cry with joy and forget your sadness in an instant. There will be no long remembering of regrets, no feeling badly for all the years in which you saw this not. There will merely be a glad “Aha!” as what was long forgotten is returned to you. You will but smile at the childish games you played, and have no more regrets than you would have for your childhood. Your innocence will stand out clearly here, and never again will you doubt that the world that God created belongs to you and you to it. C:9.47
I returned from California late Friday night. Saturday my grandson Henry spent the day and night. Donny, my husband, got ready Saturday evening for his hunting trip and was gone before Henry or I awoke in the morning. When Henry and I did get up, we prepared for his mom and her fiancé George, who were coming to pick him up. It is George’s birthday and so while Henry decorated the envelope of our card, I put cinnamon rolls in the oven. Hours later I was putting dishes in the sink, washing sheets for one bed and smoothing clean ones over another as I spoke to my mom, who’d taken a fall while I was gone, but managed to do so without breaking any bones. “I’m tired,” she said, and seemed at first to prefer I wait until tomorrow to visit, but then changed her mind. “I’ll be there in a half hour or so,” I told her, and went down the street to my friend Mary’s who is out of town. There, I fed her three cats, scooped out the cat litter, scratched a few ears and butts, and then was headed to Mom’s. I showed her pictures of my
trip, explaining a bit of what I did while gone, and she admired the scenery of the mountain and proclaimed my publisher a “good looking man.” While we talked, I folded her laundry.
On the way home from there I did a quick errand. When I arrived at home, I knew, I wouldn’t want anything to be missing. I wanted everything I needed at hand. And sure enough, as soon as I walked in my front door and stood in the hallway of my quiet house, the sensuous allure of being alone filled all my senses. Still, I waited just a bit before sitting down. Standing in the kitchen, I halved an avocado and scooped it out with a spoon while I put dishes away. Then, satisfied, I approached my laptop.
Me and my laptop. Alone together. The thrill of every natural-born writer and a few contemplative types washed over me like the glad Aha Jesus mentions in ACOL…or at least a glad ahhhh. I felt like a bird back in my nest or bunny in her burrow. As natural as that. As content. As full of nothing to do that felt like anything to do. A squirrel with my acorns surrounding me and water at my side, I began to type what you are reading, to come back, as I do, to what really feeds me.
I’d wondered if it would feel this way when I am, so often these days, alone. My husband works long hours and the kids and grandkids are, for the most part, gone into their own lives. But still the thrill was there, a different thrill than being home alone while Donny works late. A feeling of settling in to my environment once again, an environment changed by my absence. Leaves have fallen and the sights and sounds are different. After an uncharacteristic 80 degree day the leaves shaken loose while I was gone, line the curbs and rattle about. My lone cat, unsettled by my absence, is now as content as me, curled up an inch away on the love seat on which I sit.
From here I do not even welcome the reverie that is sure to come, the review of the events of the past week, the conversations with the wonderful women doing translations of A Course of Love into Spanish and French, the visiting with two ACOL groups meeting in the mountains of northern California, the one-on-one dialogue with a friend and healer, the evaluation of the last year, the envisioning of the new, or the wonder of imaging the best way to see old friends and meet new ones at the ACIM conference still six months away. No, this is time to greet myself again.
It’s late in the day but very similar to the way I feel each morning as I take my time in the cabin. 
This is where my relationship with God, with the Creator of all, becomes deeply embedded and akin to one-on-one communing. Where the one-on-one relationship is felt, our rhythms get in sync, and we move together as one. Where this becomes, as well, the relationship with the great Oneness. It is the complement to living life in relationship with the “many,” the grace that, for me, lies at the heart of all that is and is to come. From here, I am glad to have gone out and been “in touch” with the world, and glad to have come home. The beauty of it all washes over me and I am at rest…even while with you. Thank you for being with me in this quiet hour.
