A Course In Miracles…

Beautiful writing from A Course In Miracles, for this Sunday morning…

Lesson 186, Para 9…”He Who is changeless shares His attributes with His creation.  All the images His Son appears to make have no affect on what he is.  They blow across his mind like wind-swept leaves that form a patterning an instant, break apart to group again, and scamper off.  Or like mirages seen above a desert, rising from the dust.”

[He=God, etc…] [His Son=Us as His creation]



Is that a crazy question?  Well, maybe, but consider it…


cloud-and-rockSometimes something stirs within my mind and sets words in there that I don’t even know myself until they find their place on the page.  They seem foreign to me, yet whisper of a past, a truth, a knowing that comes from somewhere else. Somewhere that is not the me I look at in the mirror every day.  Not the artist, (no) not the wife, caretaker, or friend.  Somewhere in another time– another mind.  Whispers into my ear these words, like warm cookies that melt in my mouth and leave a taste both sweet and bitter.  My hands deftly hit the keys or stroke the paper with pen to lay down verse, or words, or strings of words that fall on the page like raindrops from my eyelashes. Strange and wonderful. Sometimes mixing with the tears   I taste their saltiness.  The words beg me to write them.  They call me with urgency to lay them down.  How can I deny it?  When would I say– no?  Then, when I push it aside and silence the calling and plunder about my day, the words become lost and lonely again—falling in to the back drop of my memory. Slowly losing and fading quietly from their once reverberating demands.  Now they have retreated.  With me. They go behind, and (may) wait till they have yet another chance to hope to be written.  I then think and ponder–(later…)  What was that I just heard?


There was a longing deep within that is no more.  boambee_rocks_3For movement, such as a long lost symphony, has been revealed at last, and allows now to dwell in the discovery of its perfect notes, and no longer desires a longing.  For such is now forgotten, and knows only the sweet music.


Having denied Self and set aside Truth–a fruitless effort–to exist in a world that directs paths according to ‘it’s’ tenants– Wake (!) from weary wasteful sleep where time seems to dwell–Long days, and hours, and years, resting in such separated solitude as to elude the denial of pursuits of freedom–remembrances of sanity.  Now.  Awake.  Truth of being gives voice, and sings it’s forgotten songs– deep and joyous (Love)–None could see (less) except such visage; and, in fact, leave no favored or ill mark on it at all.

“I dwell in my own illusions and I love my creations”

Love Letters to Love. Two.

Dear Love,

Love.  Interferes with all reason.  Though, called love…a false mind, is blind to its error.  For only love in the form of it’s shadowy illusion has no real account of truth.  And so, can not honor the word, such as it is, as truth.  For indeed it seeks to betray and distract it’s true heart with painful regrets and discouragements.  And as such, denies the reality of what is true love, and abandons it for lies.

True Love

Love Letters to Love. One.

Dear Love,

My love is born on eagle’s wings and soars to the heaven’s unchecked but by the dove of soft song and simple ease of speech.  Endless is it’s pursuit in pleasurable companionship, basking in the likeness of spiritclenched souls.  Forever bound and tied in freedom.  How sweet.  How precious and pure.  How true and right.  But in the shade of the mighty oak my love lies and ponders from afar from lost life’s memories unknown by it’s unremembrance.  Hearts so true bound to the endlessness of unreal time.  So faithful as to stand partnered forever in the united front of loves common note.  So I say to love, I will love.  I AM love.  I do.