This essay originally appeared on Susan Dugan’s blog on Dec. 1, 2014.
“Seriously?” he asked, eyes widening.
I’d been filling my imaginary Jesus in on the events of the last few weeks. OK, months. OK, years. The video game of my so-called life that had been firing at such warp speed; who had time to talk things over with him before the next forgiveness opportunity appeared to be knock, knock, knocking on hell’s door? Sometimes in the guise of current problematic situations and relationships but just as often involving a macabre parade of characters apparently excavated from a distant past I thought I’d laid to rest decades ago. Busted-out-of-the-closet skeletons strutting across the stage of my psyche like Day-of-the Dead figures on steroids.
His brows shot up and down at the very thought of it.
I sat in my usual chair at his desk, wrapped in a fleece blanket I’d been dragging around, stroking away at, and generally sniveling into, like the world’s largest toddler. Outside his office window, the wind continued to howl. Our unusually prolonged Indian summer had come to a bitter end yesterday, but a week into November, as the so-called “polar vortex” emerged from hibernation and lumbered southward to feed, the thermometer plunging 50 degrees in six hours. Delivering record-breaking sub-zero temperatures and the inevitable icy conditions that did not portend well for the coming winter.
“And then there’s the matter of my sleeping dreams,” I said.
“Seriously?”
“I mean don’t get me started.”
“Okey dokey.”
“Well, if you really want to know.”
But where to begin? There was the one about flying home to Denver—although it didn’t look or feel like Denver–from some international venue and discovering I’d left my luggage on the plane. The airline staff refusing to allow me back in to claim it. Forcing me to wait in a kind of cordoned-off U.S. Customs’ no-person’s land to appeal, even as they kept insisting I couldn’t take it with me anyway to this new home in this new Denver.
“I see,” he said.
“I know.”
But I knew he was faking it. There really was no convincing him to analyze these very telling dreams! Like the one I had just the other night, most of which I couldn’t remember except that I was visiting adults from my childhood from the groovy looks of the decor, only I was my age now and very concerned that they had left the back screen door unlocked, and had no inner door at all. They didn’t seem to care, so I moved furniture in front of it to insure our safety and the safety of their small children, like the good, little Catholic girl I had once strived, but rarely managed, to be.
And then finding myself in an old hotel that had seen better days. Alone in a room and frightened by threatening voices, rising to check the door only to find the lock I thought I’d secured earlier did not lock at all. A person I once thought I’d loved who had hurt me deeply came through the door then. His hair had thinned and grayed. His shoulders slumped. Although I thought I’d forgiven him long ago, I now realized I still held him responsible for my unhappiness, and began to apologize. He interrupted me, saying, no, he’d come to say I was always so nice to him, but he was just so scared and broken. He hugged me and I felt this incredible release, a weight I hadn’t realized had been pressing against my heart for so long, abruptly lifted.
“It felt so freaking real, you know?”
He nodded.
“But, I mean, Jesus! If there are all these unlocked doors and it’s my dream, then I must have unlocked them, right?”
“Who else would there be?” he asked.
“It’s just that lately I’m so bloody aware of how terrified I am to have unlocked the door to you. Which ultimately unlocks the door to God, which of course, was never really even shut in the first place, there being no door, or lock, no inside or out, I mean, Jesus!”
“We’ve talked about this,” he said.
“I know. It’s just that I can’t seem to disassociate lately where this Course is really leading, no matter how busy and mindless I try to make myself! Not in my waking dreams and not in my sleeping. Even as the images I have made seem to arise faster and faster and faster, past and present, as if someone is messing with the remote. I know, I know, who would that be? But, I mean, it also seems absolutely impossible to take the next step, you know? To hit the play button again, and walk through that door.”
He handed me the box of tissues.
I blew my nose, pressed my fingers to my leaky tear ducts. “But then I think, maybe I don’t have to take that next step alone. Because you’re here, always, even when you’re wearing your invisibility cloak like you’ve been doing for the past, I don’t know, couple seasons?”
“Hey!” he said, still smiling.
“And we can just glide right through those doors—that final door, too–when the time comes. I’m not in control of that part. Unlocking the door, even in my terror and formidable resistance, is all I really have to do, right? And that happens spontaneously, just by practicing forgiveness moment-to-moment, seeming day in and day out. Questioning the cause of my reactions to whatever seems to be popping into the classroom of my waking or sleeping dreams, and simply asking to look at it from your perspective. Even when I don’t feel your presence or have the slightest clue what that means.”
He shrugged, nodded.
Outside his office window it began to snow, in earnest, driven by a punishing northwest wind that did not appear to have our best interests at heart. There would be no A Course in Miracles class this evening, no tai chi tomorrow. The dog was no doubt already plotting her revenge on the carpet. And then there was the matter of my husband having eaten the whole freaking pot of pasta I’d made that was supposed to last for two dinners and an additional lunch and then leaving the pot, as usual, in the sink with a little scum of water in it. As if that was the same as actually cleaning it!
“I knew I shouldn’t have left that f-ing door unlocked.” I said.
His brows shot up the way they do.
“I know, I know. I’m still not upset for the reason I think, right? It’s not the twisted sleeping dreams or the constantly morphing plans or the instability of my costars or bank account or the sacrifices I’m constantly making or the weather’s sudden, psychotic break. It’s looking at the problem as it is—a reflection of my selfish wish to experience individuality at the cost of, well, that would be everything–and not the way I set it up. But that’s the last thing in the freaking world I really want to do, right? I mean, I promised I’d never, ever go there.” I lowered my voice again, leaned in closer. “Because the ego thinks if we looked and saw no guilt and then no sin we would die of embarrassment.”
Jesus threw back his head, and laughed.
“I know what you’re thinking,” I said. “Have you worn out your little s self yet? Not even close, actually.”
He leaned in closer, now, took both my hands in his, and looked into my eyes. Try as I might, I could not resist the kryptonite of his gaze, despite my ancient vow never to look. And so, I did. But I didn’t lose my bogus powers like Superwoman. God did not strike me blind. For reasons beyond my understanding or control, I simply fell silent, still holding his hands. Locked with his eyes, or my eyes, or no eyes; who the hell really knew, or cared? And the love, well, turns out, it was waiting right there by the always-open door where I’d left it, all along.
“Little child, you are hiding your head under the cover of the heavy blankets you have laid upon yourself. You are hiding your nightmares in the darkness of your own false certainty, and refusing to open your eyes and look at them. …
Let us not save nightmares, for they are not fitting offerings for Christ, and so they are not fit gifts for you. Take off the covers and look at what you are afraid of. Only the anticipation will frighten you, for the reality of nothingness cannot be frightening. Let us not delay this, for your dream of hatred will not leave you without help, and Help is here. Learn to be quiet in the midst of turmoil, for quietness is the end of strife and this is the journey to peace. Look straight at every image that rises to delay you, for the goal is inevitable because it is eternal. The goal of love is but your right, and it belongs to you despite your dreams.” (A Course in Miracles Chapter 12, II. from paragraphs 4 and 5)
NOTE: A Course in Miracles uses the character of Jesus (but you could use any enlightened figure) as a symbol of the part of our one mind that remembered to laugh at the “tiny, mad idea” that we could separate from our true, non-dualistic nature or would possibly want to. By choosing Jesus as our inner teacher in the classroom of our lives, our belief in the ego thought system’s illusion of differences and separate interests is gently undone for us. We gradually become more kind and loving, beginning to recognize our own mind in need of healing in our constant wish to perceive ourselves unfairly treated. Learning, from moment-to-moment, that choosing the inner teacher of fear hurts, while choosing the inner teacher of forgiveness heals, ultimately yielding peace that defies understanding and includes everyone and everything in its warm embrace.
Susan Dugan’s books – Extraordinary Ordinary Forgiveness, Forgiveness Offers Everything I Want, and Forgiveness: The Key to Happiness – are available at RMMC and on Amazon. She writes about ACIM based on Ken Wapnick’s teachings at ForaysInForgiveness.com and teaches Tuesday nights at RMMC.