This essay originally appeared on Susan Dugan’s blog on June 3, 2016.
In my sleeping dream I am visiting my daughter in Seattle, although the city looks nothing like the real thing. Instead of a 19-century logging port today buzzing with construction fueled by a burgeoning high-tech industry, it is very old, its ancient buildings furry with moss, its cobblestone streets, cold, slick, and largely deserted. I have been here a couple days, apparently, and currently find myself exploring on my own, far removed from my daughter’s neighborhood and nearby downtown I’ve become relatively familiar with since she relocated here last year. Now I find myself discovering, en route, that the city has many, heretofore hidden levels; literally appears tiered.
Somehow I have a visual sense of it all laid out before me, as if I am watching a movie on a big screen, the camera panning out and offering a wide-angle view of its sprawling mass, even as I traverse its streets “within” the movie. Allowing me to observe horizontal roads layered vertically, with small sets of perpendicular stairs centered between them. Allowing travelers like me the option of a more direct ascent up the hill (on which the buildings are pitched) that appears to grow steeper at every level versus a more meandering, horizontal approach.
Despite the same nagging pain in the heel of my foot also plaguing me lately in my waking dream, I eschew the gentler route for the stairs, climbing and climbing in the semi-darkness, a kind of inexplicable, perpetual twilight, until I sense a white light approaching in my peripheral vision as I reach yet another street. I pause to catch my breath and turn toward the light, realizing, as it draws nearer, that it is actually my daughter, dressed in white jeans and shirt, looking more like herself as a younger teen than the woman she has become. Glowing as she always has in my perception from the time she came in, as if somehow literally and figuratively illuminating our way.
Now we climb together more slowly, relishing the gentler incline, thoroughly enjoying ourselves, talking and laughing, until, at last, we come to the top of the hill and encounter a gigantic, medieval cathedral, complete with crumbling gargoyles and flying buttresses. I am vaguely aware this is my destination, has always been my destination; the metaphorical top of the ladder, end of the road. We sit down at the summit of the marble stairs, leaning against the concave walls outside the heavy, arched wooden doors, as the darkness of night falls at last, extinguishing our view of the city below.
My daughter takes my hand, explains she has to leave; still has things to take care of. She cannot go inside with me, but will wait with me a while longer, until I’m ready. A sense of panic envelops me. I am not sure I will ever be ready to enter without her, and so don’t want her to leave. But I don’t want her to stay for me, either, and struggle to keep it together. She squeezes my hand, rests her head on my shoulder, the way she would when she was little. When she was little; and would sneak up behind me and tackle my legs. Or, if I were seated, leap onto my shoulders, throw her arms around my neck, creep up beside me as I meditated and assume an identical, cross-legged position, forefingers pinched together like mine, cracking us both up.
I become aware as I sit outside this church in this dream with my daughter, my heart cleaved open, that inside both heart and church wait perfect acceptance, but acceptance of what? I know truly, sanely, deeply there can be no “me” behind those doors, no “her.” Distant, celestial music calls from within; every fiber of my seeming being responds to its magnetic pull.
Beside me my daughter continues to smile, shine. I can tell she senses my fear. I sense her restlessness, her need to return to her city, her life. The narrow band of light seeping out the bottom of the church doors cannot possibly come close to the light she appears to embody beside me, that has seemed, for a long while, to illumine me, too. I have never felt more torn, more afraid of the dark, more terrified of losing her forever to the city below, more frightened of my fate inside those doors. It grows darker and darker until I can’t see my daughter or the cathedral anymore. I have never felt so alone.
Half awake now in my bed, in the dark, heart pounding; the word “arise” echoes from somewhere further and closer than I have ever dared venture. Uttered as if from the wings of a stage in a deeply familiar voice, a kind of cue in a drama I am suddenly aware I’ve been rehearsing far longer than I can consciously recall. For a moment, the urge to obey that voice, its promise of a peace, a love, a support not of this world, surrounds and completely sustains me. I begin to stand, ready to take my next step, before the overwhelming sense of loss from the dream returns and my legs and resolve buckle.
Jesus Christ, I think, nestling under the covers once more, nonetheless certain of my inner professor’s gentle, patient presence (in stealth mode, but still). Meeting me in the condition I think I’m in even now in my waking dream on this dazzling May morning, as sons and daughters of friends, neighbors, and acquaintances, high school and college students around the greater metro area, Colorado, and the country at large, don caps and gowns and march to the strains of Pomp and Circumstance, pose for photographs in late Spring’s Technicolor glare. Pause to celebrate with family and friends before taking their next dreamy steps away from home as my daughter did just a year ago.
And I am all at once aware that maybe, just maybe, I am exactly where I need to be right now, after all. Fully conscious that my readiness to arise and step into the light behind those proverbial doors in my sleeping and waking dream is still very much a work in progress, but a work with a purpose—a classroom!—nonetheless. Within which I can choose right now to forgive myself for my fear. Because Jesus doesn’t take it personally that I would still rather hold my daughter’s hand, than his, bask in her light, than claim the light we share I’m still not quite sure I can trust, however excruciating the darkness I often experience between my visits to Seattle. All the while recognizing that there really are no substitute hands to hold or lamps to light and warm. That taking my daughter’s hand (having years ago and countless times since chosen to change the purpose of our relationship from a prison of specialness to a classroom of true forgiveness) actually must mean I have been taking his hand all along.
As long as I still dream of hands to hold, and hold hers most dear, maybe, just maybe, I can still remember that his hand must be sandwiched between ours (along with every other hand in this long strange dream). That my destiny–all our destinies–ultimately lies not in the many roads seemingly stacked up against us and ultimately leading nowhere in a dream world below but in the abstract light beyond those imaginary doors above all dreams. That will open on our one light that has never stopped shining only when I am completely certain I have nothing to lose and everything to gain by finally choosing to step up and follow our Teacher through them and into the eternal embrace of our all-encompassing brilliance. Within which no lights are really eclipsed, appendages lost.
“2. As the light comes nearer you will rush to darkness, shrinking from the truth, sometimes retreating to the lesser forms of fear, and sometimes to stark terror. ²But you will advance, because your goal is the advance from fear to truth. ³The goal you accepted is the goal of knowledge, for which you signified your willingness. ⁴Fear seems to live in darkness, and when you are afraid you have stepped back. ⁵Let us then join quickly in an instant of light, and it will be enough to remind you that your goal is light.
3. Truth has rushed to meet you since you called upon it. ²If you knew Who walks beside you on the way that you have chosen, fear would be impossible. ³You do not know because the journey into darkness has been long and cruel, and you have gone deep into it. ⁴A little flicker of your eyelids, closed so long, has not yet been sufficient to give you confidence in yourself, so long despised. ⁵You go toward love still hating it, and terribly afraid of its judgment upon you. ⁶And you do not realize that you are not afraid of love, but only of what you have made of it. ⁷You are advancing to love’s meaning, and away from all illusions in which you have surrounded it. ⁸When you retreat to the illusion your fear increases, for there is little doubt that what you think it means is fearful. ⁹Yet what is that to us who travel surely and very swiftly away from fear?
4. You who hold your brother’s hand also hold mine, for when you joined each other you were not alone. ²Do you believe that I would leave you in the darkness that you agreed to leave with me? ³In your relationship is this world’s light. ⁴And fear must disappear before you now. ⁵Be tempted not to snatch away the gift of faith you offered to your brother. ⁶You will succeed only in frightening yourself. ⁷The gift is given forever, for God Himself received it. ⁸You cannot take it back. ⁹You have accepted God. ¹⁰The holiness of your relationship is established in Heaven. ¹¹You do not understand what you accepted, but remember that your understanding is not necessary. ¹²All that was necessary was merely the wish to understand. ¹³That wish was the desire to be holy. ¹⁴The Will of God is granted you. ¹⁵For you desire the only thing you ever had, or ever were.”
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 online via Zoom on Tuesday nights.