What is Given is Given Equally

(Note: all photographs these days are taken by my daughter Fionnghuala)

It can be helpful to see the way in which everything is given equally (or appears equally), and how the extent to which there appears to be inequality is essentially a function of our narrative impulse.

The village from the far side of the river . . .

Imagine someone places on the table before you a chocolate cupcake with lemon frosting, a pocket atlas of the United States, and a severed hand.

After you’ve given them a little attention and judged them – cupcake tantalizing, atlas meh, hand gross – you are told that the cupcake is actually hand-carved, hand-painted bamboo from an artist whose subject is food and whose mode is realism. The pocket atlas was used by a white supremacist to locate black churches in which to plant and detonate bombs. The hand is a remnant of an emergency surgery that saved a child’s life.

So maybe now your judgment goes like this:

Cupcake: still beautiful but less accessible (can’t eat it, probably can’t afford it);
Atlas: Frightening, offensive and sad; and
Hand: Still gross but very grateful a child will live.

Our sense of things is different when we have a story to go with them. In a lot of ways, the story supercedes the image. We tend to trust narrative more than the perception – the images – out of which narrative rises.

We really like a good story.

It is helpful to see this clearly and, with respect to how it plays out in experience, to have some intimacy with it.

Basically we can ask these questions: What is given? What is narrative – how is it given? And what is the relationship between narrative and what is given, if any?

The river flowing east behind the village towards our home.

The focus in these questions is on experience – on what is here. We are looking at the moment and the way it is showing up.

I said earlier that everything is given equally. Consider the cupcake, the atlas and the hand again. They all appear in the same way – are held by the same gaze – and subject to the same perceptual process. That is what I mean by “given equally.”

It is like saying that a rose and cat litter box smell different, but smelling itself is not different based on whether you’re sniffing a rose or a litter box. In that sense, the rose and the cat litter are “given equally.”

Two observations. First, you might say okay, they may be given equally, but roses and cat litter are waaay different.

That’s a fair point we’ll get to in a second.

The other observation is that science makes clear that, in fact, with respect to our senses that everything is not given equally. Our senses, in conjunction with our fast-processing brain, overlook stuff all the time.

And even with respect to what we are aware of, it’s not actually a cupcake, atlas and hand – in truth, it’s just a bunch of atoms.

Walking with Chrisoula & the kids on the road behind the river . . . 

Those are also good points but at this juncture they are actually distractions. They imply that we are pursuing truth or reality – that we want to be right about what we see and how we talk about it.

But the point of the exercise is not to be right – it’s simply to be aware of experience as it is given, as it is showing up. Even if it is a lie, or an illusion, or somehow other than how it appears, it is still here. It is still what is showing up.

We are giving attention to experience as experience is given. Just that.

When we do this, sooner or later, we are going to have to wrestle with the appearance or presence of narrative. That’s the first point mentioned above – that cat litter and roses are two totally different things. Narrative does that – gives these two appearances names, judges them, and so forth. There is whatever is showing up – whatever is given – but it includes (or sure seems to include) narrative.

In other words, how can we see a tree apart from – or prior to – all our ideas about a tree? In what way are the stories we tell – or that are being told and of which we are aware – separate from what else appears?

Is it not all one movement, one flux, one welter?

Seeing the way narrative and observation appear intertwined is the point of the exercise. Narrative does change what we see. It is entangled. But how? To what degree?

We really have to answer these questions for ourselves. When we look at a tree, what happens? Where and how and when do ideas about the tree show up? Where do they come from? Is there some agency involved – some “self” that is making decisions about what to think?

Is someone or something in charge? How do we know? How can – or should we even – talk about this?

Hills, the far side of which Emily Dickinson once gazed at . . .

Reading about all this stuff is fun and interesting, and I do it a lot, but it’s also important to just hunker down and give attention, and find out for ourselves what’s going on, what it means, and where we are in all of it.

When I began to study giving attention – when I was unexpectedly made welcome at that strange little school – that was really the first lesson. In some respects it’s the only lesson: “nobody can do this for you, so get cracking.”

Spiritual paths can become crutches very quickly. A Course in Miracles functions this way for many students, me included. The going gets tough for whatever reason and we default to course lingo and ideology. “This is an illusion,” “bodies aren’t real,” “sickness is wrong-minded thinking,” et cetera.

And, when we do that, we tend to invoke our preferred spiritual teachers, parroting their words as if they are our own. Ken Wapnick, Tara Singh, Sri Aurobindo, Thomas Merton . . .

To the extent there’s anything “wrong” with this, it’s that we stop looking at our actual experience in favor of a model of experience built by thought. Confusing models for that which is modeled is akin to confusing the map for the territory. It leads to incoherence and conflict.

So a point came – for me, a little over eighteen months ago – when it became necessary to “let go” of the course in order to see (or begin to see, maybe) that to which the course was pointing. The practice was no longer to study and apply a particular method, but to simply give attention in a sustained and gentle way without worrying about what attention was being given to.

Eventually, all this “giving attention” or “noticing” arrives at a basic question: who or what is giving attention?

In a lot of ways, that is the whole game. That is the question. Answer it – or see why it cannot be answered – and that’s it. Game over (or game dissolved).

A succession of bridges – one covered – by the old dairy farm . . .

In my experience, that inquiry (who or what is giving attention) is easier to handle when approached slowly and with care. I think of it like this: the morning of my wedding, I shaved more attentively and carefully, than on the morning before (or after).

That is the kind of care and attention to which I am referring. I want to bring it to the inquiry, and this means that I want to go slow enough to notice when I am parroting Ken Wapnick or Tara Singh. Am I just repeating what someone else said?

I want to notice when I am trying to sound slick and smart. Am I using phrases like “the divine et cetera” or pretending Nisargadatta’s insights are mine? Am I giving up under the guise of science – “well, it’s all atoms and algorithms and I can’t do math, so screw it?”

Those are clues that I am not earnestly looking at at what is given. I’m in denial and on repeat.

This “giving attention” thing is not easy. A lot that masquerades as insight is just the same old same-old wearing a new mask. And it’s not a problem really. It, too, is given. But there is a tendency to use it as a form of consenting to distraction. It’s good to notice what thought is up to, but it’s not good to get so invested in it that we don’t notice anything else.

The inquiry is more important than what shows up. Even the many insights that arrive – and there are some lovely and helpful ones, like bright stars in the sky – are going to pass eventually. So we just sit and let them pass, and notice their passage.

That is a nice metaphor, actually. We are just star-gazers. We’re just sitting quietly letting the sky be the sky. And soon enough, realize we aren’t looking “at” the sky – we are “in” the sky.

And then realize that there is nobody looking – there is only looking. There is only this. This this.

Her Grace Writes You

Well, I am a writer. That’s all. And sometimes writing is very fluid and it takes me somewhere and how grateful I am in those moments, and how amazed. But then sometimes it is like chopping wood. It hurts and it’s repetitious and the wood pile grows so you and your beloved will be warm another day and night but that’s all you can say for it. And it’s enough but still. Still.

What I am saying is, if you care about the product, the object – about the poem, and who reads it, and who loves it, and who buys it, and how much acclaim it affords you – then you’re in trouble. No matter how much attention you get, it won’t be enough. You will die hungry, empty in a not-good way, like a beggar just outside the banquet hall, crows calling dibs on his bones.

But if you care about the writing as a process – like loving a river not for where it goes or for what it gives you but just because it’s fast and lovely and changes with the light of the day and the season of the year – then you have a chance. You have a chance to learn what happiness is, and Truth. You have a chance to catch a glimpse of what is eternal and joyous and loving. And that glimpse will be like a light making safe and clear the next steps, which are not a journey, but a sort of dance with God, a sort of slow and sensuous tumble into the arms of the Beloved, where you belong, and where your writing longs to take you.

So you have to write, a lot, more than a lot, and you have to write when it is cold and difficult, and you have to be willing to be alone, and then more alone, until your loneliness is like all the ice in the world enfolded around your heart, numbing your brain to where all that remains are your favorite words – not even that much – your favorite sounds, one or two syllables only. You have to become mute, fallen, cast out, broken, shunned by your savior, vilified by family. You have to give up everything, even writing itself, and not just metaphorically but really. None of this is a metaphor. If you think it is a metaphor then you are in trouble. Real trouble.

And I am saying that after a long time alone, with only a blunt prayer remaining, with the name of the Beloved the dimmest of dim memories, then a hand may emerge from the darkness to lift you. I don’t say when, I say may. May. You will write it not because you are a writer but because you emptied yourself to make room for what is given, and what is given now manifests through you in language, as for others it manifests in painting or song, or baking or dance, or running or sewing. Who cares? You can’t possibly care when at last the Beloved has given you Her hand, has allowed you to touch the Hem of her gown which is the universe itself, which is life itself. How blessed that moment is, where what matters is the touch – endless exquisite ecstatic – and what does or doesn’t emerge from it is simply flotsam, no matter how excellent, no matter how lovely.

You live forever in Her grace, not in what you make of Her grace.

Are you called? You are called. She always calls. She is always looking for you in the ash heap of the world, the ruins of your cheap loves, your compromised kisses, and the soiled echoes of your crappy songs. She is always out where the forsaken have lost even their faith in begging for mercy. And She comes to you so softly you nearly miss it. You have missed it. You always miss it. And yet she comes to you again, as if what is broken does not interest her, as if what matters is the calling, not the call and not the answer. Listen! In the darkness of 3 a.m., listen. In the frozen forest, listen. Always and everywhere, listen. She says to you that your suffering was only a dream. She says to you the long and hideous drama never occurred. It isn’t over, it never happened. Write it down so you remember, She says. I am you writing, She says. I am writing writing, writing you. And so you do. At last you do. You write. You write yes. And yes. You write yes. Yes.

Christmas 2014

Every day is holy or none of them are.
I insist on it and the world
refuses to acquiesce.
What can you do?
We celebrate one man’s birthday
because we are frightened
of what it means
to celebrate our own.
Over and over
we say no
to the inherent grace,
to the only glory there is.
We go shopping because
we have nothing of our own to give.
We gorge at the high table
while the poor –
who are only the lost and lonely
we swore yesterday never to forsake –
divide crumbs out back.

Oh you who are so dear to me
despite the distance,
despite the many years
that seem to lie between us,
my love is with you always
being merely what you gave me
when you first gazed down at me
in my broken cradle,
my smoky manger.
This year
let Love be enough
to see me through the form
of what can never bring the world peace
to Peace itself,
which gives of its own accord,
and is always perfectly sufficient.

Sing to me Beloved
from the gallows
that goes with you everywhere
that this day
at last
I might remember to save you
simply by not condemning you,
which was all you ever asked.

With Respect to Photographs

Earlier this year I began to add photographs to my posts. I can be long-winded and sometimes a little illustration of one kind or another helps to break up the long chunks of text.

Initially I used paintings of famous – or relatively famous – works of art that are in the public domain and seemed related in some way to the content I was writing. But more and more I have been using pictures that we take in our family. There is a reason for this.

Though I love A Course in Miracles as a curriculum, and feel somewhat competent in talking and sharing about it, I am much more interested in how we bring it into application. How do we live as students of the course? Intellectual understanding is helpful – I think it is a big piece of ACIM, actually – but it is not, of itself, sufficient to awaken us. In fact, it can very easily become an impediment.

That is why I am so devoted to Tara Singh as my teacher – why I glommed onto him so quickly and attentively, and why I continue to so closely read his work. He was not interested in explicating A Course in Miracles but in facilitating its application, in making it the lived reality of those who were ready to be its students. The difference may seem subtle but it is significant indeed.

I am trying to share – within the boundaries of what is acceptable to my wife and children, and my own sometimes confused sense of propriety – what life looks like when one struggles in a sincere and wordy way (which I do) to live and practice A Course in Miracles. My sense is that there is a need for this sort of approach and – more to the point – I am not much good at writing about it any other way.

Thus, more and more, I am going to be posting photographs that reflect our family life – gardening, walking, raising chickens and children, playing in the forest, making food and clothing and so on and so forth. The pictures may not be necessarily germane to the post itself but I hope they will witness in a general way to the happiness, beauty, community and productivity that informs my life as a student of A Course in Miracles. I hope they are helpful.

The pictures are taken mostly by Chrisoula, my wife, or by Sophia and Fionnghuala, my daughters. I don’t dislike cameras – in fact, I love visual art very much – but it tends to distract me from the wordiness that is my own humble and humbling art.

On Expression

Expression is natural. It is what arises without effort. It flows.

Expression does not begin with the one who expresses nor does it have any end. Expression may assume form but only as a function of its formlessness. Expression is not form but what infuses form.

What we call the self or ego is an impediment to expression. It is the effort to limit expression. This is why the artist Jasper Johns said – here paraphrased – that to be a great artist one has to give up everything, including the desire to be a great artist.

The self or ego is the belief that expression serves only self or ego. This leads to the belief that expression is always personal, always a reflection of the one who expresses. This in turn leads inevitably to a confused perception of expression, which can be summarized as seeing many expressions rather than expression reflected in many forms.

Thus one begins to distinguish between craft and the generative impulse. The former is technical and mechanical while the latter is inherent in all life. One can study and practice the former but one can only know the latter.

The authenticity of expression hinges on knowledge of the generative impulse. This knowledge begets an intimacy with Creation naturally informed by humility and gratitude and cannot not be shared. Expression forever points beyond the form it temporarily assumes in favor of the eternal impulse – the infinitely renewing all – that it is.

Expression forever offers itself. To perceive expression is indistinguishable from offering expression – they are one movement, whole only in each other.

Away from Prayer

When I am away from prayer I miss it and long to return to the quiet and serious happiness that is its salient quality. Yet it is the nature of resistance that when I willfully leave what heals, I forget that it heals, and so stumble a long time – hours, days, years even – before I remember to pray again.

I am using prayer in this instance in somewhat the same way that Thomas Merton talked about meditation in Spiritual Direction & Meditation.

Meditation is for those who are not satisfied with a merely conceptual and objective knowledge about life, about God – about ultimate realities. They want to enter into an intimate contact with truth itself, with God. They want to experience the deepest realities of life by living them ( 53).

And I am thinking too of Krishnamurti’s observations in This Light in Oneself.

Meditation is not for the immature . . . One has to work hard; one has to become aware of what one is doing, what one is thinking, without any distortion. And all that requires great maturity, not of age but maturity of of the mind to be capable of observation, seeing the false as the false, and truth as truth (86).

Prayer is always a form of giving attention – intensely, devotedly, gratefully – to what-is. As A Course in Miracles points out, prayer does not ask for anything (S-I.1:3) and has neither a beginning nor an end (S-II.1:1). It assumes the form to which we are best suited at a given time and place (S-in.2:1) and evolves accordingly until it reaches a state of “total communication with God” (S-II.1:3).

Perhaps most importantly, it is a way of remembering our holiness (S-I.5:2).

Prayer is dynamic, then. It is a way of engaging in one’s life by giving the whole of one’s attention, in a sustained and energetic way, to life. We “give” our attention to the Holy Spirit, where it is translated to awareness, and we are enlightened accordingly.

“Enlightened” in this context should be understood as being filled with intuition and insight reflecting the Love that is God. It should not be understood in the more Eastern sense of realizing the absolute. It is not about reaching a desired end so much as entering a dialogue with eternity that is forever in motion, folding and unfolding.

What does prayer look like, then? And what does leaving prayer look like?

And – once away from it – how do we return to prayer?

The personal nature of prayer – indeed, the intimate nature of prayer – cannot be emphasized enough. What works for me will almost certainly not work for you, and vice-versa. It is important to qualify our experience that way, lest we slip into one of two traps: a) believing that what we’re doing is “right” in an ultimate way and everybody needs to get on board, and/or b) believing that what someone else is doing is “right,” and that their rightness is testament to our wrongness.

Truly,who longs to give attention to God has already done all that they need to do – indeed, all that they can do – and their longing will not go long unrequited.

So for me, prayer is walking in the forest and fields of my native New England, in particular this western Massachusetts slip of it. And – as importantly – writing about those walks and that prayer. When I am attentive to those two mutually supportive practices, then the balance of my life tends to stay balanced, relatively speaking.

People sometimes ask why I wake up so early and the answer is simple. It is true that God is everywhere at all times but my identification with that truth is not yet perfect. Thus, I turn as often and willingly as possible in the direction of those times and places where my awareness of God is most alive. Perhaps someday this will happen at high noon on the streets of New York City – doubtless it does for some – but for me it does not.

Honesty requires that I see the terms of my relationship with God clearly. I can’t lie about them just because I wish they were more ideal or impressive. The discipline of prayer consists of being faithful to the relationship with God at the level at which I now experience it. That is the Psalmist’s meaning in writing “be still and know that I am God.”

And yet I do forget. I do turn away. I get busy, usually, or distracted by this or that relationship. There are papers to grade, there are plans about land and buildings to be made, there are meetings that require my attention, kids get sick, I get sick, foxes worry the hen house and time is given to reinforcing foundations and walls, somebody wants to talk about Emily Dickinson or A Course in Miracles . . .

And so and so forth. Adjusting for differences in form, you know precisely what I am talking about.

The world rushes in and we forget it’s not our job to solve or fix anything alone. When we try to be God, we get scared and angry and lonesome. This happens to all of us! There’s no use beating ourselves up over it. It’s not like God is going anywhere. It’s not like the Holy Spirit can decide to go hang out in somebody else’s split mind.

So it’s okay. One morning we wake up and say, “what is going on here? I feel crazy and I know this isn’t how life is meant to go.”

When we are willing to question what vexes us, we are sooner or later blessed to remember that we have chosen alienation from God, and can just as readily choose otherwise.

So I read those texts that are helpful, and I turn to those lessons that are most fruitful, and the dog and go out in the woods with pen and paper in hand (well, I’m the one with pen and paper in hand – she doesn’t have opposable thumbs) and we walk slowly, looking and smelling and feeling. I pray again, and I see almost instantly that God is still there, and that prayer still works.

There are no consequences. There are no penalties. There is simply this happiness rising and falling, deepening within us even as it contains us, contains all of us, this big mysterious and beautiful Love that begs to be known.

Joy is the Prayer You Are

Joy is natural, an unconditional inheritance. It has no ways or methods. When we stop searching for it, it is there, and when we stop trying to own it, it is ours.

“Joy” in this context means awareness of the state of perfection arising effortlessly from God, from That-Which-Is, and which in the ultimate instance goes nameless.

Joy is neither ecstasy nor giddiness, though it judges neither, nor their cousins. Happiness in the world – with a sunset, with a lover, with a poem – is merely Joy’s faint reflection, given to us that we might turn our attention to the diviner whole. There is nothing wrong with that level of happiness – with, say, a Mardi Gras sensibility – but it is not itself the gift for which we long.

I learn Joy in the forest, beside the pond, and following brooks to rivers, and rivers to larger rivers which reach – beyond my ken – the faraway sea.

In the morning, when I sit or stand by the pond in pre-dawn darkness, and the light slowly changes, revealing the perfect stillness of the water, its perfect reflection of the revelation of sky, the tendril mist drifting ethereal as if across glass . . .

Joy is neither the thoughts or feelings in that moment – nor the wordiness they midwife – but the pond itself. This is not merely semantics. The pond is Joy, as the heron standing in far cattails is Joy, and the deer who come slowly down the piney hill to drink before settling in secret glades to fitful rest are Joy.

Joy is the specific instance, and the space in which the instance occurs, and it is also the awareness of occurrence. Joy is calm and still. It does not travel. It does not advertise. Ask truly and be its willing initiate and it is given without qualification or condition. The answer precedes the question because without it, the question would have no meaning.

Joy means that there is no church but the one you take with you, and no teacher but the one you appoint to learn on your behalf. Nothing is undone, no hymn remains unsung, and no altar is left uncleared. You take the prayer with you; and it prays you as it goes.

Why I Switched to a Creative Commons License

Earlier this week I shifted the license on this website from a traditional copyright to a Creative Commons license, specifically an Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International license. My reasons for doing this are important, and I want to share them.

I’ve been aware of Creative Commmons licenses for some time and, in spirit, I have always preferred them to the more draconian, commodified and separative alternative.

But in application, I almost always opted for the latter.

Why? Because I was scared. I was especially afraid of two related possibilities: one, that somebody would make money from my work while I was not (or could not), and two, that somebody would copy my work and present it as their own.

Indeed, copyright law emerged in our culture precisely to protect against those two possibilities. Many writers and artists see copyright as their only line of meaningful defense against intellectual theft. If you are making a living this way, the stakes are not insignificant.

My own interest in alternatives grew in direct proportion to changes in the markets for freelance writers. In the late eighties and early nineties when I was beginning to cut my teeth on journalism, you could write a story and publish it in multiple journals or papers. You owned the rights to it. A great deal of the viability for freelance income came from that reselling ability.

Moreover, it reflected a fundamental truth: that the writer was the one who had created the work – she or he had researched, reported, wrote and rewrote and so it was their work. Of course they could sell it and revise it as they saw fit.

That paradigm began slowly shifting until it reached a point where writers were creating a piece of work, selling it – often for less than they’d gotten decades earlier – and surrendering all their rights in the process. A company would buy a story for me for a thousand dollars and then run it in multiple mediums they owned. It was out of my hands.

My friends on the management side of the equation argued that they had no choice. Journalism was dying a death of a thousand cuts. They had to maximize their earning potential. And freelancers were an easy target. I began to wonder: is there an alternative?

When I published poetry – regardless of where it was published – the terms were almost always the same. The publisher got a one-off right to publish the work and then all rights reverted to me. Sometimes they paid me – in money or copies – and sometimes they didn’t. I was grateful for the chance to share my work, but even more grateful for the integrity that accompanied the process.

When I began to write on this website, I didn’t give much thought to copyright. Legally, once you create something, the copyright inheres in you. The legalese you attach only puts the world on notice; it doesn’t automatically affect your rights.

But as more people began to visit, and some of them to “borrow” my posts or significant parts of my posts, I started to wonder: how do I respond to this?

I was cognizant of the lawsuit initiated by the Foundation for Inner Peace in an effort to protect the copyright of A Course in Miracles (FACIM’s take is at least in part represented here). I understood the impulse in a sense, and the legal issues, but it also struck me as wrong-minded in some ways. It wasn’t just about copyright, but trademark, too. People were being told they couldn’t advertise notice of their “A Course in Miracles study group.” The issue seemed to be about control of the message as much as the means by which the message was being transmitted. I don’t know that I could have – or would have – handled the situation any differently, but I certainly gave that possibility some thought.

Of course, the Creative Commons licenses empower creators. They are legally sound and binding, and they are utterly flexible. They take full note of the media publishing culture in which we live. They do not disempower artists; they empower them. Essentially, they recognize the role of the creator as the master of her work, while allowing her to facilitate the kind of sharing and modification that seems fair and reasonable.

Yet each time I moved in that direction, I got scared. I’d put it off. “Don’t be naive,” I’d tell myself. “You’ve got something special here. It’s okay to protect it.”

Eventually, that word – “special” – seeped through. Indeed, it was the whole problem. I had a special relationship with my writing and I did not trust you – or anyone else – to respect it. And the only way to defend myself against your greed and hypocrisy – because you were obviously going to plagiarize me and get rich doing so – was an aggressive strategy of copyright enforcement. All rights reserved and don’t think for a moment I’m afraid to use it.

Of course, that is not a very satisfying way to live or create. Defensiveness – always a byproduct of specialness – never is. The more I looked at it, the more I realized that this was a chance for me to practice faith and to put my money where my mouth so long had been. My values called for a more flexible, generous and progressive approach to ownership – one that reflected an underlying belief in oneness, faith in my brothers and sisters, and a sense of abundance rather than scarcity.

So I mad the switch. And instantly – because it was the right thing to do and the right time to do it – I felt an instant rush of peace and gratitude.

Am I saying that you should follow suit? Or that others who are still using traditional copyright are wrong-minded idiots blaspheming Jesus and Buddha? Or that FIP and FACIM were evil and greedy for initiating legal action with respect to possible copyright violations?


It is important to do what is right for oneself – and what is right for you may not be for me. Such is the nature of forgiveness. Sometimes it takes us a while to learn what is right and longer still to bring it into application. There are no mistakes. It is important to tend to our own garden and let our neighbors tend to theirs.

In other words, it’s not about being right universally but particularly. In this instance, under these circumstances, X is the right thing to do. So I am going to try and do it. I may learn there is another way to go in the future. I may go back to what I did before. But right now, this is where spirit is most resonant.

And, really, that is where we want to be – as writers, artists, teachers, students. We want to be where Spirit most resonates.

Thank you, as always, for sharing the way with me.

On Email Updates

Last month my website broke. The part that most people noticed was a sudden explosion of emails in their inbox, as every few minutes the plugin I used to facilitate notifications of new blog posts, decided to randomly send out new notifications.

I am sorry for any inconvenience that may have caused . . .

The fix included deleting that plugin completely. Since then, I’ve been looking for an alternative that is less likely to go wonky. And I think I’ve found it.

Thus, I am going to begin again to send out notifications of new posts that are specifically related to my study and practice of A Course in Miracles.

If you were signed up to receive those notifications in the past, you will now begin receiving them again (albeit in a slightly different format).

If for any reason you don’t want to receive these notifications, you can follow the unsubscribe link below. If that doesn’t work, or if you need some help figuring out what to do (and/or how to do it), please feel free to contact me – through the comments here or via email. I will do everything I can.

Thank you for your patience and for sharing the way with me. I am deeply grateful.