Sean Reagan

contemplation, clarification, service

Beyond Thinking about Stillness

by 10 Comments

Stillness does not ask anything of us. Nor can it be misunderstood. It is given totally and unconditionally.

Yet if we are thinking about stillness, then we do not know stillness. The problem is not thinking – thinking can be very creative and useful in context.

The problem is “about.”

“About” comes from an Old English word “onbūtan,” which means “outside of.” When we are thinking “about” something (or someone or something), we are acknowledging alienation and separation. We are dreaming a dream of exile from Love.

This is not really a problem when I am thinking “about” which path I will take on my walk this afternoon. But it is a problem – or something like a problem – when I am thinking “about” stillness. Then I am holding a self apart from stillness.

This “holding apart” is the source of our unhappiness. It is the logjam which interferes with the peace and creativity that is our natural inheritance as extensions of life whose only function is to extend in turn.

Stillness precedes thought. It is not “about” anything. We know it the way a sunflower knows to turn its bright face to the sun, the way a river knows its way to the sea, and the way the sea knows the gravitational pull of the moon.

We obscure and diminish knowledge of stillness when we are “about” it – analyzing, complicating, studying, imagining. You can picture us standing here observing stillness there. But what do we need to learn in order to draw our next breath? To see the sky as blue and not blood red?

Did you decide to love your dog/daughter/husband/etc? Or was the love given?

Stillness is natural for us. Stillness is what we are before we think to ask “what am I? What is my purpose in life? What should I do?”

Stillness is not an answer to a grand metaphysical question because it does not ask questions. It just knows.

Stillness is the one life behind all appearances.

Stillness begets happiness, which is closely related to gratitude. When we are still, we are happy, and our gratefulness is like sunlight, ever extending its life-giving rays. We do nothing; we are everything. Or, if you prefer, we do nothing because we are nothing.

On the one hand, this is a bunch of poetic nonsense. On the other, it is a promise of A Course in Miracles, the illusory path you and I have accepted as our shared way beyond illusions.

Completely unaffected by the turmoil and the terror of the world, the dreams of birth and death that here are dreamed, the myriad of forms that fear can take; quite undisturbed, the Thought God holds of you remains exactly as it always was. Surrounded by a stillness so complete no sound of battle comes remotely near; it rest in certainty and perfect peace. Here is your one reality kept safe, completely unaware of all the world that worships idols, and that knows not God (T-30.III.10:2-4).

This is our reality now; not five years from now. Not a thousand lifetimes from now. Not when we figure out what ACIM means by “battle” or “idols.” Not when we perfect this or that relationship. Now.

Stillness is always present. It is always untouched by the past and the future. All distinctions – which are the lifeblood of appearances – end in it.

The stillness and the peace of now enfold you in perfect gentleness. Everything is gone except the truth (T-16.VII.6:5-6).

Don’t think about this.

Neither Easter nor not Easter

by 5 Comments

I wrote about defensiveness and its proximity to projection in my newsletter this morning; please feel free to sign up.

When I become responsible for defensiveness, I project less, and the less I project, the more love and peace become the salient qualities of our shared living.

And, at some point in the happiness that arises thereby, I catch a glimpse of choicelessness and realizes that I have finally reached the beginning – the literal only step – of the journey-that-neither-begins-nor-ends.

Choicelessness is scary. Our conditioning is premised on concepts of free will; the idea that there is always something we can do in any situation to maximize it for our benefit (and the benefit of those we deign to love). An independent functional self is the literal ground of this belief system; neither can exist without the other.

To realize that there is no such self is – to the idea that there is such a self – utterly terrifying. Small wonder we tend not to question it or at least not question it very deeply. It is the void: empty, meaningless, ever ready to devour life whole, leaving nothing. Of course we turn away; of course we try to squirrel away a crumb.

We have to look at the void. But here’s the thing. At some point in the “Void-is-Horror” narrative, the narrative falls away and it is seen at last that the void is not dead; it is not nothing. Rather, it is a generative emptiness, utterly creative, utterly giving. And the love it extends – because it does not perceive differences – is truly unconditional.

This is so far beyond being a good person or a holy person or an awakened person. None of that matters at all. And it is a gift rather than a reward. Our work is not to earn anything, much less deserve anything, but simply to undo everything – everything – that obstructs our remembrance of this all-loving generative stillness.

Empty your mind of everything it thinks is either true or false, or good or bad, of every thought it judges worthy, and all the ideas of which it is ashamed. Hold onto nothing. Do not bring with you one thing the past has taught, nor one belief you ever learned before from anything. Forget this world, this course, and come with wholly empty hands unto your God (W-pI.189.7:2-5).

Are we ready for it?

It is for this moment, this question, that our study and practice of A Course in Miracles is given, and it is to this moment that it endlessly delivers us.

In a sense, to be crucified is simply to be yoked to body in the same way a body can be nailed to a cross. There is no escape, only death. Everything dies, blows away in dust, and is forgotten.

Yet resurrection is a form of remembering. It is a restoration to mind the knowledge of its wholeness, which is not associated with bodies at all, and thus beyond birth and death and the trials in between.

Thus, Easter is neither a day nor an event, much less a holy day or event. Rather, it is a way of thinking for which we are responsible, and for which we choose to be responsible because what else could love possibly want?

Notes in the Middle of March

by 11 Comments

I have been thinking lately about my insistence that love assume a certain form in order to actually be love. Jack, my daughter’s blind horse, who I visit each morning with a flake of hay, is teaching me that this is insane. He reminds me that service is the way to end projection, and thus remember Love.

I wrote about the service part of this lesson in today’s newsletter. You can sign up here if you like. The horse part – which is the love part – I want to go briefly into here.

Jack lost sight in both of his eyes last year. Both eyes were eventually removed. At the time, the vet responsibly told my daughter that some folks opt to put their horses down when this happens. Sophia said – how do I put this delicately – “fuck that.”

Jack struggled for a month or so with blindness, and then became so skilled at navigating pasture and run-in you wouldn’t know he doesn’t have eyes. Sophia still rides him. It’s like nothing has changed. It is amazing.

What does this have to do with love?

It is fear that insists life must assume this or that form – a certain man or woman, say, or a horse with intact eyesight – in order to be love. You know, right, full, just, perfect, ecstatic, et cetera . . .

The perfect ideal is the ultimate projection because it can never be met, and thus leaves us forever searching, thus obeying ego’s dictate to seek but never find (T-12.IV.1:4).

Yet life somehow manages to flow without this perfection. It is almost as if life is perfectly whole and safe, and we – through the lie of projection – simply refuse to see this. It’s almost as if ego isn’t even wrong – it’s not even actually there.

It turns out that while eyes are nice, Jack does not need them to live a happy fulfilled life. It is as if the forms he perceived were – how shall we put this delicately – not actually there in the first place.

I mean we know that’s not true but . . . do we?

A Course in Miracles insists that our emphasis on the sensate world – the world brought forth through the body’s senses – is an illusion and thus unimportant. It asks us to consider that the body’s eyes don’t see, its ears don’t hear, its hands don’t hold . . .

Can this be true? Can love be formless? How would we know?

Mornings I usually wake to Jack calling from the pasture. He’s hungry; my function is to feed him. I stumble into chore clothes and head outside in pre-dawn darkness. Chickens natter in the barn as I gather the requisite flakes. Jack waits by the gate, impatient as always. “Ask and ye shall receive,” I say jokingly, and toss the hay.

And as the gold flake lands on still-frozen earth, I hear in the recess of my mind – the cave of my heart – Jesus say “ditto.”

Am I not blessed? Is the gift not given? Shivering in the New England cold, wordy and unwise but not unhappy? Listening to a blind horse munch hay? Sun rising, chickadees singing? Who is serving who?

Beloved: how much longer must we pretend we don’t know?

Building Better Worlds: ACIM in Practice

by 13 Comments

On the other hand, if you think that this stuff matters – that is, if you believe a political party is right or wrong, better or worse than the others – then you’re in as deep as you can go. At that level it’s just ego; there are no checks. You might as well pretend it matters who wins the Superbowl.

This is different from caring about certain outcomes in the world. Wanting kids to be fed and sheltered; wanting women not to suffer violence; wanting an end to weapons of mass destruction . . . those are goals entirely consistent with our ongoing spiritual realignment with Love. By all means work to bring them about in durable sustainable ways.

It’s not the goal that’s the problem – every sane person wants peace and happiness for their brother and sister and is willing to work to make it so.

No, the insanity appears when we decide that we know better than everyone else how to reach those goals and everybody else needs to get on board with us like yesterday.

This is the rank lovelessness of “I get it and you don’t,” against which Tara Singh warned.

I know, I know. You’re the sane one, not the insane one. I’m preaching to the choir. But riddle me this: how did I know where to draw the sane/insane line so you’d understand exactly what I meant? And how do you know on which side you’re to be found?

Hint: “I get it and you don’t.”

No. We’re in as deep as we can go, you and I. So the question becomes: what is to be done? And the answer is – because the answer is always – give attention in a forgiving way (an ACIM forgiving way) and see what happens.

Again, the problem is not that you’re frustrated that there are hungry kids in the world. What kind of monster accepts that kind of suffering?

The problem is the little tinge of righteousness you get about feeling that way, which almost always corresponds to vilifying somebody or something – Donald Trump, Congress, Capitalism – so big and/or vague you can’t reasonably be expected to do anything about it. This creates plausible deniability, which is essential to ego’s goal of continual self-deception.

Plausible deniability is how self-deception is sustained. We can’t fully lie to ourselves about the situation. We aren’t stupid. We’ve read books, talked to therapists. We know a yoga mat from a zafu. But we can’t fully own the lie either, because we’re scared and unsure of what the consequences will be and we don’t really want to find out.

Thus, we create mini-narratives in which we tell ourselves (and others, if they ask) that we would have owned the lie but couldn’t for reasons beyond our control. The phone rang. So-and-so was having a bad day. We were taking a “me” day away from stress. If you’d had my father . . .

These little excusal narratives allow just enough slack in attention to let us go on in self-deception. And self-deception creates a barely tolerable status quo in which our misery never quite reaches a level where we’re ready to blow everything up in search of a real solution.

Can you notice that? Because noticing that will redirect you to what you can do about whatever is vexing you. What you can do about it. In this way, you will become responsible for how you see and that means you will perceive a different world in which there is a lot you can do. A lot.

Making a commitment to this level of seeing is different than most spiritual paths the world offers us. It makes a different set of demands on our attention and living. It doesn’t tolerate half-measures (not because it’s vindictive but because half-measures don’t work). It’s more like on-the-job training than a spiritual practice. More psychotherapy than prayer.

Eventually, you will realize that the problem isn’t hungry kids. It’s adults who are so confused and tolerant of their confusion that obvious solutions and corrections to literally any problem become invisible or impossible.

You know, adults exactly like you and me.

Then you get arguments and straw men and studies and white papers and NGOs and social media campaigns and long talks into the night about the injustice of it all . . .

. . . and the kids are still hungry. And we still have that nagging feeling inside that there’s something we should do about it, would do about it if we could only remember . . . what self-help book it was it in . . . which yoga position is it unlocks the kundalini . . . is it Saint Francis I like or Saint Therese?

Yes. That’s not great. And yes. There is another way.

Heal yourself. Penetrate the illusion that you’re powerless; correct your seeing so that you stop perceiving the external appearance – the whole world of forms – as a symptom of an interior condition that believes it is a victim of outside forces. Get right on cause-and-effect. Stop acquiescing to powers you neither admire nor respect.

Get the reins back. Be real. Ask: where do you want us all to go?

Twisting by the Pool

by 14 Comments

Spring is coming. The chickadees are more voluble; crows linger longer on the thawing compost. The horses call for their morning flakes of hay earlier and earlier, sunlight cresting eastern hills where the river turns.

I am sufficiently embodied to be deeply happy about this. And sufficiently right-minded to know it’s okay to say that to you.

Most of the weekend was given to writing about this line from A Course in Miracles: “It is sure that those who select certain ones as partners in any aspect of living, and use them for any purpose which they would not share with others, are trying to live with guilt rather than die of it” (T-16.IV.4:5).

It’s part of a relatively complex analysis of how we use special love relationships to avoid looking at hate, and how not looking at hate is the whole reason we’re so confused about what love is. Good stuff. I mean hard stuff, but . . . also good.

The idea was I’d write about this for today’s newsletter, but after seven thousand words and about as many rewrites it was clear that wasn’t going to happen. I went to bed a wee bit consternated, woke up at 5 a.m., and wrote today’s newsletter in a hot second.

What works? What helps? What flows?

You can sign up here for the newsletter if you like.

One thing about special love relationships is that they’re hard to notice. We are wired and conditioned to integrate them into our living without realizing that’s what we’re doing, much less why we’re doing it. We call them holy relationships. Or just love. And continue on our not-so-merry-but-at-least-a-little-merry way. It’s not a crime against God or nature.

But everything – without exception apparently – has to be raised into the light of inquiry, lest we hold onto some shred of illusion and from it build yet another cosmos in which suffering and loss abound. As the Buddha might say, were I not so smitten with Jesus, just how many times do you want to ride this carousel, son?

In the newsletter this morning, I ended up musing on the right/wrong binary which – while not entirely irrelevant to happiness – often obscures a much better question with respect to happiness, to wit: does this (whatever this is) help? If yes, press play. If no, shuffle onto the next jukebox and see if that one has any songs for dancing, making love, singing at the top of your lungs while driving down the interstate . . .

What does all this have to do with the afore-mentioned quote from A Course in Miracles?

Maybe nothing.

Maybe I’ll get to it in a future post or newsletter.

The thing is, what’s challenging about that quote is that it asks us to share the very thing we are most afraid to share. What is that? Is it sex? Praise? Attention? Love? A story about what our Dad did?

If we can answer that question quickly, then we probably aren’t answering it honestly. The easy answer is the one that’s given so we won’t see the real answer.

What feels so precious – makes you feel so vulnerable – that even thinking about giving it away to just anyone is tantamount to death?

I know what the answer is for me and – this is the whole point of this post – I don’t want to share it with you. I’m too scared. Which is why I wrote the newsletter I wrote, and also why this post dances with truth but only at a flirty distance. The loving embrace of the slow dance – that beautiful intimation of our shared oneness – remains . . . what? Do you know?

Anyway, I hope you will not stop twisting by the pool with me.

Review Period II: ACIM Workbook

by Leave a Comment

In general, review periods in A Course in Miracles are opportunities to go more deeply into our practice and more effectively ground our understanding of ACIM principles. These parts of the workbook can feel tedious or extraneous, but we skim them to our detriment.

The Introduction to the second review period in the ACIM workbook is noteworthy in several respects.

First, after reviewing the material for the day, we are invited to sit quietly and listen. We give attention and await a specific directive.

There is a message waiting for you. Be confident that you will receive it. Remember that it belongs to you, and you want it.

W-pI.rII.In.3:2-4

This is enheartening, especially in its clarity and confidence. What is the message? What will you know at the end of the day’s practice that you do not know when you begin?

The promise of being met in such a personal and enlightening way is deeply motivating.

The second aspect that stands out is the insistence on taking our ACIM practice seriously, to effectively regard the review periods as “dedications to the way, the truth and the life” (W-pI.rII.In.5:1).

Refuse to be sidetracked into detours, illusions and thoughts of death. You are dedicated to salvation. Be determined each day not to leave your function unfulfilled.

W-pI.rII.In.5:2-4

Be determined each day not to leave your function unfulfilled. That is a worthwhile focus to give to our practice. It merits our attention and devotion. But just as critically, we merit an intense and open-minded study.

Finally, although it’s easy to overlook, the Introduction to this review reminds us that showing up devoted to miracle-minded thinking is more important that the “particular words” that we use to describe and explore that practice. A Course in Miracles is not an intellectual exercise, but rather an whole-hearted and open-minded application of transformational ideas in the interest of inner peace, ours and everyone else’s.

Thus, the next ten lessons present as a unique opportunity to strengthen our study and practice – and, by extension, our shared experience of healing.

Recent Posts

Recent Comments