I type and the page blunders across my eardrums. I take in today’s text lesson from A Course in Miracles and it’s like trying to swallow pride. Or maybe a pride of lions.

There are no sins, only mistakes. Everything can and will be repaired eventually. Whoa. I struggle to wrap my mind around it. A sputter of protest and then all of human history, that entire spectacle of glory and extreme suffering, parades past me as if to say: Are none of us real?

We cling to the ability to blame others for the evils we see as if it’s reality, as if it’s not madness to do it. As if God hasn’t already forgiven us all. Yes, even Republicans.

My wide eyes watch as I type. I’m giving myself a stomach ache from eating chocolate chips by the handful. Yesterday, like for the first time, I could notice the difference between consciousness and awareness. My consciousness is my thoughts, so damn sure of themselves. My awareness says, “Stop eating chocolate chips now.” Also: “It’s okay. It’s working out just the way it’s supposed to.”

Since I beguan the Course, I’ve wonder if anything I write is useful . It’s like a leavening, a huge wave that takes me upside town and turns me out coughing, all my thought circuits having found a new source. That source is the divine and we cheer because, well, it’s the only one that feels good. It’s a heavenly connection, that’s the place to plug in and get healed. Everywhere else we look to charge fails us. It’s okay if I’m not making sense. Processing, peace wait. Look within and notice the smile inside you. Hold your daughter in your arms. That smile pervades everything, goes beyond the masks you’re wearing.

It knows your name and your mistakes and it loves you anyway. It wants us all home inside heaven, beyond all time and space, creating, creating the infinite. Yet the Course says anything in form is an illusion. So WTF is God busy creating with all that amazing creativity if nothing in form? More of the infinite? Isn’t that logistically impossible? I feel skeptical.

But I don’t want my money back. Instead, I long to better understand, to get out of my own way, to sink deep inside the water of light from whence we herald. Harold? Join us. No one misses this boat in the end. No one drowns. Everyone joins in at last. Even Trump. Even him. Even that greedy bastard who funds him who owns all the chicken farms and treats his workers like shit. Even that guy. Because there are no sins, only mistakes. If I’ve never been an asshole, maybe I should judge those guys. But I’ve been selfish before. And if I can forgive myself, why would Trump be immune from my annoying unconditional love? It may be annoying, but it’s hot in hell. And when it burns, forgiveness is the salve we can offer each other as a way of healing our own 3rd- and 2nd-degree welts.

Humility. A wide-open prairie vista of a Sunday. And for the first time in all these decades, I’m happy now in the moment and for once don’t feel like I should be punished for something. For the first time. And the air is sweet. Tea goes down slow and easy. My skin rests against my muscles, tendons, and bones. My beloved walks down the stairs. The urchins play together and I live in the tidepools. Side by-side you in our heaven here on Earth.