Skip to main content

Change of Heart

At the least, it feels so much better to choose love than fear, but it takes so much trust, because at first glance everyone and everything can be so scary.

A passage from A Course of Miracles (p. 411) helping me to focus bravely into loving beyond the appearance of things, and trusting a tenderness that knows that at the heart of it all is peace, a love that lights up the shadow:

Love's messengers are gently sent, and return with messages of love and gentleness. The messengers of fear are harshly ordered to seek out guilt, and cherish every scrap of evil and of sin that they can find, losing none of them on pain of death, and laying them respectfully before their lord and master.

Perception cannot obey two masters, each asking for messages of different things in different languages. What fear would feed upon, love overlooks. What fear demands, love cannot even see. The fierce attraction that guilt holds for fear is wholly absent from Love's gentle perception. What love would look upon is meaningless to fear, and quite invisible.

Relationships in this world are the result of how the world is seen. And this depends on which emotion was called on to send its messengers to look upon it, and return with word of what they saw. Fear's messengers are trained through terror, and they tremble when their master calls on them to serve him.

I can always easily find the horrors in this world, but I am realizing that I can send out messengers of love, and get a completely different reading on the world. A loving view of this world becomes stronger day by day, as I choose to listen to the messengers of love around me, and the messages of love in my heart.

I remember driving with my now ex-husband years ago down to Santa Barbara, CA. As I watched the landscape open up from dense foliage on the sides of the roads to bare soft rolling hills, I felt so anxious.

My first thought was that there was nowhere to hide. The hills were so clear, just a boulder here and there, but no trees or bushes to run for cover, no caves--no good hiding places. So exposed and vulnerable.

Little did I know as he and I discussed this fear surfacing that it extended largely into all areas of my life, that it was a metaphor for my ease in participating in life.

I think I've always been on a journey to find the courage to stand out on those hills, and to let the sun touch me--to relax into my body there, and understand that all is well--to feel into the quiet, instead of into the fear.

Just a little willingness, and baby steps, and the courage has been there--for moments. People surprise me. I surprise myself. Courage comes and goes. Sometimes it comes back stronger, sometimes tentative. The only thing that I know for sure, no matter the level of courage, is that only love matters in the end.

My prayer is to keep loving and seeing. There is so much beauty. I just don't want to miss any of it--because somehow I know that is why I am here.

Let me trust this heart, that apparently has so much it wants to reveal to me, waiting patiently for me to be ready to see.

I pray that I continue to find more and more ease at facing my fears, not succumbing to spending my days looking for hiding places.

Because eventually we all have to come out of hiding--even if it is just to pee, and the fear will still be there. It always lurks in the shadows--but so does love.

(Okay, so the following song is not meant to be a downer, but rather I interpreted the lyrics to be the story of a woman deeply entrenched in the illusion and trouble (or perception of having trouble return) being her way of surrendering and letting go profoundly, as in death and rebirth, folks--and allowing herself to be carried home (to herself). Realize, (thanks to one of my reader-friends) that this could be interpreted differently, and rather depressingly. I guess I am naturally beginning to see all as an integral part of transcendence--that even in the painful, scary moments there is always the possibility that we are being carried! I saw the lyrics as a dialogue between her mind, not wanting to let go of the pain, suffering and beliefs that trouble abounds, and something waiting for her to let it hold her and carry her home. Don't you just love perception?! Am I stretching it? Good. Feels great!)


  1. Brooke, I haven't listened to the song yet but I have to say that Io was moved to tears but the story of you riding with your ex and your thoughts when you saw the landscape. That is so honest and expresses something that I have experienced before but never would have been able to put words to it. You are a beautiful light. Sometimes I pray for a change in perspective when I can only see the horrors. I pray for a loving perspective and it always happens when I remember to ask. Loving you

  2. Oh, and dear ones,

    Thank you so much for your loving comments on the last post. You all made it extra fun to share the essence of me. Thank you for the birthday wishes!



  3. Your words here touched a deep, tender place in my beautitfully expressed.

    Your heart is so very full of love, I feel it and I see it and am blessed by it--and you-- and your willingness to see and love and keep loving.

    Also, I love your leaps of faith. Beautiful.

  4. So good, so timely, so eternal to be reminded to choose love!

  5. i have always shared this perception, that truth, even if convicting, comes with a gentle voice of love & leaves us with peace.
    loooove to you! xo


Post a Comment

♥ Thank you for taking the time connect with me here. ♥

Popular posts from this blog

RIP Poltergeist

After over ten years of an incredibly intense journey as a seeker, I find myself lying fallow. Taking a rest. When I first discovered this uncomfortable fact — threat to the hamster wheel that was my spiritual rat race, I surrendered for dead, but something wouldn’t let that fact sit as truth. I was lying fallow, but this implied that after a good rest, fruit could follow. This had nothing to do with death.

I am humbled at the courage it takes to write. For many years I kept a blog read by only a handful of very supportive people, and you’d think that after sharing writing for so long with perfect strangers, writing would have gotten easier. Actually, it got harder. In fact, at one point I was so paralyzed, I just stopped writing altogether. It was just too vulnerable. There was no trust there anymore, and I attributed any courage I had had to my youthful ignorance.

However, life continues, as it inevitably does, and there is still this pang to write, and it grows stronger and strong…

Here With You

Photo by Daria Obymaha on
Sinking lips into your tiny round cheeks, I'm home. Holding your tiny head to my heart, caressing my chin to your downy baby 'chicken fluff' we'll come to call it later, I'm home. Taking in your baby magic scent, I'm home. Pressing nose to nose, forehead to forehead, staring wide-eyed into each other's eyes, I'm home. Toting little bum and dangling legs around my middle, I'm home. Filled with purpose as you point where to go, what you see, I'm home. Your eyes, new windows to a world I thought I knew, I'm home. Holding you with fever, picking you up when you fall, I'm home. Navigating the years between, boxes of your firsts, every paint brush and pen stroke a miracle, I'm home. Saving pottery penguins, turtles, shiny red roses, a burrito with all the fixings immortalized in clay, I'm home. Kid sister fruit and craft stand on the corner, change clinking in coin purse, magic for the neighborhood…


The other night I had a vivid dream that my youngest daughter had died.

There is a time when I would have been unable to even bring this to consciousness, let alone write about it. It has always been my deepest, darkest fear, to lose a child, and this fear has always been there prominently with my youngest.

In the dream I could conceptualize her under her grave, which happened to be in a dark, jagged cavern of colorless rock and stone--no lush lawn, no flowers, just a gaudy gravestone, that glowed, like a tacky neon sign in Vegas. I found myself digging frantically in the earth under her grave marker to retrieve her little bear, so much loved by her in her five short years, that it is no less 'real' than the Velveteen Rabbit.

I found the bear mixed with rubble above where she was buried, brushed it off, and clasped it to my heart, as if it was the last part of her I could keep with me. I pressed the little bear hard to my nose, sniffing for remnant smells of my daughter. The smel…