A Story about Insomnia, Skunks and Salvation

. . . on remembering to laugh

(1)

Sometimes I cannot sleep. You may know this story.

(2)

It is a great relief to learn that the secret to salvation is we are doing this to ourselves (T-27.VIII.10:1). Happiness and responsibility go hand-in-hand. We are not required by God or nature to suffer conflict. We can be helpful to our brothers and sisters. We can be grateful when they help us.

Sometimes people will say, okay, great. But what exactly am I doing to repress salvation?

The answer isn't complicated, but it is hidden.

The answer is, we take our perception of reality - which is an interpretation of reality - for reality itself. It seems like we're bodies, central characters in a story over which we have no control. And rather than question it, we double down.

There is no dream without [the body], nor does it exist without the dream in which it acts as if it were a person to be seen and be believed . . . the body's serial adventures, from the time of birth to dying, are the theme of every dream the world has ever had (T-27.VIII.1:2, 3:1).

It's hidden because as everyone who's ever been to a movie or shared a campfire knows, the best way to get off on a story is to forget it’s just a story.

(3)

The other night, unable to sleep, an hour or so past midnight, I checked on the horses. We visited at the fence line. I scratched their noses, murmured my thanks for the companionship they share with my daughters.

Storm clouds passed back and forth below a yellow buck moon; fireflies floated through the apple trees. On the other side of the river an owl called.

I felt haunted but when I turned to see by what the still night dissolved it. All that remained was a vast loneliness that was not - for the moment anyway - mine to solve.

(4)

When the pain of living became too intense and the old ways of dealing stopped working, A Course in Miracles appeared. And the Course said, this suffering - this haunting, this hurting - is your own doing. You are indulging a fantasy in which you are separate from both Creator and Creation.

This separation is a fiction, said the Course. It's an illusion, a sick fantasy. But your belief in it gives it the power of causation, and so its effects seem very real.

The body could not separate your mind from your brother's unless you wanted it to be a cause of separation and of distance seen between you and him. Thus do you endow it with a power that lies not within itself. And herein lies its power over you (T-29.I.5:1-3).

All we really have to do is see that we are doing this. When we see that - really actually see it - then the process begins to correct itself. God's salvation naturally restores to our awareness the wholeness of what we thought was separate (M-19.4:2).

The specific story we tell is not the problem. Telling the story is not even the problem. Indeed, the so-called "happy dream" is really just a happier story.

No, the problem is that we don't see - in an actual sustainable way - that we are the teller.

You see the world that you have made, but you do not see yourself as the image-maker. You cannot be saved from the world, but you can escape from its cause. This is what salvation means . . . (W-pI.23.4:1-3).

(5)

A vast loneliness that was not mine to solve . . .

The horses wandered away, and I went to sit on the front porch. Thunder rolled in the valley. The air was heavy; the moon lost in gathering clouds.

Would it storm? Or would the storm pass?

Not knowing what comes next is the human condition; knowing we don't know - but being able to hazard a guess - is both a blessing and a curse. Against the inherent uncertainty, I sometimes take comfort in Jesus' heartfelt prayer: "not my will, Father, but yours be done" (Luke 22:24).

Over and over I murmured it, mantra-like, while thunder rumbled and the night deepened. How calm I was! How Christ-like!

And then a skunk came.

(6)

When I tell you the story of Sean praying that way - when I intimate that I'm gazing into the Cosmic Well and seeing Christ - I am forgetting everything Emily Dickinson ever taught me.

What mystery pervades a well!
. . .
But nature is stranger yet;
The ones that cite her most
Have never passed her haunted house,
Nor simplified her ghost.

When I tell you that story, I am confusing the appearance of reality for reality itself and so reality itself becomes a ghost. I buy what the ego sells, which means that no matter how holy and beautiful it seems, it's still just separation. Of course I am haunted; of course I am lonely.

Thank Christ - literally - for skunks.

(7)

The skunk lives under the barn. It was heading home from its evening search for food - trundling past the apple trees, the milkweed and forsythia. At first it was just another aspect of the unfolding spiritual drama - my four-legged brother in Christ sharing the night with me. But as it drew closer, I began to fear being sprayed.

You know what happens next.

I forgot all about God's Will. I forgot all about the willingness of Jesus. I stopped praying and barked at the skunk, but rather than alter its path it halted and raised its tail and . . .

. . . and I leapt to my feet, stumbled to the corner of the porch, heart racing, mind empty of everything but the need to flee for safety.

A moment or two later, order restored, the skunk calmly proceeded into the hostas, past the porch, towards the barn.

And then I remembered to laugh.

(8)

The story is a comedy. How could it be otherwise?

Perhaps you come in tears. But hear [the Holy Spirit] say, "My brother, holy Son of God, behold your idle dream, in which this could occur." And you will leave the holy instant with your laughter and your brother's joined with His (T-27.VIII.9:6-8).

The night softened; dawn was drawing near.

I followed the skunk. What else could I do? A teacher is a teacher. I went inside, laid down in bed, and dreamed a happy dream, this one.

Love,
Sean