A day in the life of the decision maker
A Course in Miracles addresses the part of our mind that chose to side with the ego’s hallucination of separation from our source but can choose again for the part of our mind that knows it is only a dream. Dr. Kenneth Wapnick adopted the term decision maker from a reference in the Course’s Teachers’ Manual to describe that chooser in our mind. The concept has helped me enormously in practicing the Course’s unique form of forgiveness. Learning to rest in the part of our mind that can observe and choose, rather than blindly buying the ego’s sob story of sin, guilt, and fear, begins to allow the undoing of the ego thought system, eventually enabling us to awaken from a dualistic dream to the unity of the love we are.
When we pay attention, we begin to see that we can choose all day long between the ego and the Holy Spirit, the voice for separation and the voice for love. A Course in Miracles is not asking us to demonstrate how kind and holy we are but to begin to notice how we choose to reinforce the mistaken notion of duality by attacking and defending against a perennial cast of imaginary enemies, how easily we succumb to the ego’s disturbed reasoning. However appealing the ego’s tale of separate interests designed to bolster the seeming reality of our unique identities we will never find permanent happiness following the ego. We must ask for help from the part of our mind that remembers certain, unalterable peace to see things differently. The Course calls this process of overlooking the absolute impossibility of separate interests with our right mind, forgiveness. When we choose to activate this part of our mind we automatically come from a tolerant, gentle, loving place in our relationships. Here’s how it works in a typical day.
6 a.m.
Wolf down supplements. Chase with healthy breakfast of sliced fruit and yogurt to compensate for less than temperate ingestion of steak, chocolate mousse, and key lime pie the night before. A sacrifice made to accommodate my husband’s manly food preferences. A Fathers’ Day dinner my daughter and I had planned, shopped for, and even cooked together. Chatting happily about the encouraging possibility of her completing the tasks/responsibilities attached to her side of our embryonic buying-your-first-car negotiations like Jane Wyatt and I can’t remember the actress’s name in the old Father Knows Best show. The teenage daughter the father called “Kitten.” No one ever called me Kitten. It can still tick me off if I let it. I choose for my right mind instead.
6:45 a.m.
In my office, eyes closed, communing with my right mind as I do every morning, asking for guidance in approaching my forgiveness curriculum for the day. Usual mental forgiveness slide show replaced by prayers of thanks for remarkable evening last night. A feeling of genuine gratitude for my husband’s parenting strengths—generosity, engagement, humor, empathy—washes over me. My daughter had made a salad, set the table without my asking, and put on a CD she had burned–her interpretation of what our favorite songs might be had we been born 35 years later as her peer. We’d sat outside in a lush garden nourished by torrential rains, our tomatoes stretching toward the last of the day’s welcome sunlight. Listening to someone born yesterday who is probably texting even as I speak perform a decent rendition of Summer Breeze, my appreciation for the miracle of it all growing like the jasmine in my mind. My husband and daughter slipped sibling-like into their own little cocoon as they are apt to do, flipping through old photos of their childhood together, poring over Consumer Report printouts of potential vehicles. Somehow admiration for their adorable similarities replaced my all too frequent nagging feelings of exclusion.
7:30 a.m.
Dealing with emails and writing project even though it is Saturday. No rest for the freelancer I always say. That would be my ego, of course. I, the decision maker, know that, but still. You have to deal with form. Things called deadlines. Things called crossing items off the perennial TO DO list. Anyway, once I get this out of the way and throw in some laundry I’m on to a workout on the elliptical downstairs, hoping to finish listening to Ken Wapnick’s CD “Return of the Repressed” again. Can’t hear about the ego’s boomerang ways too many times I always say. That would be my right mind. I hope.
9 a.m.
Front doorbell rings. A tall, young, stressed-out guy from the next door landscaping project is sorry to tell me he backed his gigantic flat bed truck into my petite Subaru Outback while trying to park with unfortunate results. I follow him down the sidewalk to observe the front of my car strewn across the pavement like a disassembled robot. He waits in the doorway while I take down his insurance information, congratulating myself on my failure to listen to the ego’s blather about how I need this today like I need a hole in the head. I even feel sorry for the guy. It’s been raining all week; he’s behind on this and all the other jobs he oversees. I sit with him on the stoop nodding like a therapist and gathering information before heading back in to call my insurance company.
9:20 a.m.
Dial insurance company weekend phone service number and calmly follow multiple computer-generated voice prompts before initial intake person records information, assigns a claim number, and transfers me to a claims person who cordially invites me to repeat the story all over again. Continue to congratulate myself on not getting triggered over the type of random event that could have induced apoplectic state in pre-Course Susan. Acutely aware of pre-Course Susan’s ego-driven impulse to perceive herself unfairly treated, bemoan the derailment of her plans for the day, engage in internal monologue on the dangers of suffering fools, and begin trying to analyze why on earth she would have created something like this in the first place.
9:35 a.m.
Claims lady explains she will need to hang up and call the tall, young, stressed-out landscape guy to take a report, call his adjuster, and get back to me in a couple days about what to do next even though we are both covered by the same insurance company. I calmly explain this makes no sense since tall, young, stressed-out landscape guy is working next door and I can easily carry the phone out and let her talk to him right now. She repeats what she needs to do and how she will get back to me in a couple of days. (She has this great recorded-sounding voice; my ego wonders if they practice that?) I, the decision maker, repeat my alternative. (Not sure how long our dueling instant replay continues but do recall ego wondering if we may have slipped into one of Dante’s heretofore unspecified circles of hell.) Finally manage to explain I am going out of town on Wednesday and need to take my car in before I leave. My plan will greatly expedite the process. Insurance lady finally agrees to allow me to put tall, young, stressed-out landscape guy on the phone while I continue to marvel over how—the ego’s wisecracks notwithstanding—I, the decision maker, have not taken any of this personally nor forfeited my peace of mind—a huge shift from pre-Course Susan’s typical meltdowns.
10:00 a.m.
Walking to rental car place rather than waiting an hour for their driver to come pick me up. It begins to rain. Again. I do not have an umbrella. It never rains in the morning in Denver. Not this hard anyway. I do not take it personally.
11:30 a.m.
Abbreviated workout downstairs to Ken Wapnick’s CD. Something about the love hidden beneath the ego’s attacks I have understood before but suddenly cannot seem to wrap my proverbial head around. My daughter needs a ride to the mall to check on her hours for the second of two jobs she has landed but so far this summer never actually been scheduled to work. She keeps popping her head around the stairs at me. The ego starts muttering something about ungrateful, self-centered spawn. I, the decision maker, choose to listen to the part of my mind that does not take it seriously. I give up on my workout and go take a quick shower.
1 p.m.
My daughter busts out of the clothing store shaking her head. The mall is largely empty; the generation-next manager cannot put her on for a shift until after we return from visiting my family next week. She did not take the summer school swimming class she could have to get the credits she needs over with or arrange for volunteer work to get a jump on her extensive community service requirements. So far her summer schedule resembles that of a reality TV show about the rich and spoiled–rising mid-day to trash the kitchen, catching up on recorded TV programs, and joining friends for a swim before heading out for the evening. She does not yet drive, although many of her friends do. I supply the rest of the rides and oscillate between watching myself resenting the chauffer services I provide and fretting over the dangers of rides supplied by her inexperienced driver friends.
I notice resentment rising up again in me, my intense attraction to the belief that my teenager—all teenagers, really—are the problem. I have never really liked teenagers, not even when I was one. I recognize these thoughts as my ego’s, and ask for help in looking at my perception. I am reminded there is only one problem, my belief in separation, and only one solution, overlooking with my inner teacher what cannot be. I suddenly realize my daughter may feel just as disappointed as I do, maybe even a little rejected by the summer’s turn of events. She is only 16 after all. Kitten, I think. Over lunch we discuss other possible ways for her to earn money toward that car.
3 p.m.
Finish up the writing project earlier interrupted by tall, young, stressed-out landscape guy slamming into my vehicle. Uncharacteristic rain has once again washed out plans for a picnic along the Platte with friends who live downtown. My husband and I agree to meet them at their place before heading on to an early theatre engagement. My daughter asks if she can have a girlfriend over while we are gone. The rain has stopped and they plan to ride their bikes and hang out in the park, maybe take a hot tub. We normally do not allow visitors while we’re gone but it will be just the two of them, outside most of the time.
6:30 p.m.
Enjoying an indoor picnic and panoramic view of the front-range and lower downtown Denver at friends’ loft. Our daughter sends my husband a text message. She and a couple girlfriends are meeting in the park. When I ask if he reminded her they cannot be inside he waves me away, vague and unconcerned about the details. We are late for the theatre and pile into his car. They know they cannot hang out inside with us gone, I repeat softly. Of his many parenting strengths, consistency is conspicuously missing. He is not concerned. I ignore a bad feeling about this. After all, she knows the rules. I can’t tell for sure who is talking at the moment. I sit in a director’s chair staring down my right and wrong mind–the truth in me and its “evil” twin–confused and seemingly unable to choose.
9 p.m.
Home from the theatre obviously earlier than expected to find my daughter’s friend sitting on the couch with a boy, lights out, my daughter upstairs in her room with another boy, our cardboard, life-size statue of Obama (a family fixture since last year’s Democratic National Convention in Denver) moved from the basement to the stairs, as if standing sentry. Sadly, our President appears to have been slacking off on the job. Luckily pre-Course Susan is back! What was that F word again, she asks? The ego always speaks first and it has a mouthful to share although I, the decision maker, have the presence of mind not to repeat it out loud, vaguely aware I am not in my right mind. Still, I call my daughter aside to ask her which part of our rules about not having boys in the house she does not understand. She seizes the offensive. They weren’t doing anything for God’s sake, they’re just friends, they were only there for a few minutes because it started raining, etc. She does not look like a projection. I recognize I cannot respond without anger. Everyone needs to go home, I explain. We’ll talk in the morning. The kids leave. My husband is already lying low in his downstairs office glued to the computer screen. There is nothing the ego can say I will not regret. Pre-Course Susan could not have known this. At least I, the decision maker, have that to cling to. I go to bed, begging for help from my right mind to want to choose again.
6 a.m.
Wolf down supplements and healthy breakfast of fruit and cereal, marveling over failure to go ballistic the night before. Head to office to commune, eyes closed, with my right mind. Daughter and husband’s faces flash through my forgiveness slide show. I choose again for the voice of reason, knowing from experience it will bring me peace. I open my eyes and jot down a list of rules to review with my daughter when she wakes up, smiling at the metaphor. The phone rings. The insurance company has not yet approved my rental car. Which credit card did I want to put that on? :)
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