In A Course in Miracles, we are taught that the past is not real—it seems to have power over us because we carry its grievances into the present. We clutch our ancient wrongs like a child clutches a teddy bear. When we bring them into the light, though—not to justify them, but to release them—they begin dissolving.
Sometimes, miraculously, they don’t just dissolve…
They transform.
What once felt like betrayal begins to glow with meaning.
What was once pain becomes the path.
A crucifixion becomes a resurrection.
"The holiest of all the spots on earth is where an ancient hatred has become a present love."
(ACIM, T-26.IX.6:1)
🌸 When an Ancient Wrong Becomes a Present Love
“A timeline where the past bleeds into a blooming flower in the present.”
We imagine time as linear, a string of beads or a stretch of road behind and before us. But the Course teaches us that time is a trick—a device we invented to keep the past alive and the present chained to it.
And yet.
There are moments when that very illusion becomes the stage for a miracle.
I once believed that certain events in my life—the betrayals, the silences, the missed chances—were permanent markings. Like ink spilled across the timeline, staining everything that followed. Ancient wrongs I clutched like proof. They said:
“You were wronged.”
“You were right to close your heart.”
“You were shaped by this pain.”
But the Holy Spirit reads time differently. It is not a flat line of cause and effect, but a spiral—where everything circles back to be seen again with new eyes. When I bring an old hurt to Love—not to fix, not to analyze, but to see differently—the past doesn't vanish.
It blooms.
What once felt like a wound becomes an opening.
The one I resented becomes a teacher.
The betrayal becomes a turning point.
The silence becomes the space where grace grew.
And I notice something astonishing:
That ancient wrong… it never really was.
It was a story written by fear.
And now, rewritten by Love.
“The holiest of all the spots on earth is where an ancient hatred has become a present love.”
(ACIM, T-26.IX.6:1)
This isn’t metaphor. It’s a real experience. A moment in which your chest softens. Your grip on the past loosens. And what once hurt—truly, bitterly hurt—blooms into something radiant. Not because the facts changed, but because you did.
In that moment, you’re not bound by time anymore.
You are simply here.
Forgiven.
Free.
And flowering.
The following is what happened to me:
Love, Where Pain Once Lived
Thirty years ago, my long-term relationship ended in betrayal. She had already started seeing someone else before our time together had fully unraveled. I was the one who moved out, but she often claimed she had “chosen” her new partner over me. I couldn’t see it that way. To me, I was simply reacting—devastated, hurt, and unsure how to move forward. Within weeks, I started another relationship I wasn’t ready for. It lasted six years, on and off, but it never truly settled.
Meanwhile, she and her new partner stayed together—through decades.
Every few years, my phone would ring. It was always her. Our conversations were emotionally loaded: tender, angry, confusing. She often repeated, “I made the right decision when I chose ______ instead of staying with you!”—as if I had asked. I hadn’t. I didn’t understand what she wanted from me, or why she kept reaching out. My resentment stayed high. I was too wounded to respond with anything but resistance.
Fast forward to 2023.
I had been living in the Midwest near my daughter and her family. The relationship with my daughter was strained in its own right, and I was bone-tired of brutal winters. My former partner and her still-current partner had relocated to San Diego. I invited myself for a six-week stay in their ADU. To my surprise, they agreed. So I came.
What followed, as you might expect, was chaos. Thirty years of retained hurt doesn’t dissolve overnight. Unspoken things, misremembered things, disappointments—every emotional bruise found its voice. We clashed. But beneath the shouting, something else stirred. We began to see one another again—not just through the lens of old roles and grievances, but with some glimmer of presence.
After bouncing through a series of housing situations—including temporary shelter and a skilled nursing facility—For the last month of my stay in California I returned to their ADU.
Then something impossible began to happen.
In late May, early June, as my stay neared its end, I noticed it: the flutter of original love. The butterflies I hadn’t felt since the beginning, nearly forty years ago. The heart-skipping kind.
I left San Diego for the summer, planning to return in the fall to an assisted living facility nearby. Over those four months, we kept in touch—by email, by phone. Slowly, I revealed what had been happening inside me: My love had returned. Not a nostalgic longing. Not a fantasy. Something new and tender, built on the wreckage and renewal of time.
To my own surprise, all the resentment had melted away.
The pain wasn’t erased—I could still name each old conflict like chapters in a book.
But the sharp edges were gone.
I loved her.
I love her.
I didn’t want to undo her current relationship. I didn’t want to disrupt anything, demand anything, or take anything. I just wanted to be close to her—emotionally, spiritually, physically—whatever way love could still find expression.
And here, again, the road narrowed.
She and her partner are firm in their monogamy. Ironically, both have had experiences of non-monogamy in the past—but now, they speak of loyalty in terms of absolute exclusivity. I believe differently. I don’t believe humans are inherently monogamous—nor heterosexual, for that matter. But I’m not pushing polyamory or trying to redesign anyone’s life. I’m just telling the truth:
I want to be close to her.
To love her in the way that’s possible, without conditions or possessiveness.
I suspect that she might feel something similar. But she will not (cannot?) express it. She won’t “betray” her partner, even to acknowledge the reality between us now. I understand. But I don’t believe this is the end of the story.
I’m moving to Tucson in October. A new chapter is beginning.
And still, I carry this quiet miracle in me:
An ancient hatred has become a present love.
(ACIM, T-26.IX.6:1)
That isn’t just poetic. It’s literal. Something I once thought was dead—ugly, beyond repair—has quietly blossomed into something full of peace and sweetness. Not perfect. Not painless. But healed.
And perhaps, just maybe, the three of us—and others, if they come—could even begin what the Course calls a holy relationship. Not one based on form or convention, but on the joining of minds committed to truth and forgiveness.
There’s more to come. I feel that.
Where pain once ruled In me,
Love lives here now.
Such a powerful message, turning pain into love takes real courage. What inspired this reflection?
This truly touched me. I have taken a lesson from this beautiful heartfelt read. 🌸