Author: Allan Johnson

Book Buying as a Practice of Becoming

Posted on by Allan Johnson in Observations

As I usually do, I bought a used copy of this month’s selection for my neighbourhood book club: Hotel du Lac, Anita Brookner’s marvellous 1984 Booker Prize-winning novel about making sense of people and the shame we inhabit. The copy I received was a marvellous 1980s edition, its cover gently worn, the paper slightly yellowed with age. Inside was an inscription in assertive biro: ‘To Rita with love, Pete xxx. April 86.‘

I love finding ephemera like that in used books (once, I found a four-leaf clover that a child had pressed between pages and forgotten in 1972). That simple handwritten note in Hotel du Lac became a fragment of someone else’s life, a small piece of history folded into my own. It reminded me that buying a book is rarely just about acquiring a text — it is, at its best and fullest expression, a gesture of self-formation. Choosing a book can be a conscious act of orienting yourself toward a new way of thinking, a new rhythm of attention, a new life project. In that way, book buying is a practice of becoming.

Every book purchase marks a threshold, a crossing into a new state of thought, feeling, or attention. When I choose a book, I am often choosing not only the ideas it contains but also the possibility of becoming someone who holds those ideas. That threshold might be a commitment to learn something new, to deepen a habit, or to allow oneself to enter an unfamiliar world.

For me, Hotel du Lac became not just a novel but a threshold to conversation — in our book club meeting tonight we will speak about solitude, desire, love, and the quiet transformations of everyday life, I’m sure. The purchase itself became the first step into that dialogue.

Choosing which books to buy is also an ethical act — a choice about the economy of your attention and the kind of knowledge you wish to cultivate. In our age of algorithm-driven recommendations and one-click convenience, the act of selecting a book has become even more deliberate. It is an assertion: of attention, of values, of resistance to the noise of the digital marketplace.

I try to keep this in mind. When I choose a book, I am choosing the kind of life I wish to live. That is why I prefer second-hand bookshops, curated lists, and the serendipity of browsing. The gift of finding a well-loved copy of Hotel du Lac was not just about economy but about entering into a relationship with the book that carries the traces of other readers and a past moment in time.

My first job as a teenager was as a bookseller at Borders Books, and I’ll never forget the linger last hour before closing when the shop was almost empty and I wandered to and fro reshelving books that had been cast aside and getting lost myself in the shelves. There is something profound in the act of browsing: the way attention moves differently among stacks of books, the accidental discoveries, the impulse that turns browsing into a purchase. This ritual carries a rhythm: the searching, the selection, the return home, the opening of the book for the first time. It is a small act of pilgrimage.

This ritual has shifted for me over recent years. I buy more online and second-hand now, but I also savour the moments when I am in a physical shop, taking time to feel the books, the paper, the weight of them in my hands. Buying a book in that way is an act of attention — a slow, deliberate counterpoint to the speed of modern life.

The books we choose to live with often become companions in our ongoing process of becoming. That inscription in Hotel du Lac reminded me of this. A book is not simply an object; it is a living presence. It carries the imprint of its past readers and acquires a new life each time it meets another. In choosing it, we invite it into our own narrative.

Some books grow with us. They take on new meaning as we return to them at different stages of life. They become landmarks in our own inner journeys. It’s for that reason that buying books can be a form of investment in the future self we aspire to become.

When I buy a book, I am buying a possibility: a possibility of becoming a reader who thinks differently, who sees differently, who lives differently. Each purchase is a small apprenticeship in self-making.

Here are some ways to make book buying a mindful practice:

  • Keep a wishlist and revisit it periodically.
  • Choose one book that challenges your usual thinking every month.
  • Seek out books outside your comfort zone.
  • Return to books that have shaped you before.

If we approach book buying as a practice of becoming, every purchase becomes a small act of self-cultivation. This month, my purchase of Hotel du Lac was not just for a book club — it became a quiet practice of curiosity, of connecting with a history, of choosing to open myself to a particular conversation. In this way, every book bought with attention becomes a threshold, an ethical choice, a ritual, a companion, and an investment in becoming.

If you choose to see book buying this way, your library becomes not simply a collection of texts but a landscape of your own growth. What will your next purchase become for you?

Upcoming Events

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The Home Library as a Mirror of the Mind

Posted on by Allan Johnson in Observations

A personal library is never just a collection of books. It is a portrait of the self across time, and you can learn a huge amount about a person by the books that they have chosen to travel with them across that time. One’s own bookshelves are a living archive of who we have been, who we have longed to become, and who we may yet be. The books half-finished or cherished, the books read in the happy moments, the books purchased when we needed a lift. Unlike the tidy impersonality of the public library, the personal library is unruly, inconsistent, and idiosyncratic, its shape dictated less by the systemising logic of the Dewey Decimal System than by the peculiarities of taste, impulse, and circumstance. My shelves–spread across my study at home and my office at the university–when I look at them honestly, resemble a layered self-portrait that is part map, part diary, part dream, and through which I can unmistakably recall key moments in my life. The books that have travelled with me not only capture what I know but also what I have avoided, forgotten, or left unresolved.

Books we keep are often less about what we have read than about what we intend to read or read again. The unread shelf is one of the most intimate mirrors of the mind because it reflects not accomplishment but aspiration. Umberto Eco called this the ‘antilibrary’: the space of books not yet opened, which serve as reminders of all that lies beyond the edge of our present knowing. In Japan, tsundoku is the habit of buying books for the joy of owning them rather than the intention of reading them. When I look at certain volumes—some of which I bought decades ago and still haven’t touched—I feel less guilt than possibility. They are placeholders for a moment that might arrive slowly, or not at all, but whose presence reassures me that my intellectual life is not finished, not fully determined.

Reordering a shelf is often a kind of reordering of thought. Five years ago, I moved into a new office on campus, and, in spite of my best intentions, I still haven’t organised my books like I would have wanted, but that is a project for my sabbatical. And at home, I am preparing to move to a new flat, so I have been spending a fair bit of time sorting through my collection, donating some, moving others to my office, or setting some free into the wild as a Book Fairy. I have moved so many times in adulthood that my collection of books at home is regularly evolving under the simple pressures of space and time, and I’ve had to develop a somewhat loose relationship with those books, knowing that, as with everything, I can’t hold on to them forever. This is the hidden power of the library as a mirror. Our bookshelves are a form of externalised cognition, a way of staging our fears and hopes outside the confines of the mind.

Letting go of books can be difficult because they also hold memory, intimacy, and attachment. Certain volumes are less significant for their content than for the personal histories they embody. I have books given to me by mentors who shaped my early studies, others still carrying the marginalia of my younger, more anxious self. Some are battered, underlined, dog-eared—too fragile to lend but too precious to part with. In their presence, I find a strange companionship. They are transitional objects in Winnicott’s sense: things we hold onto not only for what they teach but for how they carry fragments of relationship and selfhood. These books resist being reduced to anything except being a part of the texture of a life.

As I’m choosing what books to let go of, I recall that the gaps in our libraries are just as telling as the books that line our shelves. If a library is a mirror, it reflects not only presence but absence: the silences we keep, the topics we resist, the voices we have yet to admit. I sometimes notice that my shelves are thin on contemporary fiction, which says something about my longstanding attachment to modernism and its afterlives. Other omissions—books I once borrowed and never replaced, fields I always meant to explore but never did—speak of hesitation, avoidance, or perhaps simply the finitude of time. Jacques Derrida reminds us that every archive preserves by excluding, gathering by leaving out. Our private libraries enact this paradox: they are as revealing in what they omit as in what they display.

There is also something quietly resistant in the very existence of the personal library. In an age of Kindle files and algorithmic recommendations, a wall of physical books feels like a slow, analogue refusal of efficiency. Digital texts are searchable, portable, infinitely replicable, but they lack the unruly density of shelves. But the personal library allows for accidents and rediscoveries, for stumbling across what we had forgotten. I sometimes find myself pulling down a volume at random and finding exactly the thought I did not know I needed. The shelves resist the flatness of digital feeds, offering instead a landscape shaped by serendipity and memory.

Yet even in their solitude, libraries are relational. Our shelves testify not only to solitary identity but to the communities we belong to: friends who recommended titles, colleagues who insisted on ‘essential’ readings, teachers whose voices linger in the texts they assigned (the work of W.G. Sebald falls very much into this category for me, and even though I have copies of all of his works gifted to my by an early mention and although I know that one day I will turn to him with the awe he is so regularly afforded, I know that that time hasn’t quite yet come for me. But it will.).

Quite often, while working in my university office, a visitor pauses before my shelves and points out a title, sparking conversations that might never have arisen otherwise. In this sense, the private library is not wholly private; it is porous, extending outward into dialogue. My own work in groups—whether through coaching or the Artist’s Way Circle I’m running this autumn—often reminds me that what we read, and how we gather around reading, is never a solitary affair. Libraries mirror not only the mind but also the networks of relation that sustain it.

Curating a library, then, is less about control than about cultivating a conversation. Books speak to each other across time and genre, staging unexpected encounters. I love those moments when a novel resonates with a philosopher, or when a fragment of mystical writing suddenly illuminates a passage in Freud. The library, seen this way, is not a static repository but a living dialogue, a set of voices waiting to be overheard. To tend a library is to arrange the conditions under which these conversations might occur.

Ultimately, our personal libraries remind us that identity is always a work-in-progress. Just as we are never finished as thinkers or as people, our shelves are never truly complete. They change as we change, expanding, contracting, reordering, accumulating silences and rediscoveries. To stand before them is to confront not a finished self but a process of becoming. Perhaps this is why libraries are so comforting: they mirror back to us not perfection but movement, reminding us that our lives, like our shelves, are full of possibility still unfolding.

I feel this sense of unfolding strongly at the moment, as I move between projects—teaching, writing, coaching, and group facilitation. My shelves are in transition, just as I am. There are new books arriving on attachment and literature, old companions being re-read, volumes I suspect I will never get to but cannot quite let go of. It feels fitting that, at the same time, I am gathering others into shared explorations of creativity and practice. If you are curious about these conversations, you might want to join me for The Art of Creative Practice—a space where, much like our shelves, we bring together disparate influences and let them speak to one another.

To tend a private library is to tend to the life of the mind. But more than that, it is to honour the shifting textures of memory, aspiration, and relation that define who we are. As you look at your own shelves this week, you might pause to notice not only what they contain but what they reveal—about where you’ve been, where you are, and where you might yet be heading.

✨ Upcoming Workshop: Mindfulness for Creative Practice

Thursday 23 October, 7.30-9.00pm (UK time)

Step away from the noise and distractions of everyday life and reconnect with your creative practice. This 90-minute online workshop is designed for anyone who wants to explore mindfulness as a tool to enhance focus, deepen flow, and spark inspiration.

Drawing on principles from Mindfulness-Based Stress Reduction (MBSR) and Mindfulness-Based Cognitive Therapy (MBCT), the workshop combines evidence-based mindfulness techniques with practical creative exercises. Together, we’ll explore how to:

  • Quiet the inner critic and reduce creative blocks
  • Build sustainable habits that nourish your practice
  • Harness attention and presence to enhance imagination
  • Connect with a supportive community of fellow creatives

Through a blend of guided exercises, reflective practices, and techniques you can return to again and again, you’ll discover how mindfulness can open new pathways into your creative life. Whether your medium is writing, painting, music, research, or design, these methods are adaptable to any form of creative work.

👉 Reserve your spot here

Morning Rituals for a More Grounded Day

Posted on by Allan Johnson in artist's way, Observations

The early bird 40% off offer for The Artist’s Way Circle: A 12-Week Creative Journey closes at midnight tonight. In this powerful small-group experience, we will work through Julia Cameron’s classic book together, sharing insights, deepening our practice, and building a creative community that makes the journey feel less solitary and more alive.

For me, mornings have become less about rushing into productivity and more about creating a small pocket of time that feels set apart, a threshold into the day. This is, after all, what Julia Cameron invites us to do in The Artist’s Way: show up to the blank page before we show up to anyone else.

A ritual isn’t a routine; it is a way of marking time as meaningful. When I light a candle before writing, or make my coffee slowly in my V60 instead of rushing, I am reminding myself that this time is not just another item to cross off a list, it is where my life begins for the day. Mircea Eliade, in The Sacred and the Profane, writes about ritual as a way of stepping into ‘sacred time’, a space where the ordinary becomes charged with significance. For me, this might mean lighting a special candle that reminds me of that changing of the seasons going on at the moment, or pausing for a moment on the balcony to notice the light on the plants before I open my laptop. These small gestures are a way of crossing the threshold deliberately, rather than being dragged into the day half-awake.

Groundedness begins in the body. No amount of list-making and project management will make a difference if I wake up already scattered and tense. The first thing I try to do now is move. I have been trying to get into running again, which I alternate with indoor rowing (my preferred cardio of choice). And after years of not making progress or any form of commitment to resistance machines at the gym, I’ve taken up strength training with two simple dumbbells, which has been an absolutely fantastic development in my fitness journey–the trainers on FIIT have revolutionised my entire outlook on dumbbells. This comes alongside my yoga practice, which has been with me for nearly 25 years. The point is less about physical fitness (although, as I get older, I am becoming increasingly aware of the need to build lasting wellness) and more about arriving in my body. As Bessel van der Kolk reminds us in The Body Keeps the Score, our sense of safety and clarity begins somatically, not intellectually. If I can bring my nervous system into a calmer, more coherent state first thing, the rest of the day feels less like a battle.

Creativity thrives in spaciousness, not in haste. This is where Morning Pages come in—Julia Cameron’s influential practice of writing three longhand pages first thing in the morning. They are not intended to be polished or even interesting; they are more like clearing mental static, a way to compost the thoughts that would otherwise clutter the mind all day. I find that pairing them with something tactile—a favourite notebook, a good pen—enhances the ritual. (In The Artist’s Way Circle, we’ll not only practice Morning Pages but also discuss what they unlock: the surprising insights that surface when we permit ourselves to be imperfectly present.)

Not every ritual has to be still. A ten-minute stroll before sitting down to write can be as clarifying as a meditation cushion. The Go Jauntly app has been such a fantastic presence for me. Thich Nhat Hanh speaks beautifully about walking meditation as a way to arrive in the present moment, and I find that even putting on a playlist and tidying the kitchen can create that same bridging effect between sleep and wakefulness. The point is to let the mind settle before reaching for the phone, before taking on the noise of the world.

During my sabbatical, I’ve been focusing on testing and adjusting my daily habits so that when I return to a busy routine of teaching and administration in the new year, I will have a clear understanding of what best supports my growth and development. Protecting the first hour of the day is, I’ve come to see, an act of self-respect. Seneca reminds us that we are often more careful with money than with time, though time is the one thing we can never get back. I’ve started following a ‘no-scroll rule’ in the first hour of the day, and replaced it with going straight to the gym.

The key is not to design the perfect morning but to make a start, consistently. There have been mornings where the ritual falls apart—when I oversleep, or skip the gym entirely—but I’m learning that a ritual that only works on perfect days isn’t really a ritual at all. The point is to keep coming back. James Clear’s Atomic Habits puts it simply: habits compound over time. A short, wobbly practice is better than a grand plan you never do.

This time of year feels like an invitation to recommit. I’ve always felt that September carries more of a ‘new year’ energy than January—it must be the academic calendar still in my bones. This month, I’m choosing to double down on the things that anchor me: lighting a candle before email, a few minutes of breathing exercises, and breakfast that feels nourishing rather than hasty. I’d love for you to consider what this season might invite for you.

Ultimately, a grounded morning is an act of creative resistance. In a culture that would have us wake up and immediately start scrolling, choosing ritual is choosing presence. So tonight, ask yourself: how do you want your mornings to feel for the next twelve weeks? And if you are ready to experiment—with ritual, with creativity, with spaciousness—I’d love for you to join us in The Artist’s Way Circle. The early-bird 40% discount closes at midnight tonight, and there are just a few spots left. Your mornings—and your creative life—might look completely different on the other side.

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Journaling as a Thinking Process

Posted on by Allan Johnson in creativity, Observations, writing

I’m the kind of person who really loves the -ember months, you know: September, October, November, December, spooky season, PSLs, sweater weather, cosy throws, piles of books and cups of tea. Even as an adult, I still treat myself to shopping for back-to-school supplies, my set of new pens, a beautiful notebook, a pad of notecards. And as is so often the case this time of year, I’ve been thinking a lot about writing lately—not the big writing projects, not my next book that has been hovering in draft form for too long, but the more intimate, private act of journaling. The kind of writing that doesn’t begin with an audience in mind, but with a simple intention: to notice, to clarify, to think. Writing to get cosy with.

This practice has been quietly foundational for me. Some days it is a place to record the traces of a dream before the day sweeps it away. Other days, it’s a notebook page where I sketch out the shape of an idea, a plan, a dream that feels still just beyond reach. And sometimes, if I’m honest, it’s little more than the banal recounting of my to-do list, things I need to buy, or minor annoyances still weighing on me. But even in those moments, journaling does something important. It reminds me that thought is not just an invisible current in the mind; it is something that can be externalised, shaped, and returned to.

The philosopher Hannah Arendt wrote that thinking itself is a kind of dialogue, an inner conversation between me and myself. Journaling, in that sense, is a way of giving that dialogue a more durable form. It’s a way of ensuring that fleeting insights don’t evaporate, but have the chance to develop into something more sustained.

There’s a temptation to imagine journals only as records of the past, those childhood diaries with locks and keys, filled with secrets that we might cringe to reread, or those teenage of angst and whingeing. I have many examples of both. But even in those examples, a journal is still always a tool for invention. The monks who kept commonplace books weren’t merely keeping records; they were building repertoires of thought that could be recombined in new and surprising ways.

When I journal, I notice that same shift. I might begin with the day’s details—what I’m reading, what I need to do next—but somewhere in the act of writing, connections spark. A line from Woolf collides with something I overheard on the bus. A fragment of a lecture I once gave resurfaces beside a description of the changing light on my balcony garden (sadly now largely barren as I prepare to leave this flat after several years). The page becomes less about recording and more about thinking with.

This is one of the reasons I encourage students and coaching clients alike to develop their own journaling practices. It’s not about producing beautiful prose; it’s about cultivating a space where the mind can stretch into unexpected directions.

At the moment, my own journaling practice feels especially necessary. September has always been a transitional month for me: the academic year begins again, new projects gather momentum, and the end of summer invites reflection on what has—or hasn’t—shifted over the past few months.

Recently, I’ve been writing in the mornings with coffee that I’ve started brewing with increasing precision with a V60 and scale, sometimes before the world is properly awake. I’ve found that this time of year asks me to slow down, even when everything around me is speeding up. My journal becomes a place where I can give shape to that paradox.

In these quiet pages, I notice the themes that recur: what it means to balance leadership and teaching; how to weave contemplative practices into daily life; where writing itself is pulling me next. These aren’t polished arguments—they’re more like fragments waiting to be assembled. But without journaling, they might never find their way into language at all.

Several thinkers have shaped the way I understand journaling as a thinking practice. Julia Cameron, of course, is central: her practice of ‘morning pages’ in The Artist’s Way remains one of the most accessible and transformative ways to encounter journaling. She invites us to write three pages, longhand, every morning, without editing or censoring. The point is not literary craft but mental hygiene, clearing away the clutter that keeps us from more original insights.

Another companion is John Dewey, whose philosophy of education placed such emphasis on reflection. Dewey argued that genuine learning happens when experience is turned over in the mind, tested, connected. Journaling is, in many ways, the simplest technology for making that reflection visible.

And then there is Joan Didion, who once said, ‘I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking.’ That sentence could be the motto both for journaling as a practice, and for my entire life.

One of the questions people often ask me is: What happens to all this writing? Do you go back and read it? Do you publish it?

The truth is that most of it remains private, and that’s part of the point. Of course, there are occasional fragments that spark something bigger, and find their way into a draft or an article. But there is something liberating about knowing the page doesn’t demand performance. More often, I find that themes crystallised in my journals resurface later as a sort of inspired spark in a lecture, a coaching session, or a blog post. The journal becomes a kind of compost heap for thought, where scraps and off-cuts break down into fertile soil, ‘breeding / Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing / Memory and desire’ to quite Eliot’s eminently autumnal Waste Land.

If you’re curious about beginning—or rekindling—a journaling practice, here are a few approaches that I’ve found useful:

  1. Set a container. Whether it’s Cameron’s three pages or simply ten minutes with a timer, give yourself a boundary. Paradoxically, limits make the practice feel more spacious.
  2. Write by hand if possible. The slowness of handwriting often brings a different quality of attention. That said, typing can work too—especially if it helps you keep pace with fast-moving thoughts.
  3. Don’t censor. The journal isn’t for anyone else’s eyes. Let yourself be clumsy, repetitive, contradictory. That’s where the interesting material often hides.
  4. Return to your entries selectively. You don’t need to reread everything. But every so often, leaf back through your notebook. Notice what recurs. Pay attention to what surprises you.
  5. Link journaling to other practices. For me, journaling often dovetails with meditation or with my reading life. It’s less a stand-alone ritual and more a node in a larger web of reflection.

If journaling is, at its heart, a practice of listening—both to the self and to the world—then it naturally lends itself to creative community. That’s why I’m so looking forward to starting a new Artist’s Way Circle on 23 September.

For twelve weeks, we’ll walk together through Cameron’s classic text, supporting one another as we experiment with morning pages, artist dates, and the many other tools she offers for creative recovery. Journaling will be our daily companion, but the circle itself will be a space for sharing insights, frustrations, and breakthroughs along the way.

If you’ve been feeling the tug to reconnect with your creative self—or if you simply want to explore how journaling might change the way you think—I’d love for you to join us. You can find the details here.

Ultimately, journaling reminds me that thought is not finished before it appears on the page. Writing is not simply a vehicle for communication, but a method of discovery in its own right. In a world that often prizes speed, certainty, and polished outputs, there’s something quietly radical about sitting down with a notebook and allowing thought to unfold in its own time.

For me, it remains one of the simplest and most profound ways to live more reflectively, more attentively—and perhaps even more creatively.

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Forgiveness According to A Course in Miracles

Posted on by Allan Johnson in Course in Miracles, Observations

Lately, I’ve been reflecting a lot on forgiveness—not the dramatic, cinematic kind that requires a public confession or a sweeping, transformative act—but the quiet, often unseen practice that happens in the small, daily choices of how we engage with the world. A Course in Miracles provides a particularly compelling framework for this kind of forgiveness, one that gently redefines our usual understanding of what it means to forgive and, perhaps more radically, who it is we are forgiving.

In my early days of studying the Course, I found myself repeatedly stalled by the language. The texts are often dense, abstract, and insistently paradoxical: “Nothing real can be threatened,” it says, and yet the world continues to threaten everything we cherish. The first time I read this, I thought, ‘Well, that’s comforting… but how does it help me with my emails and my deadlines?’ Yet, with ongoing study, what initially seemed theoretical began to resonate in everyday life. Forgiveness in the Course is less about condoning behaviour or minimising harm than about recognising the illusory nature of grievance itself—a shift in perception that allows the mind to release the burden it carries.

One of the passages that has stayed with me most is from the Workbook (Lesson 122): “Forgiveness offers everything I want.” It is easy to skim over this but in practice, it prompts a radical reorientation. When I notice irritation bubbling up in a meeting, or resentment at a friend’s perceived slight, I try, however imperfectly, to pause and ask: What is my mind holding onto here, and what might I gain if I released it? Sometimes the answer is a subtle lightening of mood; other times, it is simply recognising that my insistence on being right costs me more than the imagined offence ever could.

The Course aligns in intriguing ways with contemporary work on attachment and interpersonal dynamics. Researchers like Daniel Siegel have shown that holding onto anger or hurt is, at its core, a way of maintaining control over a relational landscape. Forgiveness, in the sense that the Course uses it, disrupts this dynamic not by changing the other person but by changing our relationship to the story we tell ourselves about them. It is a deeply relational act, even if it does not require confrontation or restitution. In this sense, the Course and attachment theory converge: both recognise that true freedom often arises when we disentangle ourselves from patterns of reactivity and take responsibility for our own experience of the world.

Forgiveness is to give-for. To forgive is not just to cancel a debt or erase an injury; it is to create a space where something else can appear. Forgiveness is generative precisely because it involves taking away what we cling to. In the act of giving-for, we let go of what we might otherwise hold on to—resentment, grievance, the illusion of control—and in doing so, we make room.

That space does not stay empty for long. The psyche, like nature, dislikes a vacuum. When we forgive, we carve out a space where something new can take root. Often it is peace, sometimes clarity, sometimes the possibility of a different kind of relationship. The point is not to decide in advance what will fill the space, but to trust that it will be filled by something that loosens the grip of the past and guides us towards a future not already shaped by hurt.

In this way, forgiveness is less about the other person and more about the conditions we create within ourselves. By making space, we stop defining ourselves through the wound. The pull of the old story weakens, and the self is free to reconfigure. To forgive is not to condone, nor is it to forget—it is to make room for the future.

The risk, of course, is that we may hesitate, fearing that if we release what has anchored us, we will be left unmoored. Yet the paradox of forgiveness is that what feels like a loss is in fact a preparation. To give–for is to trust in the fertility of the void. In my own practice, I have noticed that forgiveness tends to arise more naturally when it is paired with compassion. 

Thích Nhất Hạnh’s writings on “loving-kindness” are a fantastic complement to the Course’s metaphysics. Both invite us to hold ourselves and others gently, to acknowledge imperfection without judgment, and to see beyond the immediate form of conflict. 

Forgiveness, then, is not a one-off act but a series of small, attentive gestures: a reconsideration of a conversation that went wrong, a letting go of imagined slights, or even a moment of patience with one’s own internal critic. It is worth noting that the Course’s approach to forgiveness is not sentimental. It does not ask us to sweep abuse under the rug or to equate forgiveness with naive tolerance. Instead, it challenges the mind to see differently: to recognise that the story of injury, while compelling, is not the ultimate reality. In the Course, forgiveness is not about giving others what they do not deserve, but is about giving ourselves release from the prison of resentment. In this, there is both liberation and clarity: we are freed to act from a space of choice rather than a feeling of obligation, from love rather than fear.

Practically speaking, there are several ways to bring the Course’s teaching on forgiveness into daily life. One approach is to keep a small journal of resentments and imagined grievances, and then, as a reflective exercise, attempt to see the situation through the lens of the Course: what part of my mind is holding onto this, and what might I perceive differently if I allowed forgiveness to operate? Another method, particularly helpful when emotions are strong, is to practice brief meditative pauses—one or two minutes—where you consciously soften your stance and breathe into a sense of release. Over time, these small interventions accumulate, subtly shifting patterns of thought and feeling.

In everyday life, I often find that these practices manifest in unexpected ways. A tense exchange with a colleague might resolve itself not through debate but through a quiet internal decision to release judgment. A moment of impatience with family can be softened simply by noticing the story I am telling myself and choosing to let it go. These are not grand miracles but small, lived interventions—the kind that quietly build into a different way of being. 

If you are curious to explore forgiveness in the context of the Course in a communal, reflective setting, I warmly invite you to my weekly Course in Miracles study group. We focus on both the theoretical principles and their practical applications, supporting one another in integrating the Course into our daily lives. It is a space where questions are welcomed, experiences are shared, and the abstract becomes tangible within real, lived contexts.

Forgiveness, ultimately, is a practice rather than a verdict. The Course reminds us that what we release in our minds, we release in our lives: the minor grievances, the lingering judgments, the habitual narratives that tether us to fear. In making room for forgiveness, we create space for freedom, clarity, and, perhaps most quietly, a gentler way of moving through the world.