There was a time, long before A Course in Miracles entered my life, when I believed that walking home in a fit of righteous indignation was a brilliant way to make a point. My second wife and I had what I used to call “periods of intense fellowship.” (That’s the polite, spiritualized phrase for full-blown arguments.) These typically followed an evening out — a nice dinner, perhaps a glass of wine, and then, like clockwork, an opportunity for my ego to prove just how unenlightened it could be.
The scene was predictable: I’d say something I thought was perfectly reasonable. She’d respond in a tone that suggested I had just insulted her entire family. I’d tighten my jaw, stare out the window, and prepare for battle. The car, once filled with laughter and the smell of dessert, became a moving courtroom where each of us delivered opening statements, closing arguments, and the occasional cross-examination.
And then, inevitably, I would declare my dramatic exit, by stopping the car and announcing, “I’m walking home.”
Now, mind you, this wasn’t a few blocks. Sometimes it was miles — long, dark stretches of suburban roads with no sidewalks, a man in his best dinner jacket trudging along under the glow of streetlights, convinced he was striking a mighty blow for justice. I can only imagine what the neighbors thought: “There goes that poor fellow again, fighting for truth, righteousness, and the right to be completely wrong.”
In my mind, I was showing her something. What exactly, I’m not sure. Strength? Integrity? Independence? Probably just immaturity in a necktie. It was my way of saying, “I don’t need you to take me home.” Except, of course, I did — both literally and spiritually.
If A Course in Miracles had been in my glove compartment back then, I might have saved myself the blisters. The Course tells us plainly, “Anger always involves projection of separation” (T-6.I.19). But at the time, I wasn’t projecting — I was marching it down Main Street. Every step said, “See what you made me do!” as if my misery could somehow serve as proof of my innocence.
There’s a kind of insane logic the ego employs in moments like that: “I will hurt myself to show you how wrong you are.” It’s spiritual slapstick — the cosmic equivalent of hitting myself over the head with a frying pan to make a point. The Course calls this the “special love relationship,” where attack masquerades as love and grievances replace communication. Looking back, I can see that my punishment wasn’t aimed at her at all; it was my ego’s desperate attempt to make separation real.
The absurdity is clearer now. What I thought was a grand gesture of moral superiority was, in truth, an act of childish defiance. The ego whispered, “You’ll show her!” and I obeyed — obediently storming off into the night, probably muttering a few well-rehearsed lines I imagined she’d regret later. Meanwhile, she drove home, comfortable and warm, likely thinking, “Let him walk it off.”
And yet, as silly as it was, there’s humor in it now — and mercy. The Course invites us to laugh at the tiny mad idea that we could ever separate ourselves from love. That night walk was my little parody of separation: a man distancing himself from his own peace of mind to prove a point no one would ever remember.
The truth is, we all have our versions of “walking home.” Some people give the silent treatment. Others slam doors or rehearse speeches in their heads. It’s all the same foolish dance — trying to make guilt real and love conditional. The Course gently reminds us, “Would you rather be right, or happy?” (T-29.VII.1) Back then, I chose “right.” Now, I can only laugh at how wrong I was.
If I were to rewrite that scene today, it would look quite different. I’d pause, take a breath, and say, “I’m sorry. I’m projecting something that isn’t real.” Then we’d probably both laugh, and maybe stop for ice cream instead of emotional warfare.
But here’s the beautiful thing about grace — even our most ridiculous moments can become teachers. Every mile I walked in anger (and more than once) was really a step toward understanding the Course’s central lesson: “I am never upset for the reason I think.” (W-pI.5) I wasn’t walking because of what she said; I was walking because I couldn’t face my own ego’s need to be right.
Now, when I remember those nights, I smile. Not with shame, but with compassion — for both of us. We were doing the best we could with the understanding we had. And though I may have walked home in protest, the journey eventually led me home in truth — not to a physical house, but to the quiet recognition that love was never lost, only temporarily misplaced behind a bruised ego and a long walk in dress shoes.
As the Course teaches, “Laughter heals because it denies the reality of error” (T-27.VIII.9). So, I laugh — at the memory, at my own foolishness, and at the sheer cosmic comedy of thinking that I could “show her” anything other than my own need for forgiveness.
In the end, she didn’t need to be shown. I did. And the only thing I proved that night was how deeply I longed to return — not just to her side, but to sanity itself.
Lesson learned: Never let your ego take the wheel, and for heaven’s sake, stay in the car.
robert@dinojamesbooks.com