Raised Above the Battlefield

We were taught to brace ourselves in love.

To sharpen our words.

To defend our position as if peace were something that could be won.

And so our relationships became battlegrounds,

places where being right felt safer than being open,

where fear learned to speak in the language of care.

Yet the present moment whispers a different truth.

Here, there is no past to defend and no future to fear.

Here, we remember that peace does not arrive through victory, but through release.

Conflict begins the moment attack becomes our purpose.

Not only in raised voices or harsh words,

but in judgment, correction,

and the quiet insistence that difference requires defense.

What is wholly the same cannot war with itself.

What is real needs no protection.

We are not asked to wrestle with our impulse to attack,

only to recognize it and gently say,

'This is not what I want.'

That single willingness lifts us.

From above the battleground, the fight loses its meaning.

What once felt urgent reveals itself as empty.

What felt personal dissolves into nothing at all.

A miracle is simply this: a loving thought chosen

where an attacking one once lived.

No force.

No sacrifice.

Just a shift in purpose.

When attack is no longer our aim,

relationships remember why they were given.

To reflect love.

To extend peace.

To remind us of what has always been true.

We were never meant to fight for love.

We were meant to rest inside it.

Inspired by Anna’s teaching on A Course in Miracles, Text, Chapter 23, Section IV: Above the Battleground.