Nothing but Mud in the Middle

By Amaya Gayle Gregory

It’s a puzzle and all puzzles have edges, the outliers of the mass of contradiction within. Within the puzzle of aliveness lies every possible imagining, and those quite unimaginable to the opposing edges.

It’s cool that puzzles, like life, have edges all around, edges of the polarities, left and right, up and down, all across, all possibilities. Is there any one of us who sits in the middle of the puzzle without leaning towards one edge or another? We seem to scoop up bits and pieces of belief along the way.

It’s not a flat earth, a flat two-dimensional puzzle. It’s a multi-verse game of cryptic pieces, appearing as every nuanced, wishy washy or buffed-up edge, with the added bonus of staggeringly unlikely combinations aplenty.

When you stop and observe, when you let yourself see without your agenda, without your preconditioning, you can see that there is no difference at all between the edges. The right edge excludes the left edge, as the left does the right. Top and bottom follow suit. When one belief is picked up, another one falls out of favor. It’s a game of automated exclusion.

If you look at the left and right edges of the metaphorical puzzle as a reflection of left and right polarities, politics, religion, or vice versa, especially vice versa, you notice that one edge is fixed in base humanity, while the other has left humanity behind.

It’s a natural tug-o-war, with nothing but mud in the middle, at least it’s a slippery mud puddle while you are tugging on the end of the rope.

It’s the reason the right hates the left and the left, while they would not call it hate, have left the right behind. Whether it is hate or not, it is felt as hate by the right.

The middle is so much more that a slimy, mucky splashpad, but there’d be no middle without the edges and yet, it seems that like a pendulum, the human life must swing between the extremes before settling into the middle, into life’s sweet spot.

We must go up, to come back down. We must discover the mystery of life, which ironically is found through full surrender of life, full abandonment of its wiles, mucking around in the mud, before the Christ is revealed and descends back into the fray, the beautiful fray of humanity.

To pretend to know before life reveals itself, to put on the clothes of enlightenment – no one is enlightened — is part of the pendulum’s swing. It is part of the tug-o-war that pulls on the rope. It is a part of the separation that the puzzle pieces, the razor’s edges represent.

The floating middle, the center that is nowhere and everywhere, is the recognition of life’s organic mysterious magical symbiotic fusion with the actuality of what we are, of what this is. It is the meaning of the cross, whether those who wrote of it recognized it or not. It is the fusion of human and divine, the infinite aliveness taking form.

Form is not better or worse than the aliveness from which it springs. The aliveness is not a higher state, a higher reality than the forms that spring forth from it. The are the seamless sameness, the infinite invisible made visible.

You could never be one or the other. Trust life, your life, to reveal itself. It is always showing you what you are, what this is. Stop and pay rapt attention and you might be surprised.

There is no appropriate bio for Amaya Gayle. She doesn’t exist other than as an expression of Consciousness Itself. Talking about her in biographical terms is a disservice to the truth and to anyone who might be led to believe in such nonsense. None of us exist, not in the way we think. Ideas spring into words. Words flow onto paper and yet no one writes them. They simply appear fully formed. Looking at her you would swear this is a lie. She’s there after all, but honestly, she’s not. Bios normally wax on about accomplishments and beliefs, happenings in time and space. She has never accomplished anything, has no beliefs and like you was never born and will never die. Engage with Amaya at your own risk.