Tensing, the body waits for the next shoe to drop. It doesn’t matter which shoe, whether it is a steel toed boot in the butt, or a six-inch heel draped in an unexpected twist on life’s winding road. We humans have no idea how tense we are, how many years of our lives we shuffle away in the need to be ready, to get ahead of the game.
We can’t, get ahead that is. It may seem that way, that it is possible, that we can prepare and prep for the coming storm. How many storms are there, storms imagined, that don’t come at all. Most of them, it seems.
But God damn it, we were ready. Right? Isn’t that what counts?
We don’t realize how tense our shoulders are, or how knotted the gut, or just how much pressure we apply to the knife as we cut a bit of sustenance, until we stop and pay attention.
Seen, it is enough to astound the senses and stagger the mind. All that, for what?
It isn’t easy to quit prepping, whether we are prepping for the apocalypse or prepping for what a friend or family member is likely to say or do. The stories run through our heads keeping us awake at night, coloring our dreams when we finally do fall asleep, and sucking up the joy like a straw at the bottom of a cup, while we’re awake.
Seeing this clearly begins the letting go. It’s not something we can do. It’s something that happens as a result of clear seeing. The rotund shield can’t be put down. It is a belief, a thought. We can’t not believe what we believe. Life, our perfect experiences, brings us the recognition that we don’t have to believe what we’ve always believed, and the setting down simply takes place.
That’ what’s continuing to happen here. The habitual behaviors are dropping away, the need to figure it out, the ping pong match in my head — do I sell, or do I stay — golly, that applies to so many things, seems to be running out of juice.
Twelve years ago I was standing in the kitchen and heard the words, ‘Put the tractor on craigslist, now.’ It was as clear as a church bell when you’re standing in the top of the tower. Two weeks later, I heard the voice again, ‘Now, sell the Blazer.’ I did as instructed. I took the steps necessary to make it happen. When I hedged a bit, saying I need to wash the tractor before taking the pictures, I was given one word, ‘Now’. Two hours later the tractor was headed down the driveway with its new owner. The same thing happened with the Blazer. A few weeks later I was told what to do with the money, and the actions that followed continue to be a blessing.
After that, you would think I would have trusted that what I need to know will arrive fully fleshed out when I need it. It’s taken 12 years for that to truly sink all the way in.
Yesterday, my friends and neighbors told me they were moving. I felt so many things, one of which was sadness. My mind started toying with the idea, well maybe now, maybe it’s time to sell and move along. It didn’t last long, just long enough for me to recognize the pattern, and noticing it, it dropped. I hadn’t yet heard the message to move, so there was no point in starting up the ping pong match. When it’s time, I’ll know and I’ll take the appropriate steps.
Because I was still resonating in the belief that I had to figure it out, that life couldn’t be as easy as listening, as recognizing that the message always shows up prior to the neeed to take action, that I am cared for no different than the lilies in the field, I was spinning, reeling, stressing, tensing my sweet little body, even though I wouldn’t have called it that at all. I didn’t see what I was doing to myself and couldn’t have stopped it if I wanted to … until I could.
It feels pretty awe-some to relax, to just let life be, to let go and fall face first into the arms of life knowing that whatever I need will show up. All I need do is nothing other than what comes naturally for me to do. Simply being an open invitation to the mystery reveals the message pipeline. It is always right here.
Image: wallpaperbetter.com
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.