By Amaya Gayle
Sleep, or should I say sleeplessness, will expose the parts of us still resonating in separation, still believing in personal power to alter reality … or so it is for me. If I just roll over, maybe the change of position will allow me to relax and let go. If I meditate while laying down, perhaps I will drift off to sleep. Rather than simply being with whatever it is, there are all sorts of things to try when sleep is elusive.
It’s almost funny … well at least kind of … the way the mind struts its stuff when sleep doesn’t come. The last two nights have been a bit sleep-deprived. See there! Even the language I just used is a judgement, and not even a positive one. Ah … the power of positive thinking isn’t as powerful as it claims … or maybe I’m just not good at it. Thank God!
There are several things my life has used to point out my fallings in the all-powerful wizard category. Sleep for the last 20 or so years has been one of them. The other at the top of the list is this sweet little body of mine. It seems to have a set point that it came in with where it likes to reside, a weight that doesn’t go much higher, but also doesn’t go much lower regardless of what I eat, how many miles I walk, what I think, how many candles I burn or voodoo dolls I stick pins in.
Don’t worry … I’m joking … at least about candles and voodoo dolls. 😉 My character’s story has become so outrageously obvious that I am finding it a bit hilarious.
Eventually you’d think that I’d give up, but those two seem to have a powerful hold on me. I’m glad I’ve got a couple vices left … lol … what are we without those vices, the ones we see as vices and all the other ones we automatically crave, need, want without thinking about it at all.
We need the vices to tell our unique stories. They seem to be part of the drama and comedy, the dramedy called our life. My ‘person’ality has always been attached to sleep — I do love a good night’s sleep — and evidently, I was intensely programmed by Seventeen and Glamour and my dad’s comment about never being a racehorse. He said I was more like a Shetland pony — so I’ve always had a few body issues. It’s only been in the past 20 years, give or take 19, that I’ve come to appreciate the pony.
Neither vanished when I grokked the illusory nature of life. You’d think that seeing life more like a simulation, a story, a dream, would irrevocably strip away those pesky attachments. They aren’t as sticky as they were. They aren’t even a serious affair anymore. I can laugh at my hijinks in the middle of a sleepless night and while standing before the mirror with pants that never seem to get much looser. Some days it seems like my jeans stretched or I shrank but it’s usually just enough to spritz a little Eau de Hope in the air before the denim snaps back into place.
I can see what this person of mine is doing and am no longer critically (both meanings intended) attached to the attachments or to their deaths. It seems the perpetual motion machine that is life is winding down on both counts. The part of me that cared doesn’t care as much today as yesterday. Who knows what tomorrow will bring.
I’ll sleep when I sleep. Or not. Perhaps I’ll die of sleeplessness. I’ve heard it’s possible. There are worse ways to go. I can think of many without much effort. Honestly … it doesn’t seem to matter and not in a giving up on life sort of way, but in a life does what it does sort of way. I am no longer willing to argue with it. I haven’t been for a while, but it seems that my person feels compelled to argue long past my recognition of the utter futility. Guess she has to wind down. Can’t stop a freight train on a dime.
I don’t need skinny jeans, never did. I kind of like this little body of mine and that’s something that relatively new. She’s been a trooper even when I wasn’t too nice to her. It’s clear that I needed her exactly as she was. She was and is my teacher. She’s got me here. She’s put up with so many heartbreaks, so much trauma, and kept me in the game. How could I not love that?
Ah life. It doesn’t make mistakes. It gives me exactly what I asked for, whether I remember asking or not.
Just sharing … laughing … dozing … being … me.
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.
That said with a giggle, check out Amaya’s new book – Actuality: infinity at play available in paperback and e-book at Amazon.