Cause is an interesting word, as words go. Cause seems to be at the root of all our scampering around, trying to figure it out, whatever the ‘it’ is. It seems that if we can get to that root cause we can fix or repair not just our lives, but life itself.
Cause — the source of all blame, the source of all our problems. Cause — when found — the golden goose that will finally make being alive not such a walking on the edge of a thousand foot drop blindfolded, precarious to say the least, thing.
Cause — the illusive elusive phantasm that no matter how hard we look, can’t be found.
That alone should tell us something or great import.
Why is cause’s buddy, a co-dependent relationship for sure. It is the biggest small word in the dictionary, replete with an unending supply of possibilities, the least of which, which is also the closest to truth one can get in words, is that the answer to cause’s conundrum is: for no reason at all.
We don’t like that one. If there really is no reason, that means there is no cause, and if there isn’t a cause, God damnit, that means we are stuck with what is … until it changes which of course it is always doing.
So, we continue to ask why, to try and find the cause, the cause of lack, the reason for our sadness, the bottom of the well of grief, the damnable seed of our unhappiness, not realizing that our search for the brass ring creates the experience of an inadequate life in the first place.
When we can’t find a reason for our dismay, the next natural step is to blame, to lay our unhappiness at the door of those mean and nasty, uncaring and unfeeling, others, escalating the vitriol as our hearts break into ever smaller pieces.
The alternative — to stop and live life as it is, directly without the cushioning power of blame — is more than most can permit. Most are so enwombed in the blame game that, in this precious moment, they can’t see that any other possibility exists.
That is a space of shielded awareness where the bud is still too tender to open from its slumber.
From that understanding, we don’t stop and consider that maybe, just maybe there is no reason, that life just is as it is, that it is filled with happiness and sadness, grief and joy, peace and irritation and seeing that, let it be.
That is inconceivable, unthinkable — and yet, it is true.
In order to understand our unhappiness, we must stop and allow ourselves to feel what we feel, to experience our lives as they are, to directly meet what is here. We are not the cause of our misery, but at first it may seem that way from this new vantage point.
The view is clearer but still seen through a glass darkly.
We notice that unresisted, life doesn’t hurt quite so much, that our wanting life, or wanting another to fit our image of what is right and good, actually intensifies the pain, that in our resistance we push those who love us away, we refuse them access to our breaking hearts and write the story that we use to blame them with.
So yes … in that very limited sense, we are the cause … and yet, we are not.
Our patterns and models, the beliefs that inform our inner ruts, cannot be other than they are until they have been seen and released. True seeing, seeing the absolute futility of them, is the releasing. It is not something you do but something that occurs as the support struts, a tipping point of sorts, for the beliefs crumble.
That is what life is — the crumbling of all that we hold sacrosanct, the tipping of the sacred cows within, the expansion of the contractions, the Great Return.
There is no cause. What we experience as life is the causelessness of Life life-ing, of God-Godding, the Infinite Aliveness expressing. It’s not personal, so very not personal, even though it feels absolutely personal. Life is a super intense reality show, just not real in the way you think.
Why is one’s inner landscape so difficult and another’s apparently not?
There’s that word again — why. Besides that, the question assumes a self and others, a cause and effect that is personal. There is not two although there is the appearance and the experience of two, of me and you and the world. That’s how the infinite expresses as the finite. It’s a fly in the ointment from the human’s point of view, but in truth it is this Infinite Aliveness, creating, engendering something out of nothing, a rabbit popping out of infinity’s hat.
There is no one to blame. There is no one, period. Life does what it does. It appears to strike one expression down and lift another up. That is the experience, the illusion, but it is not the truth of us.
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. It’s actually much better than we can imagine. 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 … and she is. Love a paradox and life is nothing, if not paradoxical. 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.