Is it a jazz sort of day or rhythm and blues? Country done-me-wrong or classical notes strung together with marvelous awe? There’s a song for it all, if not already composed, composing itself in this moment, in sync with my breath.
I could call an event traumatic, or I could hear the music of the dance, the dance that spun me out that door and into a new dance with a tune of its own. What we call trauma is a direction change, life putting a fork in our road and insisting that we take the road less traveled. We don’t always listen … but that’s life too. Sometimes it takes a bit of repetition to shift the momentum.
Whether I hear the music and recognize the dance or not, changes the experience of life dramatically.
Growing up I didn’t hear the word trauma or narcissist. I didn’t have labels for life. I don’t think have these terms helped me at all. They gave me new labels to beat myself with, and those who did me wrong. Having the labels made the situation even more real, more concrete, stickier. It justified my pain and suffering, giving me something to hang onto that kept me playing my victim’s role.
It took a long time to break through the wall of justification. I was right, God damn it. He hurt me. He traumatized me, that damn narcissist. Of course, I am hurt. Of course, I am wounded. Of course! How could I not be?!
When the breakthrough happened, I didn’t do it. It just happened. If I did anything, I surrendered my autonomy, my ability to change my life, and it had nothing to do with what came before, but what was happening right then. It rippled through all of my life, leaving no label unturned.
I saw that life, and that included what I’d called traumatic, couldn’t be otherwise, that the movement of aliveness simply moves, that I am part of the movement, no different from a leaf blowing in the wind. It doesn’t matter what I call it, if I call it, or if I tap my foot in time with the music. They are simply different movements, movements that given my model of the world, the data field comprising this moment, have conspired to craft the miracle of this absolutely distinctive experience.
… and I fell in love with life just as it is, its incredible highs and lows, its pains and sorrows, its joy and peace, the beauty always present right in the midst of hate, the love that permeates every single atom of life … and I wouldn’t have seen it, would have looked right past it, if life hadn’t set me down and made it impossible to take another step.
So now I hear the music. Labels have fallen away, mostly. They are useful at times, just not very often. Life is a game of musical chairs using my unique experiences to move me from chair to chair … or out of the game … out of the room … out of sight. When I don’t care which direction I go, or if I go, life simply is the music.
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.