Emphasis is divine, as is the entirety of this dance. Often, it seems like all mystics teachers gurus no-it-alls contradict themselves, or at least the ones we are currently paying attention to. It can drive one crazy. They point to the expressionless and leave the expression — you and me, the bloody squirming writhing human expression — to pound sand … and then minutes later, flip the sacred scale and invite the messy humans to weigh in.
Emphasis. It’s all emphasis, This That Is blowing gently harshly perfectly through the instrument’s mouthpiece. The emptier the flute, the more spot on the tune.
Is the instrument truly empty, a purveyor of sound measures worth the signature of your time?
What’s empty for one is crammed full for another. It’s safe to say that if just one note tugs at your heart, your mind, your gut — any one will do — it’s a perfect fit, for now, in this now, not to be confused with always or forever or even next week.
When anyone speaks or writes they are focused on, emphasizing an aspect, of the whole. Whether it appears to be the absolute in spiritual or the ultimate in material, it is still an aspect. What is spiritual anyway? Another pointer. That’s all. It’s impossible to get the whole world in our hands, so to speak.
There will always be a yes, but. Nothing said or written can encompass it all and even if it could, you would hear through your current best understanding and yours will always be different from mine or any others. We are unique expressions of the expressionless — the not two dancing as two.
That’s why we can reread a book 10 years later and swear that amazing insight wasn’t in it before. It was. We just couldn’t hear it. The emphasis of our focus was on another point in the one-point all points dance.
Some peddlers of phrases seem to be better than others at keeping more of the words in the air, jugglers of ambidextrous ambiguity, soothsayers painting mythical worlds, worlds and words that sit on the pages of no dictionary ever. This That Is can’t be found therein.
This That Is cannot be found, and there is no finder’s fee for those who purport to have found it.
The truth of you — or as close to truth as one can get while incarnated — out of body experiences included — is the experience, the tugs at your heart, explosions of delight, a tear as it slides down your cheek, sobs beyond the grip of control, life’s wounds and traumas, its losses and grief, sweet precious awe, the shiver of a lover’s touch — life itself.
Unmet, untended, hiding in the closets of our minds, our bodies crystallized and brittle, we are not yet alive. We are in denial of aliveness, stillborn. Many live their entire lives peeking through the cracks of the door, inwardly begging themselves to risk it all, to open the cell and let life have them.
It seems an inordinate risk, one that makes that step seem chasm wide. It’s not. You might even survive it … and if you do, if you step fully out, tearing your hand from the door frame and knob, if you allow your ideas and beliefs to bleed out, and loose them to fly free and disintegrate as only that which has no reality can, you will never be the same.
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.