It is natural to want others to agree with us. Being validated, especially when we weren’t as children, or yesterday for that matter, offers a power boost unlike any other. When someone says, ‘Yes, you are right,’ or ‘Wow, you are smart,’ it reinforces our sense of self. That sounds pretty good, even necessary, when we aren’t certain of who we are.
… and even though we put on a damn good show, most of us aren’t.
The need to be agreed with, to be approved of, and to hide it when we aren’t, is an addiction no different than crack, and perhaps a little more difficult to extricate ourselves from. It is the wellspring of our identity. It tells us we are someone, even when that someone isn’t someone we’d choose to be.
The opposites — hostile, passive or up front disagreement, simple one-upmanship, attempts to assert control or to dominate — compress our energy, making us more rigid, taunting us to strike back. It is not uncommon. Between the two poles we float like a ping pong ball.
You don’t have to look far to see it and yet, being the recipient of it, feeling the shame of failure, the pain of invisibility, doesn’t seem to slow down the knee-jerk reaction, to impulse to give a little of what we’ve gotten. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, but I’m going to go out on a limb and guess you do, take a look at social media, or speak up at a community meeting.
Who needs agreement? What is it in us that seems to require it, that subconsciously (or not) wants to be set on a pedestal of worthiness and honored for the transient brilliance, if only for a moment? What wants, not even that 15 minutes of fame, but simple basic consideration, not necessarily accord but at the frickin’ least, receptive listening?
When I was a kid there was a program on TV called Queen for a Day. Yeah, I’m dating myself. One lucky person was given gift after gift while the audience oohed and ahhhed. What in us needs that and thinks it’s cool, that it’s okay for one person to be given the world while the rest must sit back and watch?
We admire billionaires, saying how smart and deserving they are. Is that truly any different?
What auto-pilot response is at work? What hidden hope is running beneath the surface?
Is it that part of us who knows we are more than we appear to be, who knows we are worth everything there is, who dreams of winning life’s lottery and finally being seen, or is it the little one within who was never enough, who could never be enough, who needs to prove their worth to the world, and who never felt seen or heard?
It doesn’t really matter if we were seen, were heard. What matters is our perception that we weren’t. We will never see what we don’t feel we deserve no matter how many ways we experience it.
Those of us screaming the loudest for a seat at the table feel like we’ve never had one, or fear losing the seat we have. We see life as a game of musical chairs with only so many chairs whose number is shrinking with each passing moment. The possibility of infinite chairs with infinite possibilities isn’t yet an inkling in our collective awareness. Being invisible, being silenced, or the fear of it happening, hides the flow of potential and makes people do crazy things.
We are seeing the ripple effect of that now as a society. More inclusive possibilities simply are not credible for the overwhelming majority, therefore they are not available to us as a whole. The backlash is instinctual. The blueprint of fear creates more fear. Until the mind is stopped, it continues to wind itself up, wrapping itself tighter and tighter in distortion.
Love stops the mind. Self love. Other love. Earth love. Life love.
When we don’t know who we are, when we aren’t yet trying to find out, we need the power boost that comes from agreement. It is draining standing on shifting sands even when something within us senses it.
Most of us couldn’t begin to put what we’re feeling into words. It just feels off, more than a little disconcerting. From that awareness, it’s easier to dismiss it. Ignoring it feels safer. The choice to ignore what’s happening is not considered, thought out and rejected. It is automatic. The blueprint is always the action figure of life.
Many of us think we know, but do we really? If we think we know, we don’t. If we say we are awake, we aren’t. If we look at those who do not agree with us as wrong, as somehow less than, we still have lots of work to do. If we think we’ve reached the end, there is still further, always further to go.
There is no endpoint where the shifts stop, where we’ve finally made it, where the chase stops and we can pat ourselves on the back. There is no escape. Everyone is doing the best, the only thing, they can and we will all keep on doing whatever it is, whatever the energetic field, the data banks of experience, our blueprints call for.
The need for agreement, the kudos, to feel like we are on top, that we are worthy, even though it only lasts until the next interaction, may last our lifetime. There is no permanent solution to life. How could there be? Impermanence is us. The ground around us shifts like quicksand. This game is in constant motion. We don’t know what is right around the corner.
Perhaps we’ve got what’s happening now in hand, but what about what’s barreling towards us? We don’t even have a clue what that will be. There is no way to prepare other than to accept the infinite uncertainty.
Life is the screams and the sighs, the grasping and the letting go, the wind up and the release. It is also the recognition that nothing can be held, that nothing lasts, that we really cannot know. Screams may happen. Grasping may occur. What’s the point though? Does life need a point? Why try to hang onto anything once you understand that life is a perpetual action movie not a happily ever after rom-com where you walk off into the sunset with a big smile?
Although … recognizing who you are, what this is, might just put a big smile on your face whether you are falling off that pedestal or climbing back up.
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.
