Falling

By Amaya Gayle Gregory

Eleven years ago, I fell from the top of the orchard ladder while picking cherries. It was quite a screw-up. I’ve been known to do that more than a few times this lifetime, ???? screw-up that is. The strap holding a plastic bucket was around my neck, so as you can imagine, it could have been much worse. After all, I am here to tell the tale rather than hanging from a limb in a cherry tree. 

As I was falling — it seemed a slow mo go — I had a vision of an ant floating through the air, landing gently, and walking away. Not quite in alignment with the vision, I touched down on my hip and shoulder. There were lots of roots above the ground, as trees do, but I managed to land in the soft spots between them. After laying there for a few minutes, I decided to move my body and see whether it still worked. Amazingly nothing was broken or severely damaged. 

The interesting part, and the reason I am writing about it, is what happened afterwards.  

My in-house chiropractor checked me out — thanks Robert — and surprisingly found I was quite aligned. The neighbor, an amazing energy worker came over and poured on the love and said my body was shocky, and that I should take it easy.  I wasn’t about to go dancing so it wasn’t a stretch to slow down even further. 

Both angels were God-sent, but they still weren’t the main thrust of this story. 

I was fine when I wasn’t thinking about what had happened. I didn’t hurt. I didn’t even ache. But … when I spoke about the fall, when I talked about it at all, man did I hurt. All the aches you would expect not so magically appeared. 

Speaking about it seemed to solidify the story as reality. Remaining present to what was in the moment, and I wasn’t falling in the moments after, cleansed the energy signature I take to be my body of the event. 

The story matters — not matters in an importance sense but matters, takes shape and form, stiffens into an appearance appearing real.  

Telling your story is part of the human drama. You do it because it gets you something you think you need: attention, love and compassion, excitement, help. It also gives you something you don’t necessarily want: the ever more concretized reality of which you speak.  

As I noticed what happened, I started to play with it, to tease it out of hiding — I work that way, no surprise — and saw the building blocks of what I called my world and myself. It truly is all mind. I am literally making it up as I go. That’s not to say that I have control over what thoughts and experiences arise to shape that mind, the blueprint of creation that determines what show comes next. It does appear though, that simple presence allows a purer form to manifest. Without the overlays of fear, love simply is and that basic isness — love — repopulates the design.

It seems that may be the way illness works — we tell the story over and over again, getting sicker and sicker until we die. We don’t die of the illness, but of a collective habit. But what do I know …

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.