Anything that can be experienced is part of the dream, a dream in the mind of God. Anything. States of bliss, immense grief, fits of burning anger, naked despondency, all of it is the dream. Ideas of awakening from the dream are part of the dream. Dimensional travel, astral planes, depths of hell are all dreamland, experiences experienced through the lens of awareness, not your awareness, but awareness itself.
A teacher once told me that there are two queues, one in front of a door from which there is no return. The ticket holder who steps through that door does not survive the trip, not to say that to the outside world their life ends. It’s an inside joke. The outside can never understand the words, the world of the one who never was.
The other line is the ongoing exquisite holographic experiential of bad better best, always a new experience that’s finally going to be it, that feels fully awake for a little while, the dance of departures and arrivals, of being stuck on the outside or getting all the way in … the experience that requires an experiencer and a world to experience, regardless of how outlandish, how off land it is.
Why not? It’s fun. It’s exciting. It gets the adrenaline pumping. It is the grand and glorious love story, the sick and painful horror show, the play of wide awake and sound asleep and everything in between, the ignorance is bliss story.
If we can experience it, it’s the dream and everything, every. thing. is the swirl of awareness, a sacred mundane experiential.
The show cannot be separated from awareness. One cannot focus on awareness, making it an object to be revealed. Awareness cannot be found. Can you find yourself? Can you take one step closer to yourself? You can only relax and let it be, You are already you. You just don’t know what that you is.
And … relaxing into life requires an immense amount of blind trust … or the grace of seeing that control is an illusion, that effort is futile, that swimming against the tide is taking all your precious energy and wringing you out like a wet towel and you’ve had enough.
That’s the juice. That’s the blessing of life. It tosses us against the ragged cliffs of time and batters our resistance, flattening it like water falling against smooth rock.
If there is a why, I think that’s why we incarnate, to learn to be here, to be now, to engage life as it is, to experience all there is for us to experience, to miss not one breath, to dance the divinen dance, to dream infinite dreams, to play as openly and unguarded as a child, to at last wend our way through life’s spiraling ecstacy and agonies with naked nerves and heart wide open.
It’s as good a story as any.
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.
