It’s been an interesting evening. Well, it’s been like this for a while, but I am just now attempting to put words to it. Why? Because I can. That’s as close as I can get. It feels like I’m playing a game of Clue and polishing the pieces that have emerged, fascinated by them and aware that something has changed again.
I can’t seem to garner any interest in doing, let alone thinking. It’s not a bad thing. It’s just what is. I feel more and more pixelated, like the space between pixels is expanding beyond its ability to reform in any knowable or meaningful shape. The understanding of what this is, of what we are, seems to be devouring the connective tissue, the ideas and threads that connected past and future, that set up the me and other structures of life.
The need to do, the compassionate desire to change or fix or alter what is, the storehouse of wants is emptying out. This has happened before and passed, like all things, but this feels a bit different, more like a settling in, a wiping of the slate, than a drive-by.
Life has always been able to get a reaction out of me, to move me into fix-it mode. It has been happening less often, but I would have placed money on the spark still being present. Today, I would have lost that bet.
Life is kind that way, even when it seems cruel. It is also persistent. It does something wilder and wilder until it wakes the separate sense, until it picks at the wound comprising the separate sense. If there is a knot remaining, life will find it. It ties us up to see what will happen, to see if the knot of reaction slips or is drawn tighter.
It isn’t punishment. It is a clearing.
Today I had a conversation that bent towards politics, and I realized as I was talking, as I was listening, that I could converse, could share my understanding and not be in reaction at all. It didn’t seem to matter what we talked about, I was just sharing a point of view, as did my neighbor, and it was just what it was. It wasn’t my point of view, well maybe it was, but there was no ownership, no investment. It was a point of view that appeared, for all intents and purposes, to belong to me, and yet, it didn’t.
I could see more clearly, understand the underpinnings and the unfolding perfection in everything. The simplicity of the unfolding, its couldn’t be otherwise, not a design exactly, but a living blueprint, a perpetually evolving design, moved beyond the implicit to the explicit. Life simply is and all argument with it ceased … or in this moment it seems so. Who knows what’s around the corner.
From here, there is nothing to write home about. No wondrous words to help you on your journey, for all is supplied. You could never be lacking what it is you require.
The residual compassion and willingness to be of use is gone, replaced by the pure knowing that there is nothing but usefulness, nothing that is other than as it should be. For a second, I wondered if there was any reason to do anything … to move off the porch and away from the sunset as it filled my being. Would I write? Would I stop? Would movement come? Questions arose and life continued, movement resumed, but it was not the same.
And here I am writing. It seems I write because it is in me to write. It is part of my design, part of the expression, the infinite aliveness in motion. There is joy for this one in writing. I cannot not write. It is one of the ways the love within pours into the world.
I found myself humming the old Bobby McFerrin song, ‘Don’t worry; Be happy’. It filled my cells with its sparkling wit. There really is no need to worry. Grok what this is and worrying falls away like the leaves on my gorgeous Maple in the fall. They simply drop, floating to the earth without a single concern for what comes next. Blown by the raucous wind or slipping effortlessly through the silent stillness, life is. Happiness is not dependent on appearances. It is basic to aliveness.
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.
