I just had another heart event. And no, it wasn’t a blissful heart opening or spiritual breakthrough. My pacemaker-defibrillator came right up to the point of zapping me, but it seems the device was able to pace me out of v-tach without setting off its intense and deeply appreciated, but not at all enjoyed, companion.
For this body, that was a bonus!
It’s funny. When it’s happening all I can do is hang on for the ride and see where it takes me. After it happens, there’s a bit of a hangover — a waiting to see if it will go off again or if the event has run its course. I’m generally a bit wobbly and slow to return to stasis.
Sound familiar?
I don’t have warning. It just happens out of the blue, although I am questioning that a bit. For the past week of so I’ve had a little less energy, a few more out of breath sensations, nothing that I couldn’t wait out or move through. Perhaps they were the warnings, the heads up. Hey there! It’s coming.
Which of course, for me anyway, always leads to questioning whether life is like that too? Does it appear to give no warnings, while it is actually signaling coming attractions?
Sophie hurt her foot a couple of days ago and we haven’t been walking our normal 2+ miles. Her foot grounded us, made us stay home to heal. Was that part of the message. Slow down. Be even more available. Be gentle with that beautiful body of yours.
Life doesn’t have to be any particular way, especially not the ways the mind paints with its fear, with its aversion and attraction. It does, however, and will forever, play out the way it does.
It is easy to paint the scenes to follow with the old brush of what is happening now, or even what has happened in the past. Does that create it? It seems so … and then it doesn’t. How the heck would I know? It does add to the equation, the compilation that is one’s experience pool.
It seems to be a human proclivity to paint with the same colors, the same brush and canvas over and over again and wonder why life doesn’t change, why it feels like the same old thing with a slightly different twist. We keep adding more red paint to our pallets and can’t understand why we keep painting red images.
Could we do anything different? Would life change if we could? Is squirting out different colors of paint the basis of instant remissions, deep healing, the end of the search?
I really like Rupert Spira’s example of whirlpools. We are whirlpools of energy. When we pick up enough vibratory momentum, we pop into life with, as a friend once wrote, preinstalled conditions, the compilation of energy in our whirlpool, some conscious, most not.
Everything that happens to us — every single breath — adds to the treasure trove and shifts the manifestation, spiraling into expansion, contraction, or stabilizing the status quo.
I wouldn’t have responded to the v-tach event this morning as I did even a few months ago, perhaps even days or moments ago. Each new insight, each new experience of living, adds to the compendium that is the inner which is reflected perfectly in the outer manifestation that is Amaya, her life, and her world.
It’s not that Amaya responds, even though it appears and feels that way. What a delight that is! Ah … life! The whirlpool of life responds automatically but not with pre-destination. It is this moment’s compilation that informs this moment’s experience. Now informs its expression now. With each new breath of experience, the compilation changes, sometimes minutely, sometimes exponentially.
We are change. We are art, painting itself, an ever-changing prism of color and form. Art reflects life … life reflects art. We are life’s masterpiece.
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.
