I’ve been playing with the idea of hurricanes as analogy. They appear to be composed of earth, air, fire and water. Within the infinite oceanic flow the hurricane coalesces. It is not different from earth, air, fire and water. It is composed of, and contingent on all four elements. Why fire? Hurricanes don’t form in cold water.
I’m not well-versed in science, so reel out a little slack here. I’m just playing and letting it take me where it will. The known cannot take me to the unknown, so science isn’t quite so important to this discussion. It’s analogy after all.
So … for the sake of play …
You, I, we are no different than the hurricane, just composed of a slightly different mix, different proportions. You are a composite of elements coming together as a life, and eventually the elements dissolve back into themselves in what we call death.
Or so the story of materiality goes. I’m skipping right past the reality of materiality for this piece, the is this real or Memorex, the is this definable, nameable part of the script. Play can go where it wants, even into places the mind dare not.
There are no hard edges to a hurricane, a place where hurricane starts and ocean stops, where air is non-existent, or places where the earth beneath and around simply isn’t. You are the same, even though it looks like you have hard edges, lines of demarcation setting you apart from the rest of the world.
Some days experiences feel mystical. Most of us have had an experience that defies common knowledge. Somedays your little hurricane relaxes a bit and widens, taking in more of the ocean, feeling a bigger bite of wind, diving deeper into its own depth. The awareness field, your personal hurricane, expands its reach past the edge of what you termed as me, to what is always available, what is quite naturally ever-present and you perceive something mystical in what was always right here, right now.
You use words like magical, mysterious, spiritual, to describe it, but what it really is, is who, is what you are. You are simply used to the small but chaotic personal sense, to what is contained in your watery sensations of separateness, your earth-based you and me thinking, your airy time and space infused perceptions, not realizing that you are always the totality, and it’s nothing like what you think, for it is beyond words, beyond thought.
When you slip up, when you slide into basic awareness, when the fight and struggle topples if but for a moment or two, the illusion that was never real slips too, the illusion that seems to prove distinction, differences, the validity of 10,000 things, and infinite intelligence, the all powerful Oz, the everywhere and nowhere presencing reveals itself as who you are.
It’s so ordinary and so unbelievable that you dismiss it. It’s not possible, right? You must have made it up or maybe you were dreaming, as if that’s not real too! But something within you knows, the unquenchable, inconceivable, unnamable you.
You are always dipping a toe in infinite aliveness, heck, more than a toe, the whole of your being. Whether you see yourself as individual or as undefinable, separate or inconceivable, the hurricane or the entire oceanic field, doesn’t really matter. It doesn’t change anything at all.
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.
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