I am going to die. If not today, next week, next month, in a few years. Time speeds by and I have no time to give to things that do not bring me joy anymore, nor time to give to things that don’t magnetically pull me into them. Life’s flow is good enough. I don’t need to swim upstream or create a fork in the creek. Life as it is, is good.
So I write. I take long walks with Sophia. I watch sci-fi and glean the kernels of wisdom that fall out. I cook amazing meals. Cooking is a passion. I love it. I also work around the farm, digging in the dirt, dancing on the land.
I’d let it all go a bit and was feeling the need to move on, to sell and find something new, but that seems to have passed. I am enjoying reclaiming the house, the property, cleaning the green reminders of winters comes and gone off the lattice, the gutters, the stairs, knocking down the tall grass, fixing fences, staking up plants. I am not just reclaiming the land, I am reclaiming me.
For the past three years it felt like I didn’t have much time left in this body. It seemed my hourglass was nearly out of sand, so I let stuff go — not necessarily consciously, but out of exhaustion, out of need, out of an inability to see reason beyond the moment, a moment in the saga of survival — would I or would I not?
I came to such peace with leaving — there will always be things to enjoy that will be left undone — places unexplored — words left unsaid — books left in a pile by the bed — flowers planted that will not bloom … the untouched rooms of my lifetime preserved in amber. I let go of the need to enter into them all. This life will never be finished. None are.
It’s funny, when you are truly faced with your end, how what’s important shifts and bends, how you quit buying multiples of things, or don’t order that summer top when it’s still Spring.
Now … it’s all upside down … it feels like I’m hanging around … for a while but even that thought makes me smile. How would I know? How did I ever? It was all a story I was telling myself, then and now numbered amongst the pages.
That’s the immense beauty of life. We don’t know when it will end. We only know it will. We can live like we have just started the book or like we are approaching the last few pages. Both are equally fine stories. The hourglass only has so much sand. I find that simply divine.
Carpe diem. Seize the day. Enjoy with a passion. Let come what may. Love. Play. This moment is our heyday.
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.