I was sitting here thinking about how little I know and laughing … well giggling might be more accurate. Having always needed to know, to figure stuff out, to raise my hand first with the right answer, I find it hilarious to realize that nothing I thought I knew remains.
The instant that This revealed itself, showing itself for what it is, everything fell apart, so far apart that Humpty Dumpty will never be put back together again … and it seems, taking all desire to do so as well.
Since that moment, I, this I that claims an alliance or symbiosis with what appears to be a me, has attempted without much seriousness or success, to put the revelation into words. Quite unceremoniously and ever so tongue-in-cheek, I peer through the personal porthole of undivided awareness as the words fail to communicate what could never be communicated by another human’s words, no matter how well written, how well intended or illuminated.
It seems that this we are likes to write, to express, to make the valiant attempt to communicate, but rather than likes to, it feels more like it can’t not. Creative movement is its imperative. Here, it feels mostly like play, like kicking a large, inflated ball that sometimes glances off a target, but mostly stirs the air as it passes close-by, leaving a haunting scent in its wake.
The whiff is part of what I call the grand design, the human story’s evolution. Its near miss riles the force field, whipping it up, generating chaos at the systemic level, creating mayhem, bedlam in the tightly bound ground of beliefs. Enough close calls, sufficient narrow escapes, and the support structures come crumbling down … or at the least a crack appears.
The design shifts and changes with every experience, altering this moment’s blueprint. Everything, every breath, every perception, sensation, thought, and feeling shifts the storyline.
No matter how it feels, there is no way to withhold, to be meaningless, ineffectual, worthless, or unimportant. Every breath matters … mattering in the sense that it alters the manifestation, swinging it towards love or further into fear. Every breath matters, and equally, doesn’t matter at all.
Ultimately, there is no harm, no foul here. The playground has no permanence. Lives take new forms to be lived again and again. The manifestation, the play of light and shadow, is not real in the way most believe it to be … and yet, this amazingly extraordinary appearance of a world and you and me is the precious playground of infinite aliveness and worth whatever it takes, worth every shadow painfully explored and embraced, to free it from our delusions.
The more we empty and include, the more life is open and inclusive. As fear drops away … all that is not love is fear … all that is not yes to life is no … the default is revealed and it is naturally, effortlessly, seamlessly, simply love.
Fear not. Nothing is as it seems.
Play for all you’re worth. Feel and express the feelings within. Love simply.
Don’t be afraid of unbridled love, of embracing it completely, of freeing this you are absolutely.
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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