At night after I close the book I am reading, I sit for a while, simply abide as This … without focus, no world to consume, nothing to do, no one to be. It is quite revelatory. The darkness behind my eyelids is not still, is not simply black. It teems with movement, shape shifting before my closed eyes. Richly layered kaleidoscopic activity dances to its own drummer, to the music of the spheres.
Relaxing into abidance, the depths reveal themselves. The veils fall. The world of structures dissolves in the multi-dimensional grid of life. Some nights the gridwork is bright green, other nights, white. Pyramids of plenty, fractalized magic, transform light into subjects and objects, heavens and earth.
Two nights ago, I was awakened in the middle of night and with eyes wide open, the show continued. At first, I couldn’t quite make it out. There was something moving between the layers, like pages of a book turning. The focus shifted and I could see my son’s art, page after page after page, one design morphing into the next. As I watched, I was startled by the exquisite detail, the fact that the images I was seeing were the designs he had created over the years. Not one line had been omitted.
Last night as I watched, I was amazed at the marvelous creativity of the supposed to be still black nothingness. I noticed a slipping away, a self becoming, the splitting apart from abidance and steeling into a body.
What is the mechanism of the split? It appears to be natural, organic. That’s what I’ve been studying of late, attempting to remain aware enough to observe the moment when the mystery embodies. The attempt is like reaching for a star to put a bit of stardust in your pocket, but it is a fun inquiry, that is if you don’t mind the big fail. I’ve failed so many times I’ve redefined what most call failure. I just call it life.
The moment simple awareness, the abidance, slips into form, is the moment the actuality I am, this that is verifiably real, that is the only reality, disappears back into the dream. In that millisecond, chances of catching a glimpse of something, of anything drop into the range of impossibility.
I wondered it for a while, musing, watching as simple basic awareness disappears and then pops back in. I cannot find myself at all in the moment of disappearance, when the real takes on the cloak of illusion. I am not, or at least am not in any semblance that can be detected, until the dream takes hold, repopulated by awareness in drag, awareness posing as me and the world.
That’s a different sort of experience, detectably dense, surreal in every sense, felt and otherwise. You don’t notice it from within the dream because you think it’s the real deal. It is your known.
The illusion actually feels illusory. It is easy to see that something isn’t quite accurate, that something is a few degrees off center, when you are looking for it, when you are acquainted with the actuality, with what this is.
I don’t control the disappearance or the popping back in. I disappear into the dream, and I reappear as awareness aware of the dream. There’s no way to say if I am also awareness simply being aware, aware of nothing, for that leaves nothing to be aware of, no baseline, no reference point, no one to be aware and report back, no nothing.
Life is showing us what it is all the time. When we are willing to stop and be shown, to let go of what we know to be real … well, that’s the rub, now isn’t it.
image: Pumayana.com
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.
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