How much anger is stuffed inside? Every time someone hurt me and I didn’t know how to respond … when I didn’t say something and held my tongue while my insides were slashed open … when I let the hurt pass, forcing a laugh at a friend’s joke — a friend’s not a stranger’s or an enemy’s. It wasn’t funny, it hurt, oh how it stung, but I didn’t have the courage to step forward, to step out and honor myself … all those times when my precious open heart was wounded and snapped closed, building another layer onto my inner sanctum’s fortification, shielding this brilliant beauty, my courageous heart, from the experiences of life … every time I stuffed the pain and hurt, I padded the cell with bits of anger too. After all these years, how much anger is stuffed inside?
Over time it built up. It is agonizingly amazing that one body can carry so much. Why I don’t simply explode defies logic.
Life went on. I encountered life’s losses, losing my people, losing what I thought would make me happy, losing my way and felt the pressure build, often not knowing how to tweak the heart’s valve and bleed it off.
I’d been taught to hide my anger, if necessary, to deny it. I was so nice that I wasn’t real. at. all. I’d been told if I was angry, I was doing something very wrong, so I needed to fix it, to find a teacher and do my inner work, to heal my trauma.
Interestingly, those who told me weren’t clean of anger, hadn’t done all their inner work, still had trauma to heal. They put on a good show, danced the healed dance and hid their anger well.
Perhaps The Big Fix is partially right. That’s all I’ll give it — a partial thumbs up. Just maybe we simply need to do what we have not yet been able to do, what scares the daylight out of most everyone. Perhaps we need to feel our anger, to go out into the middle of the pasture, own it, embrace it, and let it rip.
We are afraid to uncork what we have bottled up. It might be like opening Pandora’s box — all the hell of the world would spill out and life would never be the same. Wouldn’t that be good? I’m tired of the same old world.
What is the boxed up, imprisoned anger doing now? It doesn’t stay put. It slips out and wreaks havoc. It’s behind all the evil in the world. It hardens arteries, stiffens egos, deadens compassion, anesthetizes the heart and ears, dampening the ability to listen, to communicate, to care at all.
Could it be worse? We’re killing our world. We’re at each other’s throats. We are moments away from a very messy end. Could owning up to our anger really be worse?
I have anger within. The body is the repository of all that has come before. It doesn’t magically empty out when you see what life really is. Even if it did, is anyone who is paying attention, who has an open heart, not genuinely honestly lovingly angry? How could we be in this world and watch the pain and suffering without being angry?
I know it’s more fashionable to say it makes me sad, it opens my heart, it makes care, it helps me see the ways I close down, it shows me where I need to work on myself. Sweet, eh? Balanced spiritual image. Screw that! Give me some real!! Trying to be something other than what we are is killing us — literally.
I have anger inside and it seems it’s been building a while, building not dissolving, with every breath I take that doesn’t honor anger, that doesn’t see it too, is priceless, that doesn’t hear its voice, its cry for love: for me, for you, for this world, for the magical incarnation that is life.
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.
