There are times, even now, when the fact that I did my best wasn’t good enough. I know, deep down, that my life, and those it touched, couldn’t have been otherwise and yet, I ache with the recognition honed from years of new experiences fired in the kiln of inner work, that I hurt others, that time and again, I also hurt myself.
When those times arise, I no longer run into a new experience, dosing myself with diversion. Running never worked anyway. We all know this, but sometimes the instinct is just too strong. I simply sit and feel the heat, meeting the ache in full acceptance, of yes, I did this.
It’s not easy work. The seemingly simple act harbors an electric prod, and remaining with it, whatever it is, is not for the faint of heart, but it is the only thing that is not denial and denial of myself, of the divine within the other, of the recognition there is no other, is what got me into the jam in the first place.
These unmet atrocities, and yes, even though they are not cutting hacking bombing starving, they were atrocities to the heart, soul and body. They are the reasons we name ourselves inadequate unworthy unlovable, the source of our judgment, fear and loathing.
They are the wounds that keep on giving.
It doesn’t matter if the hurt seemed minor, that it wasn’t hard-core physical abuse, that it was necessary at the time, or so it seemed to us. To the child, the friend, the lover it wounded, it cut as deep. It’s best to leave it undefined. We can’t know how it felt, and still feels, when we weren’t on the receiving end. Well, maybe we can, a little bit, when we allow ourselves to feel the flames our self-judgement.
We try to cover it up, to hide it away, but it doesn’t work. It’s the prime way we hang onto separation, and we are really good at it. No matter how good we get at self-subterfuge, no matter how well we redeem ourselves with good works and good words, it’s still here. It can’t move on until we genuinely do.
Yes. It brought us to this moment and that is something to be grateful for … and it still resonates within exactly as it did so many years ago. The gratitude allows us to engage the pain, allows us to walk into the fire. It is not replacement therapy. It is a doorway.
Without meeting what’s here, there is no way to see what this actually is. It’s a no-brainer. When we are in denial of what’s truly here, mostly unconsciously, we cannot see the magnificence that is actually here. The layered depths, all those places we’ve tucked and stuffed, cannot reveal themselves. They remain stuck and hidden, while we pat ourselves on the back for doing the work, telling ourselves we’ve met the wounds, when we’ve hardly begun.
The truth lies in the fire. May it consume the one who thinks she knows. May it reveal all that is hidden. May it disclose the actuality that hides in plain sight.
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. Amaya Gayle is the author of Actuality; infinity at play, published by New Saram Press. https://amzn.to/3Rd4CTY
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