By Amaya Gayle Gregory
It’s a story you tell yourself, you know the one that you are broken. It isn’t true. It couldn’t be true for you are the whole enchilada. Love that — the idea of the cosmos (within without around and through) as infinite layers of tortillas, dripping with melting cheeses, polka dotted with ripe olives and smothered in yummy red sauce and dollops of guacamole.
It as good a story as any, at least as good as the idea that we could be broken, that we are works in progress, that something needs to change and then we’ll finally be okay — if we’re really lucky or blessed.
As far as telling stories goes, that’s a pretty poor example. It’s a story based in lack, in not enough, in working until we drop, in struggling, striving, remaining vigilant to our image of how things will be when at last it’s okay. That story doesn’t call on a lot of imagination. It’s as old as the origin of stories, not to mention unoriginal.
For some of us, that perfection will only arise when we’re walking the streets of heaven. Oh my — what a hoax that one is — put off being happy, being complete and whole until you die. Yikes.
But isn’t putting it off until we awaken or whatever your holy grail is, the same damn thing?
… once we have enough in the bank … once we feel well enough … once we find balance … once we have more time … all ways we hold ourselves hostage with a gun we train on our own brain, with requirements that spellbind our mind, with unattainable goals that pull apart our heart.
It’s all storyland. This is storyland. We incarnate and play a role, take on a character, and forget what we really are. You don’t have to believe me. See for yourself.
Rather than reinforcing your trajectory, propping up your current plot — no matter how close you think you are to finally being done with it — from right where you stand, not moving an inch from where you are, not in denial of the pain and anguish, the desire for something else, the hope for improvement, standing right in the thick of the layers of trauma that remain — allow yourself to say “I am the body of God. This that appears as my life is the expression of the expressionless, is God made manifest for all there is, is God.”
It’s a huge leap when you’re in the thick of it. Huge but possible.
You’d be amazed how often you badmouth the Divine, how consistently you put the expression that is your life on the backburner, letting it cook a little longer, hoping it may at last season sufficiently to be worthy of love.
Be aware of every time you denigrate, trivialize, underestimate who and what you are, and stop. You break my heart with your self-scorn. There is only one of us and who we are is not scornful. Who we are, who you are, is heaven itself, is more precious than you can possibly imagine, is the whole holy enchilada, layers upon layers upon layers of nothing but love.
What have you got to lose? Feel like risking it all?
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.