What if we threw it all out — all the beliefs, every last one and started from scratch? It’s nigh impossible to tell truth from fiction, little white lies from the darker variety. Truth is a rare commodity and those who can discern the truth from the lie even rarer. It seems everyone has their own truth. How can it be truth if there are infinite versions of it?
The world seems designed to hide the truth, to prevent us from looking for it, let alone finding it. Bombarded with everyone’s expert opinion, it’s often far preferrable to stick our heads in the sand. After all, what’s clinging to our own versions but sandy heads?
We humans seem to need to know, to chime in, to add our two cents, to push our opinions out into the world. Why do you suppose that is? What about a rigid truth makes us feel better? Is it like armor, a steel plate that stops the sword of uncertainty from striking our tender hearts?
What can we really know? With absolute certainty?
After that, all bets are off.
And what is ‘I am’ but simple, basic awareness?
Is this body even me? Can you feel truth spiraling out of reach? What is me?
Why is me the body but not the puppy?
Perception … I see what appears to be separation between two things, but if I look closely, with relaxed innocent eyes, I see auras, energy patterns, pixelated alive life. Coming out of meditation or awakening in the middle of the night, when my mind and body are soft and supple, I often see the gridwork, the glowing fractalized strands connecting all life.
Sensation … I feel sensations that appear to be connected to the body called Amaya and don’t feel the sensations in the body called Sophia. Hmmm …. Is that true? I can feel her energy before she jumps on the bed. I can feel her coming. I can feel her sadness when my son leaves, her anxiety when a stranger comes to the door — not just hearing her bark, but the energy of her body.
When I slow down, when I pay attention, when the focus softens and shifts to awareness rather than that of which I am aware, I sense and perceive more than this body, so much more.
So, what am I really?
If I can’t truly discern what I am, who I am, if I am, how can I believe anything I think about those perceptions and sensations, the things I take to be true. It is all thought, just like the ideas of what I am. When I look closely, without preconceptions, I can see it is all mind.
Let’s call a time out, a moratorium on beliefs and start from scratch, belief-less, just like the newborn babes we were when we stepped into this, whatever this is … no body, no world, no others, no solidity, just portals of sensations, perceptions, feelings, and thoughts, without any meaning at all.
I imagine that’s pretty darn close to pure love.
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.