Vincent Tells His Story

By Avalyn Doyle

Avalyn's spiritual evolution has led her around the world seeking information about ancient cultures, art and magic. Also a clairaudient, channel, and accomplished painter, Vincent Tells His Story, is her second book. She tunes into past, often historical events, to bring stories onto the page, balancing her time between conversations with arche

• Language: English
• Publisher: Avalyn Doyle
• Release date: Aug 8, 2021
• ISBN: 9781737609742

Avalyn Doyle

Aloka has been a writer and visual artist for over thirty-five years. She is inspired by travel to power sites, nature, and living in isolation for long periods of time. India and France are her favorite places in the world. Aloka currently lives in Rowville, Melbourne, Victoria, Australia. Falling through Time is her first book.

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Vincent Tells His Story

Copyright © 2021 by Avalyn Doyle. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a website without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

ISBN: 978-1-7376097-3-5 (paperback)

978-1-7376097-4-2 (ebook)

Printed in the United States of America

I am Vincent. I have died and my body is no longer animated by passion, nor degraded by Religion. I have returned to tell my story because I hear - listening to the minds of many - that it is still believed that I was insane. My artistic soul demands that I speak:

I was born through the breath of God: pure and filled with gratitude. But like all true innocents, my personality developed through a deep anxiety about what was wanted of me in the world. My desire to please my family and peers and represent the ever moving light of Nature, and of Nature moving through humanity, was my Divine beauty and application. But there were so many who saw my ugliness first and thought that was my heart.

I believe I have shown my worth, my true sanity. I have played with the light of God through my hands and created awe for those who are happy to find time for contemplation of art. That was the courage of my genius: to show my true Spiritual heart during the grief of my times. I was slain by conditions I could not trust, as were many others. I died because I couldn’t be seen as the Love that moved me, and I could not bear the loneliness of my genius.

But now I am alive in the Supreme bodiless state and I return to tell more of my story because now I am free and my voice is filled with Love. I have decided to share the experience of Light and exalted, bodiless bliss to those who wish to make available to humanity, the of knowing that the body does not confine them. That the desires for more freedom and benevolence are the desires God has given them - that through visions and creative freedoms, humanity can find the true-art of themselves and be relieved from the dogma and Scriptures reorganised by other men, and mistaken egos, who have an urge for power rather than the Truth. There is no obedience except to the True Voice of God that lives in every breast.

But it is not for Religion that I wished to have a voice in this awakening millennium. I have wished to share the significance of the artistic-stream of consciousness. If truly aligned with Service and God’s Love, an artist is enabled to act as a potent healing presence, since their works are often prayerful and in touch with realms not available to the ordinary thinking mind.

The Divine Child plays and creates in perfect Harmony, allowing sublime and evocative expressions. This is the State of an artist freed from mind’s demands for commercial success and critical accolades.

Chapter One

Beyond Death

Wind. The body of wind rolls through the trees, twitching the grey undersides of the leaves. The pressure of wind moves the branches apart. I feel the scratching tautness of the branches against my skin since I have become the wind of this land. They are my olive-trees. They are the things I have loved most while living here. I am joyously wind again so that I may visit this land, and my beloved trees.

But it is the sky that I have wanted to attain. It was always the clouds that moved ceaselessly across my vision, brushing my skin that gave me the dream that I could imagine myself free. In the passing away of my body I have become clean. I am totally free to move into the sky and twist by transforms of light into water-vapour that makes cloud. Attached is my skin to cloud and it makes my heart rejoice to everything I see.

I see more now than I could have ever imagined. I see beyond the confines of the tower and the grey, weeping stone-walls. Though I have loved the stones - I have loved the texture and grey mosses’ touch - but they were also a barrier to me, because I believed in them; I perceived that they held me confined in my body, in my terrified heart, but now I find that has been a lie. At Saint Paul de Mausole, my small wooden-bed was my cage, but also it was my sky-boat. The quivering I felt under my skin while being strapped to a board for hours - my head in a brace of iron and my wrists, arms, and hands, under straps of leather cutting and hurting into my flesh while spasms of light were sent through my body - was the quivering release that set my mind free. This was the body that ached to be free, until my mind exploded into light. I thought it was torture. I thought it was horrible things done to me. But I was mistaken. Truly, it was the hands of Angels stripping me of the pain in my Soul.

I saw them come into the room where I lay strapped down, helpless, with foam forming at the corners of my mouth. They understood that I could not endure any longer this feeling of being trapped, trapped so completely in this body of pain - in this body that had a mind of terrors running through it every night. I would awake in the morning, saturated in urine; terrorised by the smell that made me feel more dirty and more ugly than I could have ever believed possible.

It was the flaring-white of their coats that made me think that those walking, shivering beings were Angels. But I see now, with a lightened heart, that I made those doctors, those nurses of torturous love - I made them Angels so I could understand my connection to Heaven. That, through all that imagined pain of God not loving me, of God not caring about my broken body, by that delusion, I made Angels of the doctors so I could think that I was loved.

The body in fact was the most blessed thing I could have endured. It took me to St Paul, to those blessed cloisters. It took me to that garden of heavenly groved shadows, where I expanded my heart to believe that men with wooden-sticks and heavy clamps in their hands could become agents of God. That was their duty, there, in the sanatorium, to bring me the pleasure of finding a different way to see. My painting became free. I watched Divine-art form in my hands. I could finally put before me on canvas and paper the dreams of my Soul.

I’d felt that stirring as a child. I had felt that wind, then, moving through my soul as I played with wooden-blocks on the yellow-floor, upstairs in my childhood home. The wind would lift a lock of hair off my forehead as I stared at the yellow-floor. It was that yellow that I loved. The floor’s scrubbed and pitted planks ran in long tramlines to the little, square-cut window. I saw the light then, as a child, through that window - my six years of love still feeling that I could be great in the world - that one day I would escape through that window. I believed that anything was possible.

Once, when I found a scrap of paper torn off the corner of our order of meat for the week, I made something wonderful of it. I pressed it into the neck of the severed, pig's head lying on the big kitchen-table. The red-stain of blood made the paper curl. I felt that curling response in my hands and saw for the first time what colour could do. I saw that colour could change the world. It was the first time I held something in my hand that I had power over. I made a beautiful autumn-leaf just like the ones falling from the plane-tree in the Parish yard and out in the parks. They were the same trees that caroled the coming of winter, shoving all the beautiful redness against grey, leavening skies. I loved that red. I felt its heat in my chest like a new idea waiting for me to take hold of when I had more paper and more colour to play with.

It was the beginning of my childhood, but also the ending, because it simply gave me a vision of my future. It also gave me the tools for my secret love of small things.

Chapter Two

The Canal

I had so wanted to change the world. My idea to become a Preacher was the passion of colour in my heart. I thought that painting would not be a good enough vocation - that the expression of light and movement of Spirit in the sky, the land, and the trees, would not be enough to make others believe in God. Because God was the only one who listened to me. He didn't turn away from me. He wasn’t the women in the street, their hands covering their faces because they were appalled to see the red-marks on my skin and the orange flare of my hair - a shocking colour in the sunlight. The Great Father isn’t the fear of difference.

At first, I didn't think it was me they were talking about and turning from. I thought it was their secrets they wanted to share under their hands, laughing because they had found words between them becoming bonds of friendship. But, when I noticed it so frequently in the streets, that women turned their starched-bonnets away from me - when what I longed for was to look into their eyes and see the Light of God, to see if they had prayerful and good characters like my Mother - because that is what she had said: that all people through prayer could find themselves with God. Slowly, I began to understand.

I believed, then, that God would come and sit inside people's bodies and help them make the right decisions for their brothers and sisters, for their families, and neighbours. But now I know, as I watch over the land and my trees, and the people about their busyness, that God must be asked to enter the heart so that a person's intention is the act of Faith that brings about change and good actions in the world. I thought I would leave this plane of bodies and souls, and thoughts and dreams, when I died, but I have found that I'm here still: close to the mountains, to the Alpilles; close to the artists who come to feel the air and light as I attempted to portray it. But they show me even more and more what I could have done, if I stayed in Love in the world a little longer.

We were a lucky family because we lived close to the canal, and it was easy to walk across the cobbled-square to the small quay.

Theo and I would pass the tall wooden-shop on the corner of the square - its walls dark brown, with two, tiny latticed-windows staring out onto the people passing. It appeared to be a creature sometimes, and I imagined I heard it sighing during cold