I have a prophet in my pocket.
Ever since I identified my little voice inside my head as LV, and labeled the gray squishy world-ball as my heterogeneous Brain, The Prophet in my Pocket has been speaking to me in rhyme and rhythm.
The Prophet part makes sense to me. All through my life I’ve had precognitive dreams, premonitions, and those “feelings.” I can recount the events in detail. They are numerous. Grand in scale, like the time I predicted an influx of people would be traveling to the small town of Colfax, California to see a spiritual manifestation. Or smaller in scale, but just as potent, like when I saw my mother’s friend die in a VW Bug exploding on Homan’s Highway in Carmel, California, days before my mother’s friend’s death.
I’ve had strange encounters, strange coincidences, and a plethora of people tell me that they know me from somewhere. I’ve also been sensitive to physical pain, since I can remember, starting with terrible intestinal pains and rashes.
I’m officially deemed handicapped, even have that nifty handicapped plaque, that comes in handy when my pain threshold is registering low on the scale. By all definitions, if I wasn’t such a poop-head at times, in theory I’d qualify as a Shaman in some cultures. The thing that sucks about being a Shaman, or anyone born with distinct spiritual abilities, is that the healers always seem able to help most everyone, except themselves.
I think that’s why I have a prophet in my pocket. I think he’s there to guide me through the proverbial mire of life—the sensitivities, the pains.
Looking back at my writings, sometimes I’m amazed I’m still here. I remember an intake psychologist telling me, years ago: “And you’re sure you’ve never been addicted to drugs or had any form of substance abuse? It’s hard to believe you could survive all that, and not turn to something.”
I turned to something. I turned to my faith. And fortunately the powers that be provided me with distinct mentors and supporters along my path.
Which leads me to the current problem I face, that has resulted in my current funk. Recently I’ve lost many of my supporters. Some have disappeared through the engulfment phase of a new love interest and others through moving to a new physical location—some thousands of miles away.
I’m understanding this dissipating funk more clearly. In the last ten months alone many of my supporters have disappeared, my beloved dog passed unexpectedly, a professional used callous words about Asperger’s Syndrome, my mother-in-law and my mother were diagnosed with cancer, my son had a serious reaction to medication, a homeless person ran his bike into my moving van… this on top of the everyday stresses of raising three boys, with one on the spectrum, keeping a household running while disabled, and dealing with my sensitivities, coupled with my recent diagnosis of Aspergers. Deep breath! No wonder I’m sad.
This prophet of mine, if he does indeed exist, I fancy the idea of him residing in my right pocket. I can picture him there, rather small and distinguished looking, like a little cartoon stereotypical university professor. He has the type of beard that’s good for running fingers through, and spectacles that are speckled with dust. He doesn’t brush his wiry white hair. His appearance is not even secondary. His appearance doesn’t matter to him one bit. He speaks in rhyme or rhythm, or very fast in a combination of visuals and streams of words. He uses symbols lots, and has a glorious sense of humor.
The Prophet in My Pocket is the one I pull out often in my sacred hours of writing. He whispers to me through my interior voice (LV), sometimes for the stretch on an hour, and then he gently recedes, returning from whence he came. Here’s a poem he is whispering to me now:
There’s a Prophet in My Pocket
There’s a prophet in my pocket,
And he’s always standing near,
Listening to my stories,
And then whispering in my ear,
He doesn’t long for fame,
Or simplicity of life,
He reaches for the stars,
And lends them through my strife,
His answers are so clever,
Though sometimes rather thick,
With philosophy and prose,
That pours out rather quick,
I think he’s standing near,
When I dream of what’s to be,
I think he hears me cry,
When I’m scared of what I see,
He tells me I am loved,
And that all will be all right,
He tells me to just trust,
And embrace my inner light,
I’m a beacon on a hill, he tells,
And my glow is rather bright,
And you see, he says to me,
“Because of this you fight,
The shadows that draw near,
The games they try to play,
The gifts you carry with,
They try to take away,
Be gentle with yourself,
Your challenges are grace,
Humbled in your walking,
Humbled in your pace,
Remember I stand strong,
As the shadows linger in,
Standing at the doorstep,
Readying to win,
All their twisted dealings,
All their twisted means,
They are nothing to you, Darling,
Even though it seems,
Just call on me, your prophet,
Whenever you’re in fear,
Just reach into your pocket,
And know I’m always here.”
~ Sam Craft (2012)
Much Love ~ Sam
10 thoughts on “Day Twenty-Five: A Prophet in My Pocket”
I like your comment about shamanism. A longtime, dear friend has schizophrenia. She is brilliant and talented. She embraces the shaman archetype.
Every person must find their personal value and identity. When that identity gives you power and positive affect, you soar. Any challenge to that core identity can be terrifying. But it pushes us to embrace more and grow, sometimes exponentially.
I feel embarrassed, expounding so. But my brain is exploring its boundaries as well. 🙂
Sorry – I meant to say this IS a beautiful comment.
Lori ~ I got your note about the image I posted on Facebook, but for some reason the wall keeps erasing current postings??? Just wanted you to know, I didn’t erase it.
I like the idea of finding an identity that gives me power and a positiveness. Well said. Sounds like a great friend you have, there. You didn’t sound like you were expounding! Have you read my posts? LOL Talk about expounding. Have a good weekend. ~ Sam
I think this post is fascinating. I’m not remotely clairvoyant and am always fascinated by people who are. It sounds like you were really dealt a tough hand & you have a great attitude about it.
I try to have a good attitude. It’s hard. Humor helps, and the love of my family and friends. I keep going for my kids, and for a purpose to connect with others and spread joy and love. It is so nice to be building a community on the blog network of kind and understanding people. Thanks for stopping by. ~ Sam
Beautifully written! It’s bold of you to admit to having the precognitive dreams, premonitions, and feelings. A lot of folks wouldn’t have the guts to talk about these things—I’m proud of you for doing so!
Loss of support—be it from an individual, organization, or beloved pet—is very difficult indeed. But it sounds like you’re no stranger to this, so you know you’ll get through it in time. As I know where you’re coming from on this, you have my thoughts. —George
That’s interesting that you write: “…bold of you to admit.” I used to tell people all the time about my dreams, when I was young, and I scared quite a few people off. As an adult, I avoided talking about my dreams, premonitions, and feelings for many years, for fear of rejection. Then, when we moved, about 1.5 years ago, I rediscovered a part of myself, I’d kept hidden. In honoring my authenticity, I grew in self-love and self-acceptance. Years ago, I would have seen this recent post as not so much bold, but dangerous. It never ever has seemed bold to me to share a part of myself. I think that’s a common trait with Aspergers—that we don’t understand the “rules” for sharing ourselves. I think I’ll blog about this, maybe. You always write very kind and insightful comments. It’s a pleasure to “know” you. ~ Sam
Your poem is wonderful. Love you loads. Lees. xxx 🙂
🙂 xoxox Thanks Much!