257: Thankful for Naked People


This was  a wonderful, wonderful surprise.  (Click to find out) After a heavy week of processing and feeling less than desirable, and looping and having little sleep, I found this link on my statistical page of my blog. Sigh. The words are truly divine timing for me. I am ever so thankful for this kind woman’s heart and honesty. Thank you!

Yesterday’s post had some interesting photos. A couple of people commented, including my husband. I am curious if any super highly intuitive people got what I was trying to convey artistically. If you didn’t, you can pretend you did, because I’m about to tell you.

For me, the emotion conveyed and pouring through my blood, in both the poem and in the letter to my Lord, was the extreme pressure I feel in being human, particularly in the way people judge one another based on a variety of reasons, including conclusions drawn by collective perceptions and experience. My photos, to me, were conveying a false me. An illusion, you could say, of a person who would be mistook as perhaps mean, shallow, conceded, lustful, angry, or desperate and needy. I was attempting to convey a photo that did not represent my light side, but my shadow side.  I personally love the photos, as they are gutsy, real, and a part of me I haven’t let out of the bag until now. Meow! Scratch! Scratch!

With that said, I was going to pose naked for this post….but thought that might be stretching the limit.

I was at my masseuse today, processing and processing, and talking poor little Sue Happy’s ears off. That’s what I call my masseuse, because her name is Sue and she is perpetually happy. I was so into my heavy talk and deep thoughts…super deep, like the…. (now that sounds provocative!) As I was saying, I was into some deep stuff, like the potentiality to change the view I have of a relative based on the truth that we each create in our minds a perception of a person; so that if each person were looking at one person, say a woman, then each perception of said woman would be different based on who was viewing her. In other words, there would be several versions of the same woman existing simultaneously based on the observer, with not one single version being the right perception . And if I could thoroughly grasp this concept, and the illusion of perception, then I could feasibly adapt the perception of many of the other people looking at the woman, and merge that adapted perception into my current perception, minus the non-beneficial thoughts, in order to recreate a more positive and healthy version of said-woman.

Yes, I said all that at super high-speed, in one huge sentence.

Patient, loving Sue Happy.

Sue Happy did say my feet were the most balanced she’d ever seen them. That’s saying something. I immediately thought of the gut-wrenching, desperate-kneeling, and wailing I did in the shower yesterday; and thought perhaps that my virtual throwing up of said self was the secret to balanced feet.

I didn’t say that to Sue; nor did I say I was talking fast as a result of the Mocha Coffee.

Anyhow, my point was, I was being super, super deep and serious, and quite complex for most bipeds. And that is when I decided I needed to shift the energy. Luckily, I know how to crack myself up, and I know how to think quickly. I had this great idea come at me all at once for a Thanksgiving post. Something off the wall. I would post a short story of the nude beach and make the title: Thankful for Clothes.

After some consideration, I withdrew that initial thought.

It was Thanksgiving after all. I then came to the conclusion that a more enticing title for the holiday would include the word naked. Of course the following song immediately popped in my head.

Only they were naked. And that really made me laugh. I envisioned all the naked people dancing to this song on the nude beach. And I was instantly healed from all the trauma of the nude beaches! No…not really. But I did have a good laugh. Naked jiggly-parts, and all.

Here is the short story. For the sake of honoring my mother, I did take out several descriptions I had of her breasts. This did affect the overall artistic touch of this story. But even I know when to draw the line: NO description of your mother’s boobies on Thanksgiving! I assumed boyfriend’s butt-crack was okay. Hope I didn’t ruin your pumpkin pie!

Thankful for Clothes

Ben turned back. “Good day, Pretty Ladies.”

Ever cautious, I replied, “Thank you.”

Ben winked and then turned around and snapped the cap of a beer bottle off with his teeth.

“We look like one of those families on television, with our car piled up with blankets and food, and our smiling faces,” said Mother.  “Like the Brady Bunch.  Or what’s that other show?”

“The Partridge Family,” I muttered.

“Yeah.  More like them.”

I rubbed my bare feet between my dog’s tight curls and pulled a string from the seat cover.  Ben’s daughter, Shara, giggled and kicked her legs up and down.  Her round little belly protruded out from her top, exposing what looked to be the tie of a latex balloon.

Ben cleared his throat. “You know we went out of our way to get ready.  It probably took us a good hour just to pack up the car, not to mention the time we had to wait for you to finish going to the bathroom and find Justice’s leash.  I hope you appreciate all your mother does.” Ben finished, flashed a half-smirk, turned away, and patted Mother on her bare knee.  They exchanged a knowing smile.  I grabbed my stomach and threw up.


The rest of the story has been removed, because I wanted to keep it private. 🙂


256: Old Enough To Know

Old Enough To Know

I am old enough to know that though I am the snowflake, unique and divine, I too melt into the familiar element of water.

I am old enough to know that I am seen by eyes of discernment and reason, divided and mixed into an illusion by the creator.

I am old enough to know that in a world of invented polarities, that if chance lives, then so must destiny.

I am old enough to know that to hold my deepest carved pain is to embrace the manifestation of sorrow as majestic joy set a slumber.

I am old enough to know that what I put inside comes out, and thusly, what I put out enters within.

I am old enough to know that I exist in the meeting point between question and answer, a universal foundation behind an imaginary zero.

I am old enough to know that I am thought, put together into a recognizable form based on experience.

I am old enough to know that I heal from without, by reaching beyond the limitless of accepting into the recognition of collective.

I am old enough to know that if time were to exist then I be but a child aged backwards.

I am old enough to know that truth exists in the absence of all sense and the absence of thought.

I am old enough to know that through the windows beyond the depths of my molecular structure, I am old enough to know.

~~~ By Samantha Craft, November 21, 2012

Dear Lord,

What do you want from me? I have endured so much suffering on so many levels for so very long, and I have remained loyal and faithful and true. I have never betrayed you or your wishes. I have continued to try my best, and try and try. I have prayed. I have wept. I have fallen down again and again. Even when I could not feel you, I rose up again and carried on. I am light. I know this. But I am darkness. And the darkness engulfs and strangles and terrifies, the intensity unnerving and never-ending. Tormented in dreams, in thoughts, in knowings. Seeing things others cannot. I am not an angel. I am not without end. I am not infinity. There is a point within me that ends. I feel it. I feel the wall, the pressure and the might of the world upon me. I cannot play these games of war, where I am both the feud and the field, trampled upon by my own doing. There is so much of me, that I swim and drown, and come up again breathless for your love. And you reach down, and hold, only I cannot feel you or know you—some form of absence you be. All around me are vibrations and energies and touch, a rhythm, and endless rhythm of three. You haunt me with the comings of protest and acceptance, of looking and revealing, of touching and stinging, of turmoil released, to only reveal more turmoil. I am layered and then layered again. The filling between me sectioned with micro-prisms of expansion. I am universe upon universe. I am told the secrets and the whispers, hearing the righteous words; yet walking alone. The treasure is thick and burdensome, and unfamiliar to strangers. I am mocked for what I carry or accepted for my secrets alone. My beauty is skin deep when draped in the mystery of you. They want not what they see, but what they feel, and I am made to weep as a vessel forgotten. I have pleaded, this small delicate one, from the insides of canvased walls, a babe weeping to her master. I have cried upon the fabric of night, the casing decorating my very soul, as tears carry away the mystery thus revealed. Humbled and humbled again, and still yet I beg for humility. A prideful veil I wear to match those with which I walk. I am moved asunder, beckoned by truth, yet ever made to be this flesh. For whatever it takes, I am yours. For whatever it takes, I am—as a wrecking ball upon myself, I crash and crush, decimating the horror within. I reach, further into desert soul, to bring out another upon another of mystery unknown and unspoken. And still you come, with chain and ball, to set the ways upon me, this child forlorn.

255: The Fig

A lovely blogging friend commented that she can see both peace and sadness in my eyes.  I think I was born with the sadness. I don’t know from when or where, but it seems to have always been in the depths of me.  As far as the peace is concerned, that is something that has taken extreme dedication, focus, and prayer to acquire.

This is a short story from the many writings I did in efforts to heal myself. I believe I shared this piece before but cannot remember. I spent a period of four years writing. I collected some 265 typed pages in the form of a manuscript, much of which I have shared on this blog. People have inquired about the idea of me writing a book. I used to be hyper-focused on becoming a published author, so much that it became my goal and identity. With time, I came to a deep inner peace about my works; I understood that the passion for writing a book, though a necessary passion at the time, came from a place of ego and self-want. I am not attached to publishing any longer, especially not attached to gaining monies or recognition. I pray continually for humility and what is best for my higher good and those of others.  I maintain an energy of release when I write: the release of stagnant energy, the release of want, of validation, of need. I write purely in hopes of being a light and answering my calling. I put intention and healing vibration behind every word. In most of my writing there is a distinct rhythm. This rhythm is intentional, and filled with my love. If I heal along the way, that is a wonderful bonus. What is more important to me, at this point in my journey, is giving to the world. That is what life means to me.

The Fig (Based on True Events)

By Samantha Craft

In some ways, during the first year at our duplex, our home served as a transitional stopping point for strangers:  a person would arrive and rent out our spare bedroom and then, as if they’d landed on the jail space on the board game of Monopoly, after a few rolls of the dice, they’d move on.

Our first roommate, kindly Jeff, a man in his early twenties, arrived a few months after Mother and I had moved in.  Sprouting a fantastic full head of cherry-red clown hair, Jeff was entirely intriguing—from his gigantic gold-rimmed glasses to the smooth glass eye with an iris-blue center he’d pop out from time to time and let me examine up close in my hand.  Jeff had a puttering V.W. Bug that jerked and spat and carried us to fancy places like the local Taco Bell and the red-boxed television booth at the corner Lucky grocery store where I could watch Woody Woodpecker cartoons.  Sometimes, my favorite sometimes, Jeff carried home his work case laden with the grocery store price numbers, each type housed in its own tiny pull out drawer.  They were a hard flexible-plastic, nothing I’d seen or touched before.  These clear drawers and the miniature treasures inside each drawer out rated any old doll house in my book.

For a very short while, Ruth, an eccentric plump puppeteer with wiry-white hair, lived in our home.  She also had a case, but a much more impressive wooden one which housed her enormous stringed-puppets. Though the puppeteer wasn’t with us long, I fondly recall her performing puppet shows with her life-sized floppy marionettes out on our front patio.


The rest is in my book 🙂