290: Torn Open

wiped clean
Torn Open

Torn Open

If I were a painter, I’d paint you as the river flowing through my heart, my arms outstretched in acceptance and need and want, my body limber and bleeding, the blood the very essence of my unquenchable desire.

The water, being you, would be the clearest and the sweetest, and the very richest, pouring through the canvas of me as melted butter across warm sugar-cakes.

I’d take you into me, soak in your yellow-sunshine, and swell into a catapult of expectation fulfilled. The rest of me, the part I’d left behind, outside the door that shelters our space, I’d call forth then, one by one and piece by piece, each part carrying in another puzzle of my completion.

And there, gathered on the floor, I’d rest, my every angle dismembered, broken, and waiting to be reassembled by you. In doing so the echoes of my desperate longing would be answered, and silence would ensue, if not forever, then for a moment, long enough for the splinters of my callings to rest and form shape.

There, in the silence, in the peace, I would wait, no longer afraid or without, no longer in pain.

Though broken and scattered, I would be whole. Though taken and left out, I would be home. Though ripped apart and tangled, the very heart of me missing his place, I would beat with a life so full my dreams would sing.

Like soldiers I would take flight; winged butterflies, a spectacle of starlit ghosts twirling and rising all at once to the trumpeting of our destiny.

You would whisper then, to me, this sugar-spiced dumpling of one form or another, in all my mystery, in all my guise; you would whisper sweetness so pure that my spine would tingle and take his place, amongst the pieces lost.

Here you would draw, your finger thick and calm, your voice trembling through the vibration of your flesh; and I, as ink, would appear, my design clear and precise, my meaning known and wanted.

I would not whisper, for the voice of the room would be yours, and yours alone. Your silhouette dancing in the shadows like a raven whom pecks the ripest seedlings from the foreground, a painter himself merging and forging to create substance for this soul.

Red would drip new, droplets of amulets and silver-tipped gold. My paint yours. A keeper of chance you be, diving into the gentleness and hope of tomorrow with the tip of your brush, a quail’s feather topped in delight.

Scribbled across white, I be.

Designed in the fashion you forbade and forbid, both ruptured and raptured at once.

I would burst for you, and you alone. My hungry voice rising to be heard above the quiet you created. Until, as serpent uncoiled and ram diving thick, I would come forth, rebirthed and complete in the making of you.

For where you dipped and twirled the horsehair and blanketed warmth, the artists stick and brush, I too dipped. For where you danced, I too danced, like a stallion in the moonlight free, my mane flowing beyond and touching the edges of your silhouette.

For in creating me, you both created self and dream, mister and misses. My sacrifice, though felt eternal, well worth the storm.

My endless searching, my endless calling, my escape into nothingness and a gentle calm, all part of the canvas you set forth. For if not for you and me, for my pain and your finding, then still I would pierce myself atop the mountain top, one knife after the other, alive but dead, awake but asleep.

For it was not until you called, until you came, until you saw me and claimed my existence that I truly was. Not until your coming destroyed me and brought me back again that I was truly born.

For in the existence that I know, you are my maker, my shaker, my taker, my master, my everything beyond the sun. In knowing you, or the part of you that held me, I have at last held myself.

And though the tears have etched and molded, created someone I know not, someone beyond my very self, alas I remain in awe of my beauty, inspired by creator you.

So please, as you whisper farewell, as you close the door, my fallen pieces reassembled and transpired, know I weep not so much for the loss of what was you, and what I thought I knew, but for the finding of myself.

~~~ Samantha Craft, December 31, 2012

Happy New Year….may you above all, having found the beauty of you, spread your light upon the waiting world. Blessings ~ Sam

289: Sleepless Near Seattle

motel me

I didn’t sleep well last night.

Tonight, I said to my husband: “Honestly, I’m not exaggerating; I woke up at least forty to fifty times last night.”

Then I replayed the sleepless night in my head, to make sure I wasn’t exaggerating about the amount of times I woke up.

I hate to lie. And to me, any stretch of the truth seems a lie. I almost self-corrected, as I calculated that to wake up forty times in an eight-hour period, I’d have had to have opened my eyes about five times an hour. In actuality, I probably woke up four times an hour …so it was likely thirty-two times. But I stopped myself from speaking all these thoughts aloud, and just stared at my husband with squinted eyes and furrowed brow, like I always do when I am processing in my head.

Then, knowing I’d paused too long when considering typical conversational protocol, I sputtered: “I couldn’t sleep because you snored.” Only that statement instantly didn’t feel right, and I knew I’d soon be speaking my whole truth, whether I wanted to or not.

I processed more. I have no clue what my husband was doing, even though I was practically on top of his lap on the couch. I was in a distant land thinking that I ought not to have provided such a large gap of time as the space between forty and fifty times—that’s a ten point spread.

Confused in general, I tried to recover and offered, “It wasn’t just you snoring.” I was sounding weepy and whimpy, by now.

Soon, the complete truth began to leak out.  I confessed, “And there was something else.”

Of course my husband asked, “What?”

I responded slowly, with a full-blushed face.

Within seconds my husband was laughing so hard that I expected snot to shoot out of his nose.

You see, last night, we had, at the last moment, decided to stay at a motel off of the interstate, while traveling up north-east for a snow-sledding adventure. The plan was to drive up in the evening and sled in the morning the next day. I  accidentally booked a hotel (with swimming pool, continental breakfast, two televisions, etc.) that was too far away from our destination; so last-minute-searching led us to a small, what I would call “cheap” motel.


I took this on our way up to the snow

I guess I was keen on the fact that we were likely staying in what could be termed a “dive,” when my husband informed me that we had scored a large room with three beds, in one of only two motels in the entire town, near a popular ski resort, for only $99. That, and the fact that the small, twenty-year old television only got one channel.

Oh, and yes, my son with Aspergers did say straight away, “I don’t like the smell of this place.”

Upon entering the spacious room, about six-feet away from where our mini-van was parked, I tried to get into my place of Zen; I do that quite frequently, set about to have a Zen-like mindset. I think to myself, what would a saint do, or Buddha or Jesus, if in a similar situation. How would he or she respond? And the answer is typically the same: act with gratitude and grace. And then I push down those thoughts of how much easier it would be to be Zen-like without my type of mind.

In considering the motel, I contemplated my good fortune. We had fresh water, shelter, blankets, warmth, electricity, and more. I snapped myself out of the “disappointment” zone swiftly, without calling myself names like “spoiled” and “unappreciative,” as I’m working on that whole positive-thinking thing, too. Which depending upon my mood, sometimes makes me want to gag.

But staying true to my state of positive-Zenniness, I began to list in my head everything the motel had to offer, right about the time my husband came out of the oddly-angled bathroom (toilet juts out and causes one to bruise knee when passing by said toilet) and announced, “Don’t forget to add that the floor slopes down at an odd angle to your list of why this place is cheap.” He knows me so very well.

So, I’m listing the positives to myself: (and occasionally out loud with a snicker to my husband)

Internet connection

Oldest son has own bed.

Even though I can’t use my bath salts as there is no bathtub, there is a quaint stand up shower.

Mold is only on the outside of the shower door.

The smell of cigarette smoke and what seems to be wet-dog-scent is not too strong.

There are other cars in the parking lot; which means other people stay here, too.

No hair that I can see: dog or human.

The sparkles glow that are set in the cottage-cheese-like ceiling; I don’t think I can get asbestos poisoning unless someone jams a fork or something up there.

The aged lamps painted poop-brown from the inside out, are all cracked and broken which makes an interesting type of abstract art; I wasn’t electrocuted when I turned on the lamp.

The boys won’t be fighting over television channels.

The door lock sticks and we can’t use it, but that chain should hold up for one night.

The light from the parking lot will serve as a giant night-light.

We don’t have rooms below us or above us, and on either side of our room are storage garages. The boys can be loud and no one will hear.

We don’t need to use the noisy heater that heats up the room too fast, especially since the curtains (that remind me of my childhood home) hang right over the heater, because if it gets cold, we can pretend we are camping.

This would be a cool setting for a Fargo-type movie or for the series Breaking Bad.

If anyone died in here, it was likely a long time ago.

I haven’t slept in a full-size lumpy bed for years.

The lacquered wall art of trees reminds me of the 1970’s.

I have both thick socks and slippers on, so I’ll be good to walk on the carpet.


I’m working on my list of gratitude when my husband chimes in, “And these walls remind me of my mother’s family room.” He’s pointing to the fake-wood paneling and laughing.

I fake a smile, and then whisper to him, “I probably shouldn’t tell the boys to stop rolling in the bedspread because the bedding is likely not laundered, and adults could have done any a number of things on those covers, right?”

“Yes, Hon. Not a good idea,” he answers with his trademark, I-married-a-loon-that-I-adore, shake of the head.

Right about then, my son who has Aspergers pipes in: “Have you seen what they can find with those special blue-lights in hotels?” My husband and I politely ignore him.

In the bathroom, after bumping my knee again, I notice that there is no shampoo, no blow dryer, and no supplies beyond toilet paper, Kleenex, four wrapped plastic cups, and a stack of some ten miniature soaps. Ten tiny soaps wrapped in brown paper? I think to myself.

I come out of the narrow bathroom, and soon my zen-attitude is promptly invaded by a case of the sillies…and everything spills out of my head in the form of a verbal-tag game of why this would be considered a dive hotel, with my husband.

Of course, I won, when I pointed out that there was no coffee or coffee maker.

Still, the little voice in my head circulated and percolated, reminding me to be ever-so-grateful. After all, there was a Starbucks nearby.

This brings us to tonight, and me explaining to my husband why I couldn’t sleep while in the motel.

This is how the conversation went:

“Well. It wasn’t really your snoring that kept me up. That was just a small part of it.” I paused, not so much for effect, but because I knew I was going to bust up laughing, even though I was entirely serious.

My husband Bob waited patiently.

I continued. “I couldn’t sleep because…..” I paused.

“I couldn’t sleep because I was afraid I might touch the sheets,” I said.

Bob smiled and held back his chuckles. “But you had your sleeping bag, pillow, and blanket from home and you weren’t touching the sheets.”

“I know,” I said. “But I was still afraid…I was afraid I would accidentally touch the sheets in the night.”

Bob busted up fully.

“Ha,ha, ha, ha. So you were like lying there asleep, and then you’d wake up with a jolt, look to your side and think the sheets, like they were some monster?” He stiffened his body and imitated me in a fear state on the bed at the motel, terrified to move an inch. “But you were in a sleeping bag,” he added.

“I know,” I said, “but I was afraid if I feel asleep my arm might flop out and…”

“And you’d accidentally braze the sheetttttttttttttttt!”

“Yes,” I answered, by now laughing hysterically. “I couldn’t move or relax because I was afraid I would touch the sheets”

“I love you, Honey,” Bob said, implying he knew how hard it was for me to be me, right before he did another mini-scene of me being attacked by the sheets.

Here is my bed: (See how close the sheets are???)


I guess Bob wasn’t too surprised by my sheet confession, because this morning in the motel I made another of my phobias known. I had whispered to him, “Okay, I’m just going to tell you now, so when you find the wet clothes in the laundry you’ll know why.”

“Oh, no,” he responded, shaking his head. “What?”

“I’m showering in my socks!”

blue skyOn the way home

I wanted to call this post: Attack of the Killer Sheets, but I didn’t want to give the ending away.

288: Winter Comes

dark tree

Winter Comes

Winter comes, as it often does, his cold face upon my flesh, burning,

And I am made as pine forest swollen thick, my endless branches covered in frozen stillness,

Swept across the carpeted white, my dreams shiver, the darkness rising with each fallen crystal,

Caressed, I was, in the tenderness of autumn’s promise, in the savoring of summer’s waltz,

In the incandescent spotlight of springing flower fields,

Dance, as we did, two drifting leaves upon the shadow of self,

Spun, as we did, our golden orbs woven true, one onto the other,

Until the sunlight ceased, and dawn dismissed her rays,

Like dripping-orange of long ago trails of children at play,

Come swing, come hide, come find me beneath the arching limbs,

I called, even as the last glimmer of day scurried down beyond the mouth of valley,

Even as the night embraced, father moon stretching arms about the stars,

I called, lamb of the vast sky and seeded land,

We mingled then, daughter I am, wed in delight to son of the mountain quake,

We quivered there, as two arrows set out together, to claim a destination,

Fine marksman he be, who willed us so, the child of the horizon stretched and bent into your clay-flesh,

Still, even as we clung in unison, our echoes the same, our landing near, one questioned,

Still, as if by chance the widow bleeds black and the talisman finds master, one denied,

And so dark winter claws came, as happens when beauty is stung, his steps the thickest snow marked in red,

And I as captive, deserted by the richest earth himself, had no choice but to follow,

My feet, my hands, my breath, my bosom, reborn rapacious, where your light was meant to live.

~ Samantha Craft, December 2012

287: Neurotic Films That Make Me Feel Normal

I like the fact that the word neurotic and erotic rhyme. No point to this statement, except that the thought makes me giggle.

I’ve been under the weather, since the start of the week.

(Paused to look up origin of the phrase under the weather, as I couldn’t concentrate until I knew. Findings: The crew aboard ships become seasick most frequently during times of rough seas and stormy weather. People experience seasickness as a result of a ship’s constant rocking motion. Passengers seek refuge from seasickness below deck. Below deck, or the keel of the ship, provided shelter from the weather but is also a place where passengers experience less rocking motion. Thusly, when one is under the weather, he/she is seeking relief from suffering by going below deck, beneath the weather.)

My acute illness has mimicked my eldest son’s head-cold exactly: sore throat, followed by body aches and slight fever, followed by faucet nose and non-stop dripping eye.

I look lovely, truly: puffy faced, swollen eyes, and red nose. But seeing I’m well enough to post, despite my ghastly appearance, I’m surely recovering.

For Christmas, my cousin sent me dark-chocolate that is molded into the shape of a cherub. At first I believed the act of eating a cherub to be strange. But then, after I used a knife to decapitate the angel and dismembered and mutilated the entire body, I felt oddly sinful and delighted all at once as the sliced-and-diced sweetness melted inside my heated mouth.

Being sick during the holiday season sucks eggs!

Primarily as there is nothing to do but plumage through all of the festive goodies scattered about the house. This cold came with a ravenous appetite, and seems I was unable to satiate my stomach unless I devoured at least ten english toffee pieces (covered in nuts) a day, and washed these devilish-treats down with goddess-like, sugar-coated pecans.

I now pause to thank the scale for announcing my excess poundage, and reminding me of my pillaging. I thank the mirror for reinforcing my weight gain, in the form of chipmunk cheeks and a plump little belly. Indeed, I resemble a cross between Rudolph and one of Santa’s helpers. Quite fitting for the season, I suppose.

I’ve been fighting the miserly voices in my head, those poopheads that like to admonish me for indulgences, reminding me constantly of life’s dangers, including obesity, liver disease, and lethargy, from anything from the spiked eggnog and port wine, to the nighttime cold medicine. Severe liver damage, the phrase itself, keeps dancing in my head like some vivacious roadkill demanding to be dissected. How I long for visions of sugar-plum fairies or the liken, and all things sweet. Instead I am endowed with this overactive mind, that can’t seem to ever relax, especially when drugged up, over-stuffed, and immobile.

I’ve had way too much time to meander through the wilderness of my own thoughts, and have, as a result, circumvented all my previous avenues for planned respite and escape. Knowing I needed to bypass my own supercilious mind, while stricken with fever and while experiencing both emotional and physical angst, I devised an escape plan.

I keenly reasoned, if I had a goal that involved helping others, but that also incorporated the act of relaxation, that I might indeed be able to relax, and feasibly enjoy said relaxation without too much guilt.  (Goal + helping another = Happy Sam)

I am happy to report that my scheme against my very own self worked.

As I rested flat on my back, and set about to watch some ten-plus, romantic comedies in the stretch of 48 hour time period, I repeatedly reminded myself, that in actuality I was neither sloth-like or a waster of time, because I was partaking in the act of researching ten movies (goal) in order to report out potential films that might offer others happiness (helping another). Thusly, each time the icky, snotty interior voice (that lives inside me and eats at my joy) spoke up, sometimes several times in a quarter-hour, spewing words such as: useless or fatly couch spud, I was able to strike back with my plan. In so doing, in speaking up for myself to myself, I was able to savor at least a few stringed minutes of peace of mind.

While this likely sounds quite ridiculous, my resulting behavior has produced this glorious list of  Enjoyable  Films.

1. Happy Accidents

I’m a Marisa Tomei liker, so I’m biased. This is a year 2000 romantic comedy. If you are a romantic at heart and love happy endings, this one is a keeper. Plus the main characters pretend name is “Sam.”

2.  Overnight


There are several films with this same name. This one takes place on an airplane. “This romantic comedy follows two neurotic strangers who meet amid an odd group of passengers.” ~ Netflix

3. Sidewalls

Sundance and Foreign Flick…. artistic and visually stimulating. One of my new favorites. Odd and lovable movie. True love will find you in the end. Highly creative.

4. In A Day

A UK film. Heart-warming. A man and woman spend one day together because “someone” wants her to have a great day; the woman is spoiled. Sweet with a twist. Loved this one.

5.  HottieBoombaLottie

A geeky movie that really made me smile. There is a scene towards the end that involves a person with a paintgun shooting in a classroom; because of events in the USA recently, I was sensitive to this scene. However the rest of the movie was delightful and unpredictable in its quirkiness and oddity. I love a movie where the underdog finds happiness.

6. Take This Waltz

Oh my! Erotic and Neurotic combined. One for the ladies. The ending seems to keep coming. A mixture of lust, love and heart-break.

The movie truly mimics this song:

7. The River Why

If you like fish, you’ll love this movie. About a man finding himself and escaping the tight-grip of his parents’ opinions. Nice musical score, lovely characters, and pretty people. Based on an acclaimed novel.

8. Romantics Anonymous (LES EMOTIFS ANONYMES)

I loved this one so much, I might watch it again tomorrow. Innocent and adorable and passionate, all at once. And it is centered around chocolate!!!!

9. Quill: The Life of a Guide Dog

I had to include this one on the list. I watched most of this Japanese film. The beginning is adorable. The end slows down some, but it is nonetheless deserving of attention. I don’t think it classifies as neurotic, but it definitely was an endearing movie. My dog, Violet, really liked this one, and kept watching the puppy.

10. The Fairy

“Belgium-based trio Dominique Abel, Fiona Gordon and Bruno Romy follow their acclaimed ICEBERG and RUMBA with another Tati-inspired, candy-colored romp: this time, a charmingly off-kilter adventure about a hotel clerk who falls in love with a wish-granting fairy.” ~ Youtube link above


If you live in the USA, these are all on Netflix.


Sam (aka: hopelessly romantic neurotic)

Seasons Greetings



Josh Groban 

From the album “Noel”


Somedays we forget

To look around us

Somedays we can’t see
The joy that surrounds us
So caught up inside ourselves
We take when we should give.

So for tonight we pray for
What we know can be.
And on this day we hope for
What we still can’t see.
It’s up to us to be the change
And even though we all can still do more
There’s so much to be thankful for.

Look beyond ourselves
There’s so much sorrow
It’s way too late to say
I’ll cry tomorrow
Each of us must find our truth
It’s so long overdue

So for tonight we pray for
What we know can be
And every day we hope for
What we still can’t see
It’s up to us to be the change
And even though we all can still do more
There’s so much to be thankful for.

Even with our differences
There is a place we’re all connected
Each of us can find each other’s light

So for tonight we pray for
What we know can be
And on this day we hope for 
What we still can’t see
It’s up to us to be the change
And even though this world needs so much more

There’s so much to be thankful for

Merry Christmas from Violet and Sam. See you soon. 🙂

286: Magical Thinking vs. Angels

King of Kings 2

I have had precognition, a profound sense of knowing, the ability to sense emotions in others, and similar experiences since I was very small. The first experience I can recall was when I was about the age of three, when I dreamt our house was on fire. A few days later, my mother woke me up in the middle of my sleep, and brought me outside, as the neighbor’s fence was aflame.

My nightmares came early, about the age of three. Terrible night terrors involving giant insects; the one I remember the most was a grotesque caterpillar that wanted to devour me. When I reached the age of eleven, terrible spirits, that seemed like demons, would come and torture me in my sleep. It was at this time I started having out-of-body experiences, finding myself awake outside of my body, able to see and sense everything in the room (and beyond) but unable to get back into my body.

During my many years of nightmares, once demons placed me over an open fire and spun me on a stick to burn my flesh. Another time, I was out of my body (astral projecting) and a demon was dragging me by my feet down my bed.

I was visited by spirits in the daytime, too, and for a good stretch of a year slept with a rosary around my neck and the bedroom light and television on.

For years after my dog, Justice, died, I would feel him upon my bed next to me and hear him suckling at his backside.

I began to dream of my pets’ deaths, when I was about the age of eight, and would wake up terrified and screaming. My mother always, always without fail, believed in me. She would listen to my nightmares, or what I deemed nightmares, and we’d watch together in the next seven days, as my dreams would manifest into real life.

I’ve had profound experiences in my adult years, including a time I predicted the coming of a large-scale spiritual event in a small town I’d never heard of before. Angel and Mary https://aspergersgirls.wordpress.com/?s=angel+and+mary

I’ve dreamt of car crashes that came true. I’ve had friends visit me in dreams and tell me about their lives.

Lately, I’ve had physical symptoms connected to a dear friend. She has gotten to the point now that she calls me to tell me how she is feeling, as I pick up on her health (before she informs me of an ailment), and then I am temporarily overcome with anxiety. The last time was the visualization of a lancing of a cyst near my upper left side. Something my friend later confirmed.

When my husband and I were hoping to move to the Northwest of America, I called upon my angels. I asked: If we are going to move there. If my husband is going to get the job, give me a sign in the next song. The next song on the radio mentioned the exact town my husband’s future job would be, the exact place he was interviewing that day out-of-state. No other songs have the name of this not-so-famous town in their lyrics. And it just so happened, that same day as my husband’s interview, my son’s school went to a minor-league baseball game, and I tagged along. The team the Sacramento River Cats was playing was from, like the song lyrics, the exact town my husband was interviewing in that day.

I believe. I believe in knowings. I believe in what I choose to call my angels.

When I tried to explain these types of events, in limitation, and without too much information, to my psychologist years ago, he quickly scribbled on his notepad some words, and then said, in a classic-Freudian-manner: “Hmmmm. I see. You have what is called: Magical Thinking.”

It was then, I began to think something was wrong with my world, in the way I saw things, and felt things. It was then, I tried to block some of these “magical thinking” experiences out. It would take me several years to realize that when I did not accept what I consider my gifts that I would endure suffering in multiple forms, including physical and mental anguish.

It’s not that I believe I was being punished for trying to stop my natural nature; I think these non-beneficial sensations occurred because I was not being true to myself, and blocking my life potential and calling. When I started to accept my self in completion and follow my inner calling, I began to heal.

I find it very odd that the way I experience aspects of my life is termed: Magical Thinking by mental health professionals. After all, there is proof that the events I experience beforehand come true, and there is evidence that I have accurately picked up on others’ emotions. I find it odd because in other cultures throughout the world, people believe in all types of what would be termed magic, such as shamans’ mystical powers.

It is interesting to me that trained psychologists draw a fine line between magical thinking and spirituality based on core religious beliefs. In other words, the fact that I believe in a higher power and pray to this invisible source, and take refuge in a person dying and coming back to life, is totally acceptable to a person in the mental health field, as these thoughts fall under the pretense of an accepted religious sect. However, if I went into a psychologist office and claimed to be talking to the trees and the spirits of the trees, this would be deemed “magical thinking,” or likely something more derogatory in nature. Only becasuse  a psychologist has accepted a spiritual belief as normal based on the consensus and behavior of a majority of people, and in contrast not accepted the spiritual consensus of a minority of people. This seems like a form of prejudice to me. I truthfully don’t understand how mental health professionals can draw a line.

I’m saying all of this because my so-called “magical thinking” has been stronger than ever. I am called to write, and lately to paint. The painting, during the last few days has blossomed for me. I am using mixed media, including paper towels, toothpicks, and today vanilla liquid, and the vanilla bottle cap, to paint with.

As I am creating, I am in prayer and with spirit. Sometimes the process takes more than two hours. I start with my logical mind and a paintbrush in hand, painting symbolic images that are significant to me and reflect angels, love, and peace. Sometimes I first write positive words in pencil on the canvas. Something generally clicks in after an hour, and I begin to disconnect from the logical part of my brain, and spirit takes over, guiding me. I do not know what the end product of my paintings will ever look like. I don’t even know parts of what I am painting, when the second hour sets in.

At the start of my painting, a week or two ago, my angels revealed to me that I would be able to see spirits and love in the end product. I have been pleased and amazed by my last few paintings. The original three were dark and gloomy, as I was processing through much mourning. But the last three have been brilliant in regards to the energy I feel from the images.

As I was painting recently, I felt multiple sensations and saw multiple avenues of energy and energy blockages. I am able to use the paintbrush to open up and free these blockages through wide and free strokes, guided less by me than by another source.

Whether one chooses to call this my creative side, the collective unconscious, my higher-self, my angels, or a helping spirit, makes no difference to me. I am not attached to definitions. But I know for me that this process of painting seems to include a positive force from the light.

Through this process of painting, I have been able to release much angst and worry, and to forget where I am momentarily. Like many artists at work, I am able to escape this reality and fall into my very creation.

The only part I find a bit difficult is pulling out of the rhythm to do manual tasks, such as the act of retrieving a paper towel or cleaning a brush. The rest is a smooth process of freedom.

My angels typically present themselves as one, and speak to me as my own inner voice. I am always filled with intense peace when they are about. They never criticize or judge. There is never harmful intention or ill will. All is perfect and glorious in their world.

A while back, some two years ago, my spirit that guides me presented himself as Stewart of the Light. He instructed me to consider looking up the name Stewart in a book of names; when I did, I discovered the name Stewart means “Helping Spirit.” He giggled at me, as angels have a marvelous sense of humor, when I announced: Helping Spirit of the Light.

Today’s painting, King of Kings, reinforced for me what I can produce (with help) when I listen to my angels. I can see now, as they have told me, that this is a picture of Jesus, both the King of Angels and the King of Kings. His robe is made of vanilla, to represent his sweetness. He has feathers to represent his wings. His “royal” robe is opened to those in need. To his left, the right side of the painting, is a woman. She is both comforting Jesus, praying to Jesus, and weeping at his side.

I do not label myself “religious” or “Christian,” as during the times we live in now the energy behind these specific words can often frighten and harm people. Not intentionally, in many cases, but the words, nonetheless, often still have non-beneficial energy. I do pray there comes a day when these words reflect the wholeness and goodness of Christ’s unconditional love.

I can’t say I am angered by those who try to push their belief system upon others, because I have had a difficult time experiencing anger towards anyone anymore, other than during fleeting moments. But I can say that it saddens me that those that are supposed to represent Christ’s love (by calling themselves Christians) are often times presenting themselves in a way that seems to me to be closed-minded, judgmental, and harmful.

I’m not sure while all of these thoughts are presenting themselves at this moment. Perhaps this is my angels way of wishing you all a Merry Christmas. Perhaps not. Perhaps this is indeed just all magical thinking. In the end, I don’t think any definition applied to my experience and perception truly matters, as long as I am loving myself and others.

Merry Christmas Lovely Souls.


When I began to paint, my angels told me that when I took photos of my paintings I would see helping spirits and angels. I do!

Images of Spirits

angel heart spirit


Angel Heart Spirt above


King of Kings Spirit

Matthew 7:15-20

New King James Version (NKJV)

You Will Know Them by Their Fruits

“Beware of false prophets, who come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ravenous wolves.  16 You will know them by their fruits. Do men gather grapes from thornbushes or figs from thistles? 17 Even so, every good tree bears good fruit, but a bad tree bears bad fruit. 18 A good tree cannot bear bad fruit, nor can a bad tree bear good fruit. 19 Every tree that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire. 20 Therefore by their fruits you will know them.”

Several interpretations of this passage found here

The other night I had a dream. In the dream a man approached me. He was not of any form I recognized. As hard as I tried, I could not visualize him. Eventually he took the shape of a human, in an appearance he believed I would be comfortable seeing. I knew this because he communicated with me without speaking. He instructed me, without words, to stand there and to shut my eyes. I knew innately, in the whole of me, I had nothing to fear. He faced me, standing close, and stretched out his arm very straight and with much intention. He then placed the whole of his palm upon my forehead, in a form of a blessing or anointment. I understood I was being healed. I saw a brilliant vision of blue, a color I cannot place or recreate. The blue remained until he pulled his hand away. He spoke again without use of his mouth and then placed his palm back upon my forehead. I don’t remember what happened next.

Since this experience, I have had a new-found peace, clarity, and reawakening. I am still me, no doubt, with the complexities of my mind, and the emotions that play out based on other people and my own physical body, but there is a distinct difference inside of me, where in more and more fear and attachment is being released.

Another story you might find interesting. My vision to write

I would like to thank AlienHippy and the author of Thoughts from the Outdoors  for their dear friendship and on going support. I consider them both my earth angels. ❤

285: Angel Heart

angel heart

Angel Heart by Samantha Craft


Angel Heart

Meet me at the causeway

The hallway to knowing

And there

Call upon the light

And I shall come

To the feathered bed

Of your sleeping ocean

Soft, whispering wings

Stirring waters blue

Trembling joy

In ministry true

In undistinguishable form

In rays flittering gold


Precious spectrum of eternal


Enter cleansed

The house of glory

Storm windows flung open

To the wind

Of anointment

Sealed upon

My precious child

~ by Samantha Craft

 Awakened Angels

Awakened Angels by Samantha Craft

The ABCs of Aspergers

The ABCs Of Aspergers

These attributes describe some of the wonderful qualities people with Aspergers may have:

A: Apologetic, Admit fault, Avoid superficial conversation, Accepting of quirks

B: Brilliant in chosen field of study

C: Capable, Caring, Complimentary, Creative, Clever problem solvers

D: Detail oriented, Driven, Devoted, Dauntless in Interests, Dependable, Deep Thinkers, Don’t Discriminate, Don’t have hidden agendas, Defend the weak

E: Enthusiastic, Exhibit Exceptional Endurance, Entertaining, Enlightened

F: Fact Finders, Forthright, Forgiving, Free from prejudice, Fruitful

G: Genuine, Good memory for facts and details

H: High-level of Integrity, Honest, Highly Focused

I:  Intelligent, Imaginative, Idealists, Ingenious, Instructive

J:  Justice seekers, Just

K: Knowledgeable, Kind

L: Loyal, Look for goodness and genuineness in friends, Listen without judgment

M: Memory can be exceptional, Memorable conversationalist

N: Not bullies, Not manipulative, Not deceptive, Not game players, Not inclined to lie and steal

O: Original thinkers, Open to new information, Outstanding, Optimistic despite setbacks

P: Puzzle solvers, Pattern finders, Pragmatic, Philosophical thinkers, Poetic, Passionately Pursue interests

Q: Quick learners, Quick thinkers, Question “truths” and opinions

R: Reliable, Regard others for their personhood, Routine establishers, Rule followers

S:  Sincere, Solution finders, Speak their mind, Strength in endeavors, Strong moral code, Sensitive to Sensory Stimuli

T: Talented, Trusting, Think in Pictures, Truth Seekers

U: Unique perspective and outlook

V:  Valiant, Vigilant, Advanced Vocabulary

W: Word interest, Witty humor, Wonderful Work ethics

X:  Non-Xenophobic

Y:  Youthful-outlook, Yearn for truth

Z:  Zestful, Zealous

I don’t know about you, but I think the world could do with a few more people like this!

It is human nature to classify and to make sense out of chaos. It is human nature to look for a reason and cause, especially in the aftermath of tragedy. It is also, oftentimes, a part of the human condition to find a scapegoat.

Using Aspergers or Autism Spectrum Disorders as a scapegoat is wrong. It is a form of discrimination.

Aspergers is not a mental illness. It does not lead to insanity or cause insane actions. Aspergers is a neurological condition that experts believe affects the frontal lobe of the brain, a condition that leads to differences in neurological function. It is a condition of the brain.

Though some would argue, Aspergers is a condition of the spirit, and simply a way of sensing the world in a different way than the typical person.

People with Aspergers are extremely bright, well-spoken, and loving individuals.

Claiming that a horrific event was caused because a person has an autism spectrum disorder does nothing but cause misery and pain to a group of individuals already facing discrimination and challenges.

It is a falsehood that Aspergers could in and of itself lead to violence. Aspergers, like all neurological conditions, causes challenges in day-to-day life, but it does not cause a person to be heartless or evil.

On the contrary, I know and relate to hundreds of people with Aspergers, and they have proven time and time again to be open-minded, wise beyond their years, fair and just, extremely honest, and compassionate. These people with ASD are some of the most caring and empathetic people I have met.

I am glad to call many people with Aspergers my friends and trusted confidants.

It saddens me deeply that we live in a society that is quick to lay blame without adequate research or inquiry. It saddens me that some of the brightest lights on this planet, often writers, artists, poets, and philosophers, are being pegged as somehow wrong and in need of fixing.

I know who I am. I know who my son is. We both happen to have Aspergers. This does not make us any better or worse than the rest of the citizens in our community. It is just an additional part of our personhood.

It is often the deprived, unloved and lost person who performs harmful acts. If we want to stop such acts we need to love others, provide safety, direction and support. We need to have a system in place that identifies children in need and then helps the children, regardless of financial implications.

There is much we can do to make a positive difference. I encourage you to stop supporting organizations and businesses that spread untruths for profit, and encourage you to start spreading your own truth.

Blessings ~ Sam



Helpful Link

282: The One I Love

This is long overdue.

Without my husband I would not be able to dedicated time to my painting, writing, and healing of body, mind, and spirit.

I can spend all day in creation and not do one thing around the house, in regards to cleaning and cooking, and my husband does not complain. He picks up where I left off. He does the dishes, the laundry, shampoos the carpets, and even makes dinner sometimes.

He is so loving to me and a true giver. He expects nothing from me in return.

He has a heart of gold and an amazing mind and spirit. He is one of the smartest people I’ve ever met, with the ability to transition and grow, and to look at his own personal journey and challenges.

He is never conceded and never cruel.

He accepts me unconditionally in all my moods and emotions. He respects my need for space and my tendency to retreat into my own world. He patiently awaits my return.

He holds me when I cry and laughs at my quirks. He reads my blog posts daily, always ready with a compliment or reassurance.

He helps me to see my light and beauty. He tells me I am a genius, that I have the kindest heart of anyone he knows, that I am loving and a good mom, and that I am gorgeous and sexy. He tells me all of his dreams have come true.

My husband is my rock, my knight sent down to protect me. a radiant and dashing earth angel.

I take comfort in his continued dedication and efforts to be the best man he can be.

Without him, I know I wouldn’t be doing my works, I wouldn’t have the time or strength to connect with others. He has provided me with the necessary tools to fulfill my life’s calling and dreams. He has given me the freedom to be myself and to flourish. In return, I accept him unconditionally and cherish him as my dearest friend.

Thank you Dear One for the gift of YOU!

If you’d like to leave a comment: “Thank you Bob!” is a good one.

Post 282  (2= union 8= infinity) 

This is a process I went through to paint my concept of love and angels. The first layer of “The Union” includes the green of healing and speaking my truth from the throat chakra. It also represents the breaking down of energetic blockages and releasing the free-flowing energy within me; the blue represents my angels; the yellow my light and the universal light of love. I created this first layer and then continued to create the final piece.

First Layer

This is the final piece, where I have blended all the elements of free-flowing energy, connection, angels, and the light of love.

The Union by Samantha Craft

Here is an emotional process I went through during the past three days. The first represents the darkness and inner angst. The second a layering over the darkness, a release of chaos, a freeing of self. The third, the final composition: The Birth of Light.

Layer One: The darkness


Layer two: The chaos and release….freedom awaken


Birth of Light

Art Therapy has been a wonderful avenue to release much of the inner passion and emotion burning inside of me. I continue to feel light, love and glowing. Even in times of my greatest sorrow, when I am sobbing to my angels, I feel loved, centered, and right where I am meant to be. Once again, this weekend, a person I haven’t seen in a long while said to me, “Wow. What has happened to you? You are glowing!” She was giggling and kept repeating the words. I am continually reminded of my transition and reaping the benefits of my hard soul work. I am both encouraged and excited for the days ahead. While I still have brief moments of fear and doubt, they are quickly diminished by thoughts of my angels, the light, and all of you. You are my earth angels, and continue to set me free each day. Thank you and Bless You.

A special thank you to my friend Lisa for encouraging me to paint and for my friend Amy for opening up my eyes to the gifts before me.