Month: February 2013

318: The Third Door

| Aspergers Girls

318

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sam

Someone once told me that there are three doors to self:

One door you willingly open and show the world. A second door you open to some. And a third door that usually remains closed, a place where you hold the deepest hurts, secrets that if exposed might make you crumble.

In February of 2012, I opened the third door.

Through a series of events, including the discovering of my Asperger’s Syndrome, my necessary exiting from a university counseling program, and my beloved dog’s death, I spiraled into a place of deep depression.

Having been told by a licensed mental health practitioner that indeed she had no doubts I had Aspergers, a massive vault of inner self was opened. It was as if I’d been carrying around a phantom secret my entire life, teetering on a finite point of self-knowledge, but never quite touching down to the answers.

And now I stood, feet firmly planted in the muck and guck of all the places I’d traveled, both externally and internally, faced with all the years of wondering and searching, from priest to psychiatrist, mountain after mountain climbed, in hopes of figuring out essentially “what was wrong with me.”

I knew from a young age that I viewed the world differently. I am an observer of sorts, always an observer, analyzing and picking apart the pieces that intermingle about me, in the spaces between thought and reason, in the middle point where the black and white merge to form something beyond grey.

I see in pictures, vivid images. As I write now, the words are first filtered, almost simultaneously with first thought, into a stream of expression, each word carrying its own color, rhythm and vibration. And the world, my world, is like this too: everything, everywhere, something moving and carrying its own awareness, as if screaming to be seen.

My world is a constant mystery, a present to be opened time and time again, each new day a new beginning. I cannot help this. This is who I am and whom I have always been.

I don’t understand rules and customs, not because I lack the ability to see what is happening, or to read between the lines, but because I see the infinite possibilities of other choices and options, of other paths, so to speak.

I don’t understand dogma and criticism and rights and wrongs, as it seems there is always another side, another way, and in this way, somewhere a victim struggling to be heard.

A passion so deep, runs through me, a river of sorts, that twists and turns and carries a truth I understand, even if no one else does. In a sense I need no confirmation or validation, it is as it is, and just who I be.

Yet, to live in this world, to walk where I walk, there is this way about me, this way I am supposed to be—some societal-imposed rules of conduct and expected behavior that confuses me; for since a child, I was left to wonder, who are the inventors of these rules, and why do they invent?

I was left to wonder why the others, who weren’t me, but seemed an extension of me, behaved in predictable patterns determined by some unknown structure, endowed with the gifts of evidentally knowing when there is nothing to be known, at least nothing to be feasibly discovered in the infiniteness of variables of truth.

I discovered early on that my only solace was in my faith, that being, by my choosing, and my choosing alone, a universal maker that I call God. In here, inside my faith, and only here, I found answers. I began to see the scope of the world as so narrow, at least when viewed through the eyes of so many lost travelers. I began to see that I too was lost with them, in this collective of nonsense recreating games in an attempt be seen.

I stepped out. I removed myself from the game, and was immediately ostracized and shunned, repeatedly corrected for not being as everyone else; even as I watched and knew that all about me was imaginary, people filling in the holes with their ways, when they weren’t really their ways at all.

For to be inside me, is to be inside complexity. Everything mixed and unmuted, painted and swirled with endless possibilities. But it appeared that to be inside of another, at least most of another, was limiting and restricted, honed in by self-inflicted leashes.

I was isolation.

I was what the experience of isolation encompasses: the observer knowing she is different, not knowing why, and forced without reason or cause to walk outside of the line.

I was a loner; though I stood alongside my peers, I was always alone.

I was alone in my creation of different selves in an attempt to move through a world that made no sense. I was alone in my attempt after attempt to be like that which I did not understand. I was alone in my compassion to want to touch another at a level they were uncomfortable touching. I was a traveler who knew not where she touched down and knew not with whom she was supposed to meet.

I was alone.

I was alone until I reached out, not to another, but into the deepest corridors of self. I was alone until I sat within the inner makings of what rested behind my door number three. Until I purged out all of the demons and hauntings and broken pieces of self, and set about to reform the being I truly was.

And then, as I began to see me, unleashed from the fear that had once buried me, others began to see me too; for it was in my true self that they recognized a part of their own true selves. It was in the opening of my third door that others were freed to open theirs.

Together, myself intertwined with others who knew of me and who understood the axe of isolation and disconnection, we began to emerge—one door upon the next, opening and reopening.

And with this opening, we began to see we were no longer alone.

We began to see beauty.

We began to heal.

For finally someone could see us.

Finally we were no longer invisible.

Finally we were understood.

And this is my door number three, these words I have shared, above and below, and out there, in the circling space of energy; not because I needed to find another, but because I needed to be free.

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317: Ember Hand

| Aspergers Girls

You found me in this river, swimming.
You found me in this ocean, the sea before the sea.

A virgin I watched, as waters lapped above me, the pool enriching the substance of my heat.

Misery was captured in the bubbles, foam perched beyond the horizon, distance haunting and calling me free.

I came, as one often comes, for dinner of delight; my appetite wrapped in folded crimson napkin; my supper less for cause than for circumstance.

For I wanted to dance, and with you I wished to breathe.

I came from the depths of the blue, no more familiar to this land than the sturgeon to the vine of the trees.

How I dug my feet in the sand, like a summer day that first kisses your forehead.
I moved, a child to this world, in a way I both recognized and denied, an innocence so refined.

I watched for you, a symphony to my senses, ripping apart my insides so that they fluttered out a butterfly of sorts, dancing about your grave stone and singing to the heaven’s lords.

I turned and danced merrily, your shadow still beneath, your image laid down in the earth’s grumblings.

You were vision.
You were sensuality.
You were the purpose for which I left my castle of the sea and stepped upon the land, less naked than guised in the wonderment of unfamiliar.

I shivered from the bounty before me, all decorated in the drapes of uncertainty, and I wished, with my delicate heart, to find you where you rested, a man of my waiting.

I whispered into the shells I carried: “Hello, my sweet beneath me. Hello, my land of man. Hello, my angel dreaming. Hello, my ember hand.”

And I twirled in the dress of satin white, knitted and laced, sewn with the grandest of merriment, the child I be.

In my youth I would dream you into existence and just be; you as my soldier true returned from where it was you went; me, your diamond carved for scarlet string draped around your nape.

And I would rest there, in my vision, my skin upon your skin, sparkling as if we’d both been kissed by father sun.

I’d rest and feel the beat from that of one I’d wished upon. A star wrapped into the golden skin of you. How you shined so brightly but dimmed enough to soothe me to the place of shore-light’s lullaby; woven to sleep by your gentle grace.

My gentle man you were, as I sat along the side of your shadow buried, embraced by the near presence of the name of you. So calm your ways, so free and without the weight of what this world does bring.

I harbored you there, inside of me, not once, not twice, but for eternity, in this mingled embrace.

Kiss me I dreamed you to say, and knew that the fire that grew was not a demon birthed but the essential purpose of my being.

For twin sparked twin and ember came, again and again, like the fire that shows his last light before dying to the night sky.

Take me, I sang, and you did.

I held you there inside my dream, my lips smeared with the grace of where you’d touched, my hunting seized, my search swallowed, my destiny claimed and staked where the hold once be.

No longer empty, I clung on to the hope of return.

No longer forlorn and broken, I edged my own self up around my edges and found one where two once stood.

For you had gone, and in your leaving left me half again, not less, but more in my making.

And still I sit here, the waters below me, my breath breathing, my will willing you forward.

But I find you not, this angel you be; I find you not, for forever is before me no more, only the ocean of endless tomorrow in which you exist not; neither ripped away from past or brought forward to future, in the cyclic cycle of new dawn after new dawn.

You are a wavering memory, wiped clean before tasted, swept out of the eyes before entering, and I am left wondering if you ever came or I wished it so to be.

Samantha Craft, February 2013

316: 50 Reasons to Leave Your Lover

| Aspergers Girls

Me 4

1. He tells you as he is making out with you, “Someday your future boyfriend will be really glad I taught you this.”

2. He corrects and critiques the way you break your bread, showing you how to separate the roll into four equal pieces.

3. He stays up all night scraping the black factory-painted pinstripe off of his truck because he can’t sleep until it’s entirely gone.

4. He stays up all night making cardboard hotels for cats, convinced he will be rich off of his invention.

5. He owns a limo, but it turns out he’s the driver, and he likes to tell you often what he watches the passengers doing in the backseat.

6. He explains that he likes you a lot, and will share a bed with you, but doesn’t feel comfortable sitting on the same couch as you.

7. He steals your expensive perfume bottle (again) and “secretly” gives it as a present to his other girlfriend.

8. He doesn’t have driving insurance and totals his truck while on a secret rendezvous to the mountains with his other lover, and then asks you to come get him at the hospital.

9. He says, after your first dinner date, which he planned to be out of town, that he is too drunk to drive home but has conveniently already booked a hotel room nearby.

10. He promises he just wants to cuddle.

11. He says he has a romantic surprise for you, and when you enter the room there is a “toy” and a video camera set up.

12. His father tells you, after your lover has gone missing for three days: “He is just like me, a player, and he ain’t changing.”

13. His mother takes you out to an intimate lunch and tells you, “You are so smart and lovely and kind, why are you with my son?”

14. He takes you to an antique store to teach you have to shoplift.

15. He sells you a stereo that he bought with his roommates “stolen” credit card.

16. He doesn’t come and find you when you run out of the house crying.

17. He calls his ex-girlfriend when you are still in bed together.

18. He has rearranged the photos of you as a couple each time you come over.

19. He lives with his sister, has no job, is addicted to pain-killers, and is a chain-smoker.

20. He makes you gag.

21. He makes you wish you lived on another planet.

22. He says, “I don’t love you, I’m certain.”

23. He is the roommate of the other really odd guy you dated.

24. He has an ex-wife that warns, “Watch out, he is trouble.”

25. He enters a room and every woman wants to give him his number, and he takes them.

26. He has deep dark brown bedroom eyes, and he knows it.

27. He shows up late all the time, and always has a very detailed excuse.

28. He says, “It depends, are you planning on losing weight,” when you ask him if you should cut your hair shorter.

29. He tells you how to dress.

30. He tells to wear long fake fingernails painted pink.

31. He is in therapy with you and seeing another therapist with his wife.

32. He enters the athletic gym, and the male employees look at you, raise a brow, and say in a derogatory tone, “That’s your boyfriend?”

33. He was the first man you saw after breaking up with your other boyfriend who was the first man you saw.

34. He claims he cannot tell you where he lives because it is a temporary situation and he can’t give you his phone number because he doesn’t have a phone.

35. He plans a party and not one person shows up.

36. He asks your father for your hand in marriage, shortly after his mistress, holding a baby, kicks down his apartment door in an attempt to kill you.

37. He does things with himself at stop signs you know are plain wrong, but he insists everyone does it.

38. He lies to his mother.

39. He yells at you because you packed the camping ice-chest wrong.

40. He tells you that your suspicions about his cheating on you means you are paranoid.

41. He likes beer with his breakfast.

42. He takes you out to drink “brain freeze” alcoholic shots for the first date.

43. He tells you all about his special adventures with his guy friend, with a twinkle of love in his eyes.

44. He takes you to a party and you find him half-naked in the bathroom with his ex-girlfriend, and he claims she is helping to adjust his Halloween costume.

45. He tells you how you could be prettier.

46. He asks you to buy something for his mother’s birthday because he can’t afford it.

47. He takes you on an out-of-state trip, via airplane, to his hometown and disappears in the early morning to meet up with a past lover.

48. He calls you from a phone booth, a few blocks away, claiming he is out-of-town working for a few days.

49. He doesn’t say, “You are beautiful.”

(He points out your mistakes often, like forgetting to add number 50 to this list.)

Please protect your aspie daughter. Teach her she is worthy. Love her unconditionally. Pay attention to her. She doesn’t know as much as you think she does. She thinks, like herself, that everyone is kind-hearted and filled with good intention. Teach her about red flags, about predators, about liars, about trickery, and about manipulation. Teach her about appropriate behavior and conduct. Consider her an angel on earth, uneducated about the ways of this world. Hold her and cherish her. And above all teach her how special she is.

This was my first album; I used to play this song over and over and over. I memorized all the lyrics. I was so awesome.

Random thought: What if the reason why my dog is so very happy to see me every morning is because in her reality one night is 100 years!

315: My Aspie Friend Rocks!

| Aspergers Girls

copii aspie iarna (2)

This post is dedicated to the little girl who made this drawing. I do not know her and I do not know her mother. We only just connected online today. I was sent this drawing as a gift, and what a gift it is. The picture is called: Asperger Children in Winter The daughter’s words speak volumes: “I know Mommy, who can be my best friend, somebody who has the same syndrome as me; then he could be kind with me and understand me better; I’m so sure about that.”

I couldn’t help but to cry. If you are comfortable, please say a prayer for her. Hold her in light. I cannot wait for her to meet her special friend. I cannot wait for her friend to behold her beautiful heart.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
marcelle

First off I have to say at a recent Super Bowl gathering, one in which I only broke out in one hive, I was totally myself. So much so, that I had to private message a new “friend” after the party to say, “I am sorry I talked so much. I usually do that when I like someone. I am not very good at parties.” Fortunately, she messaged right back saying, “I like you, too.”

I felt like such a grade-schooler, but so relieved.

I don’t want you to think in the past couple days I have been depressed; I have not been. My vitamin D levels are freakishly low again, and that adds to my pool of spurts of melancholy, but all-in-all I am doing quite well. Miraculously, I walked through a valley of darkness, being plucked by vultures and all, and came out unscathed and rather well-lifted in faith. And as of late, I have been pouring my heart out to my higher power, whom I choose to call Jesus (and choose to not push on anyone else), and we have really hit it off.

I’m not sure what’s up with all my prophetic and spiritual writing, but I seem to be tapping into something, and my God seems to be the conduit. It is healing, remarkable, scary, and peaceful all at once, like a giant ball of chocolate flying through the air at dart-speed about to land in my mouth. I savor it, though the impact can be quite overwhelming.

Back to that party… Something funny happened. There was a lady there, a mother of the hostess, never did get her name, forgot to ask. But we sat near each other a good stretch of the game, particularly during the power outage (super-boring-sportscasters-don’t-know-what-they-are-doing-part). We were chatting a bit. Well, I was mostly giggling and cracking myself up, as is my protocol at first-time gatherings; that and stuffing my face with food.

Anyhow, we were talking about the Superbowl commercials, and I said something to the tune of, “So far the best commercial is the one with the older people.” I was careful how I worded my sentence. I didn’t want to say “senior citizen” because there was one sitting right next to me. I looked over after I made my statement relieved I’d dodged a bullet.

But then I kind of blabbered. Not being able to stop myself, I added, “Did you notice how I didn’t use the words senior citizens.” I paused to giggle.

Then more poured out to substantiate what had leaked out. “I was careful, as you are sitting here.”
I blushed.

Time to regroup and repair, I added more, “Two of my best friends are senior citizens. I like senior citizens. I really do.”

But nooooo, that wasn’t enough. I laughed again. “Oh, man,” I said, my face aflame. “That sounded so bad. Like saying I like black people, two of my best friends are black.”

The senior citizen, well she just started busting up.

Me, in the meantime, I’m wondering who the heck is controlling the mechanism between my brain, thought, and speech.

After that mishap, I set about to chat my new “friend’s” ear off. I think I basically told her every ghost experience and psychic experience I ever had in my entire life! And boy, I really didn’t know I had enough eerie moments to fill up well over an hour!

Luckily, when this oh so patient and kind lady wrote me back later that night, she also added to her message: “It’s nice to talk to someone who doesn’t think I’m weird.”

Now that there… that is just gem-talk, I tell you, pure gem-talk.

It is nice to talk to someone who thinks they are weird. So refreshing!

I love weird people. They get me, and they are typically so dang interesting.

My favorite weird person (and that is a high-ranking compliment from the planet she comes from) would have to be my super-fabulous friend Alienhippy. We met through blogging. I checked her out and studied her blog before I started mine. I don’t know if she knows I used her as a prototype. Don’t think I’ve told her that, yet. But I’ve pretty much told her everything else about me that she could find here on the pages of this blog. We talk every single day, from where she is in England and where I be on the Northwest coast of USA.

I love her so much that my husband just said, “Looks like are next family trip will have to be to England, then.” Of course, I adamantly concurred and set about to wonder how I’d feasibly survive that flight.

Alienhippy (that’s not her real name, in case you are that one percent wondering) is a dynamo of a friend. And this is why:

My Aspie Friend Rocks

1. She never says: “I am fine or I am okay.” When I ask her how she is feeling, she tells me straight up how she is, inside and out, how her physical body feels, her spirit, and mind. I don’t have to wonder, or guess, or pry, and there is such freedom in the realness of the experience of knowing. I won’t get into details, but I even know about her bowel movements!

2. She always, without fail, tells me she loves me so much. She used to say she loves me too much, but I told her that wasn’t healthy, as I be who I be. And now she just says she loves me so much and just enough. She tells me over and over, almost each time we touch base. She loves me so much that I feel this syrupy liquid of protective jell all about me all day long.

3. She has no hidden motives and is real. My friend she just tells me her heart and her soul. She tells me of her faith, her trials, her children, her life. She doesn’t hold back anything. Any subject is open for discussion. And I mean anything! You name it, and we’ve probably talked about it. And I never feel embarrassed or shamed or stupid for sharing. She gives me the freedom to be completely me, because she is completely herself. We laugh so hard and have invented our own secret code words. And we make up names for each other. I like to call her banana slug. Don’t ask me why. Because I have no idea.

4. She loves me no matter what. She would love me if I was green and slimy; she said so. I would love her no matter what size or shape, no matter what species, no matter what! She is just the bees knees and so wonderful. Her heart is as big as the universe and my heart fits right inside hers. I tease her that if she had a “package” I would totally own her. You see, we can talk like that.

5. She doesn’t lie. She’s like me: lying feels like we are dying inside. We have no choice but to spill our beans and be truthful, and because of this we have this unbreakable trust. We know we are what you see. We know we have no curtains hiding secrets. We know we won’t tell, won’t shame, and won’t break our trust. We have like an unspoken truce. We have a code of honor. And everything I say is taken to heart.

6. She reads me. She can tell when I am holding back and not saying everything. She can tell when I am sad, feeling broken or lost. And she not only reads me but helps me. She gets me. She knows my pains and understands how it feels. That’s how she can read me. She knows when to ask: Are you okay? And she knows when to say: You are beautiful inside and out. She even knows how to comfort me when I am looping and spinning in my head.

7. She is a reflection of me. She is so dang beautiful that I just feel so lucky to be her friend, and she loves me so much that I know I must be that dang beautiful. I am so very honored to know her. The compassion she carries for others is out of this world. And she wears her heart on her sleeve. She is the best mother and a very honest wife. We like to tease about our husbands, as they are so alike in their ways. And even are sons have the same name and ASD.

8. She gets my brain! Praise the heavens. I don’t have to explain anything to her. She understands my fixations, my breakdowns, my panic attacks, my insecurities, my passions, my obsessions. She’s been there and done that, and is still doing it. I don’t feel like I’m a loner traveling through a strange planet anymore. In her I found my people!

9. She is so smart it’s scary. Oh my goodness. I’ve never met a wiser woman in my life. The things that come out of her mouth, you’d think she was a senior citizen, a super smart one whose been around the block and inside the mind of brilliance. She just knows how to untangle things and find new angles and read between the lines. Her analytical mind coupled with her heart is just amazing.

10. She is unique. In all her aspieness, she is still a uniquely divine and gifted woman. Her aspie qualities just enhance who she already is naturally, a gift to me and this world. She has longed for a friendship like ours for years, and I have longed for a connection like I have with her for years. God matched us up, me and her, to show us our inherent goodness; for me I am her forever friend, the one she would swing with under the big tree in her childhood dreams and wish for, and for me she is my earth angel. In fact I know she is my earth angel, as last week when I was crying and at the end of my rope, I pleaded up to God, and I asked, “Why have you given me so much without assistance, without a sign, without hope?” And he kindly and adamantly replied, in a curt and matter-of-fact way only my God can, “I gave you Alienhippy, didn’t I?”

If you are an adult female touched by Aspergers looking for friends, do I have the group for you! You’ll be loved like a rock… though I’m not sure what that means. :))))

https://www.facebook.com/#!/groups/261412237267413/

314: The Sword of Truth

| Aspergers Girls

I think from where I come from there are no wolves.

I think where I used to live there are lots of givers and seekers and dreamers.

I think where I used to stand there was a huge glowing light of acceptance and love.

I think I was surrounded by kinship.

I think I was supported for my truth and vision.

I think that some of us have come from somewhere else, still carrying our light.

And I am often so very homesick.

I am careful. And I grow tired of this carefulness.

For where I come from, I don’t think there was this word careful, or at least not the implications and stitching that created the concept of careful. It is backwards, this word, backwards indeed. For to be careful one moves back into fear, always back, and I just don’t think fear existed where I was before.

Yet, still, this careful seems to be the sword I carry, unable to set it down, unable to really use it effectively, as all things stemmed from fear produce nothing but more fear. No beauty comes from careful. No beauty at all.

Though when I attempt to set down this phantom sword, coated in fear’s gold it be, I am pierced as if ribbons of shield have been peeled down about my chest and daggers thrown through, one upon the other; no less victim than victorious one, but still shattered and broken, staggering pain replacing the falsehood of fear.

And here, where I now stand, pained, there seems to be flowers of strife, shooting up black and withered-whole in bleakness from the dead and dying ground; these flowers seem to be trickery, enticing trickery, bleed out upon us in satisfaction, though empty-satisfaction it be.

And I watch as others pick at the illusion. Pick away.

And I want to shout: Careful; though I know this careful, as black flowers dead, does not exist.

And I stand witness, these wolves about, painting flowers black themselves, in hopes of passerby. Eating up self, though poison it be. Lapping at the dark fed out and bled out.

And I know not what to do, with this truth of illusion, of these givers who give not, of these wanters who want not, of all these dancers in illusion, from where I stand aware.

Shall I stop? Shall I watch? Shall I just breathe and wait for the embers of their very own self-inflicted fires to dim? Shall I dare touch while flame still scorches—to stand in the path created by the field-seekers, the ones destined to not so much fail, but to fall into self in a way so foreign that self is forgotten and all that remains is dim hope calling out from the corners of unreachable nowhere.

What do I dare do, when home calls out to me, some forever beacon lifting the veil of my senses and perspective? Do I call out, or stand here drowning in the destructive showers of reason mankind thrusts upon me?

What shall be my way, when I can barely touch and find where I am meant to be?

For I am not some forever-masked dancer bending down in retreat and hollowing burrows for my own escape. I am this dance within dance. I am the music without form. I am what moves the other to ecstasy and what cowers in the darkness afraid to shine.

For where I look, I know not what to do, but to sit out at the edges and wait while the divine calls me forward, motions me with finger-light:

“Come my child, come. Come dance in this place of no dance. Eat in this place of no eatery. Divulge thyself in the goodness that is naught, so you may pierce thine own heart and bleed out the falseness of the world.

Come my child, to this place of darkness and shine bright, shed the mask for my glory, and see me in all. Placate me, this once. Dance in the danger pleading for rescue. Dance in the danger diving for retreat amongst the living. Fear this place as I have feared and then move beyond the fear, to the one you recognize, to your home, that stands waiting beneath the dance, beneath the tango of refuge, beneath the floor, beneath the music, behind the masks of makers; find me there, amongst the dance, before you forget where I be.”

And I respond, a shivering leaf of one, no less and no more than the piles of eternity before and beyond me:

Blow me to this place of sorrow, to this place of pain, to the deepest place of hurt, and let me bleed. Let me gorge out my own eyes so that I may see.

Let me dance out my own steps, until my own feet give way, and I am forced to be carried away to the darkness of my own making.

Take me and lead me to this valley, with my own hands and own mind, take me.

Take me, like you have my masters before me, and spread me out in painted red, so I may bleed and in this bleeding weep out the tears of all.

Take me and pound me into the earth, my veins the very mystery of your forever soul. For there is not taking in the making of one, there is no giving in the haunting whispers of sorrow’s song, only misery beyond misery, plight of the foreigner in foreign land.

Least let me not suffer for self and self alone. Let me suffer for all. For in my own suffering may I find release in the reckoning that my suffering be not in waste, and not of need of rescue or refinement, but fortified by your wishes and ever-movement, blended with your glory and honor, and slaughtered out in division of whole as bounty for the wolves.

Let me be the bait for the misery and enticed ones; let me be the horror that the others seek in self, so I might find the avenue of retreat beyond the hauntings that no longer exist beneath your sheltered wings.

Let me cry out to the world, so loudly that my own piercing deafens the silence that besets me. The silence of where I once stood in knowing.

Whisper me back into the place of forgiveness. Speak me into being. Beyond the valley of your goodness, carry me home.

Breathe into me, I beseech you. Breathe into me your goodness, so I may erase all that is flawed and forged, all that is forgotten. Breathe into me so I may awake refueled and renewed, a star child no less bright than the dimmest star but still existing in your painted sky of eternity.

Feed me from the misery I pour out; turn what is wasteland in to purity, the soils rich with your own bounty and making. Dim me once and then again. Smother me so I can sit in the darkening nowhere. Dim me so I may not know my own face, my own ways, my own words. Dim me into the doom of doom so I may awaken rebirthed again and again in your glory.

For it is not the darkness I fear. It is neither the wolves or the shield of fear that carries me back. It is thy own self, wrapped in the misery of others’ before me and beyond. It is my own wishing, my own doing, my own bending, turning me round and round to the place from whilst I came. Turning me over to see that what is beneath is also about, beyond, and within. Making me this that is naught to return me to that which is eternal in sunrise gone. The light beyond light illuminating not from the desire of one but from the unity of whole.

For here is my sword of truth, turned sideways in fashion so fear begets the emptiness from which it came. Here is my sword positioned without cause or pretense. Dripping out the substance of nothing upon nothing until vanishing in the banquet of your coming.

Samantha Craft, 2013 February