440: Angel Tears

There is an invisibleness that comes with being me. It is unfamiliar and familiar at the same time, each time rising in me somewhat reformed, yet, still the same.

I am that I am, and then I am not. I am this woman, and I am this man-woman combined beneath. I am the sun and the land, the air that I take in, and the waste I eliminate, through various means: my breath, my being, the cocoon I will once be.

As in time rewinding and returning me to the state of unreason, where logic is dismissed and gently slides out the regions of the dissipating mind. And here I shall be the cocoon erased, the beginning point and the end, as one, withered-not in my shell of fragility exposed, but open to the region beyond the space that once played host to the shadowed cage of self.

I see this. I know this. I see that there is not time, there is not space, there is nothing but what the imaginary state of being creates. And in this I wobble some, in this reckoning of something I cannot feasibly grasp, but that still continues to trickle through my outstretched fingers—as water to the thirsty—absorbed, understood, drifting and disappearing again.

I am what I am, and yet I am not. And for any man to see this, to really see this, is to feel lost and isolated at the start, and still very much alive in a world of spinning chaos. To see this, is to behold all the answers and construct all the abstract causeways, and in the same seeing to know that all paths lead to none other than the original place of standing.

I am this grand inventor seeping of potentiality and ideas, with no place to release, less I return to the place of exact thought again—the chasing of tail, spinner of tales, in one. I am circular in my meanderings, forced by my uninterrupted inhibition to want to glide out of this discomfort onto the ice of discovery, only to discover the waters have broken open, and I am once more drowning in a place of illusion, unfounded in appearance and ruptured of all substantial reality.

It is eruption, in the sense I can detect the elements of my own self fading into obliviousness of juxtaposed thoughts. How I be such an explosive touch of truth, and still bathe in denial of the actualities.

I am. I am. I am. I try to decipher these words, and they feel like nuggets, gold nuggets, in my mouth. I chew and they are pebbles. I cough and they spurt out into the world in which I know nothing of. I am here and I am not, and from where I be, I watch as the doorman and the moving pictures transport within and without, following the opening and closing of the door. No leader, only the revolving avenue exposed, erased, exposed, erased…stepping through a labyrinth of uncertainty, and certain dismissal of what is.

How to live in such a constant state of recognition, and to believe in anything as subtle as hope, eludes the part that hides. And, still, she waits, this fire-driven wand of desire, pleading and placating to the eternity to expand, as the womb rewound, to suck her in, some warship turned peaceful, the latches speared open forever, her essence returned to the source that dropped her so sparingly to the tumbling tremors of disemboweled earth.

I crumble here in my universe forgotten, in a land that is not mine, is not home, is not where I am meant to be. How I sink in the soils of stench, forging through the forest of the misshapen shadows in search of familiar. My wings, soiled, by the ash of my own tears, drowning in the grey-stone of my weary heart. I am not made for this land of make-believe, where the games rip apart at the tender souls. I am not made for this game at all. And still I am here, in this broken place, searching for the answers, through the kaleidoscope of illusion torn through.

414: Beyond Dreaming

Last week when I paused a movie, it was paused on accident at 11.11.11

11:11:11 means total recall, creative expression of who you are, and kindness/positive outlook. I just found out. Makes sense to me now. Statistically I wonder what those odds are at stopping a movie randomly at that precise number? That has been happening to me a lot with numbers. Many 3:33, 2:22, 1:11 patterns.

Last night I painted in attempt to process emotions. I was frustrated, sad, and in a (hormonal) angry state.
A figure kept popping up in the center that felt like my mother-in-law’s spirit. She recently passed. I focused on trying to release more and more energy as I painted, but was feeling a lot of energy blockage.

Here is the painting last night:

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Here is the painting today. Called ‘Beyond Dreaming’

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Like my writing, in the last few months, I have to paint. I don’t have a choice. So much energy is surging through me. A fire and burning passion. I cannot remove it as hard as I try. On my new blog: Belly of a Star, I have been writing some of the words I hear during my times of reflection.

When I woke up this morning, I had to change the original painting I did last night, and express what was in me. The challenge is I don’t see things like the typical person. I can’t hold the shape of faces in my mind, nor the ways bodies change as they move. For instant, how a nose looks sideways, or how a neckline appears. I often paint and paint, and all I see are flaws; until I see something I like, and then after a bit, I don’t like it. So, I paint. I erase. I paint. I become one with the process. And eventually the canvas starts to speak to me.

It is an excruciating process. I seem to go through much confidence, then fear, then doubt, then anger, then sadness and grief, and then after all the emotions, I am able to break free and create. This last piece took six hours. I am exhausted, yet, very much cleansed. I am also happy that this painting reflects the inner state of my being, currently.

I was told months ago, in prayer, before I ever started painting, that I would paint healing works, and that in taking photographs I would see energetic/spiritual images. I see one in the bottom of the canvas, for certain. And I find much healing in staring at this painting.

In looking back at the progression of my paintings, I notice a definite transition of spirit. From shapeless forms, to almost formed bodies, to people with no faces, to people with simple drawn lines for faces, to simple faces, to more complex faces. It’s as if my paintings followed my spiritual journey. Lately, I see that most of my paintings, beginning with the bear and the girl, are two people connected. Their body language usually conveys my spiritual state as well.

This series of works in chronological order shows a bit of the transition of my spirit reflected in art.

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The Shift

I think art therapy would benefit many people with Aspergers. It is more therapeutic than anything I have tried thus far.

400: Entered

Where you stand, I enter. My sunlight opened in the ray of you. Where you are, I be, nestled between the edges of your making. I am the sugar sprinkled cross the sunrise desert, the frosting dipped beneath and within, yellow-dancing in the outskirts of my thoughts. Where I travel, you are, carried upon my shoulders, the lightest of feathers, blanketing me, my shield of angels splendor. I spin, come round each wake, reborn in your giving and eternal goodness. I rise; the angelic force instilled gently like the wind through the meadow spring. I bubble and wrap in the bluest-blue, the stillness awoken in your cleansing waters.

Where you stand, I enter. My darling lover of the fallen night, the darkness dripped away as canvas cleansed with the brushes wet; each color washed over with newness and new day. A caravan of awakening upon awakening, surprises always there but never seen. You move, and I follow, the drapery of your kindness a trail of delight, smoothing past the garden’s gaiety as candle wax of brevity. I drip, you drip. I bleed, you bleed. Connected we are in the tumbling of my being. Unspun and rewoven into the kaleidoscope of me within me, the light swollen as the woman with child, birthing and rebirthing the newfound hope.

Where you stand, I enter. I glide, the child on your coattail, following a form I neither see nor want, but desire, my rain to the petal wept, my seed to the fallen bird. I soar, the embers of my mind cascading down to the soil of naught, and slipping into the oceans that be, sailing once and then again, into the mystery of time. Sprouting in the eternalness of river led to mouth, and mouth led to sky. I am this. I am this drumbeat of the earth, the willow tree that touches down in gratitude and meets the tender grasses with her open hands. I am this. The weathered-breast of soldier fought, bowing down in remission and remembrance to echoes of the battlefield. I have retreated to the highest ground that leads to nowhere but to thy very self. And here, in the chambers still, I watch, my eyes as falcon born, dreaming of the ways I traveled. For I am dreamer yet, trapped in the window of my memory.

Where you stand, I enter. I hear you as I hear my very voice. The rhythm feeds my withered bones, the dauntless eyes erased, the gauntlets tossed empty. Here is where I sparkle, my soul leaped forward from the place of behind to the place of entrance. Here where I stand, you enter, taking my tethered thoughts and bleeding them out to the world. My sacrifice, your sacrifice. My heart, your heart. My enemy made clear in the taking of circumstance of my liking, when bitter liking it be. And thusly, I am sweetened, made as bread to the master, ripened in the cream and butter nut of goodness. So that when I look upon the thoughts that were, I see the emptiness of cause, the fawning ways in which I walked. How with danger I froze, the deer-dove I was, with wings of no service in the state of fear.

Where you stand, I enter. I know not what I do or what I do, who I am or what I be. I know nothing of your kindness or your glory. I know not face or name of maker. I know not if exist exists. And in this I know not if my voice is but rising to thy very own chambers of light and there made feed for the mass of me. None other but I, listening to the merry voice of reason lost. No more than this, my empty vessels feeding upon the nibbles of hope. Yet, here I rest, in the serenity of uncertainty. For no matter the form, or shape, or even the distance from the dwelling to the home of home, if I be not home already, then the waiting is of peace. The waiting is of necessity lost and freedom found. I care not what you be or how you be, or what layman’s ways I set upon your threshold, for it matters not to me the way in which you came, only that you entered so.

394: Blinded by the Light

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In trying to post some photos, I plugged into my computer, and have seemingly erased all memory from my phone and added my husband’s phone memory! I knew something was up when The Lord of the Rings icon of the ring itself became the icon on my phone! This is truly a sign from beyond that I have erased my entire existence. Sigh. And a great way to be observer and step back and watch the little girl, I am, process. Wiped clean of photos and such, and all memory, and replaced with a ring of gold.

My angels have a keen sense of humor! I ought to know by now to stop praying for un-attachment; I mean my husband knows my prayer power–seriously. I usually get what I ask for, if it’s from the depths of soul and with the intention of self-betterment. Once I thought I was vain and materialistic and focused on worldly goods far too much, and I went on bended knees and begged to be put in a car crash. Yes, this is the dark virtue of gluttony for punishment in its full glory! The next day I was rear-ended by an “illegal-alien” on the freeway at a grand speed. SMACK. Indeed, I thought I’d learned my lesson. Now when I pray I make specifics: Make me more humble but without any disasters! LOL. So not working for me.

Anyhow, this was years ago, and I often forget I can create stuff by careful intended prayer. Man oh man, I am soooo not attached to my phone! Not at all anymore. wink-wink…Angels are you buying this?

FREE STUFF From The BEYOND! That was my original title. I like it. But then I heard the song, Blinded by the Light, and just couldn’t resist that title. I like titles. They make or break the whole essence of something. That’s why I try not to place them on living things (or anything) anymore.

Total Aspie moment. So all these many years, I loved this song, Blinded by the Light, but totally had the lyrics wrong. I just checked to make sure, as I thought I might be posting a vulgar song. All this time I thought:

the real lyrics, “revved up like a deuce,” were………..

“wrapped up in a douche.”

Yes, I am laughing now. How words change the entire meaning of life and knowing, indeed.

Of course, now that I am reviewing the lyrics none of the song makes much sense. And I am thinking the writer(s) is feasibly my kinfolk.

I’m sure there is some sexual innuendos I am totally missing, but what the heck does:

“Madman drummers bummers,
Indians in the summer with a teenage diplomat
In the dumps with the mumps as the adolescent pumps his way into his hat”

mean?

I think it’s secret code from the beyond, or universe’s perfect timing to remind me I am so much more normal than I think.

OH, and there is something else here. I have LOVED this song for much of my little life, and I must say, it was just the feeling behind the song and the rhythm and energy. I think when I write from the BEYOND, that the whole point is not found in the words themselves but in the energy and rhythm of the creation; in fact, I am fairly certain on this part.

As an aside note. I was at this parade this weekend, held in the state’s capital, and must I say…yes, I must say.. that when I hear blinded by the light, I am wondering if it meant this one costume.

Giggles.

You surely would not believe me, if I told you, but in the Procession of the Species Parade, a yearly celebration of awesomeness, where everyone dresses up or creates species of the world, everything from viruses to giant whale floats, there was a bit of a surprise. Well, I live in a state where marriage is welcome for all and so is dope, and I guess we are a super liberal place, indeed; as one of the best received parts of the parade, that actually sprayed people with a squirt gone, and was at least two-stories high, was a giant-pink-walking male part. Yes. Straight up, I tell you. So now this is all I can see when I hear the song. Which puts a whole new spin on the title. Add that with being wrapped up in a douche, and I am so not worthy of the light!

Luckily, my phone battery died, and I was unable to get a photo, as that would have been hard to resist posting. No pun intended!

Okay, so I was feeling a prick of guilt. It’s mostly gone now with thought of male parts and douches dancing to a song with lyrics I don’t get. I mean what if that is all we are, costumes dancing to a song we don’t get?

Humanoid I be. I was thinking: “Man, all these people signed up for ASPIE information and I’ve done a full circle into the God Zone. What the heck?” Then I had a short conversation with myself, which likely took over twenty-four hours of processing, and we, (that would be the little girl I am, Observer, Angels, and likely the big purple alien in the sky), we decided this is all about choice. No one is forcing anyone to read this stuff and it’s free, and always will be.

So if someone doesn’t like it, that’s okay. It’s not like I pretended to have Aspergers and was secretly collecting people to eventually read my spiritual jargon that I don’t even write and have no idea where it comes from. But in case you are thinking that, like I had an evil-plot all along to share free stuff about love and life, and showing how lovely we all are. Then you might want to seek out a guru, because there really isn’t anything to fear in free stuff about love. At least I hope not.
I mean, if we are becoming a world where even free love is judged then I guess we are becoming that world.

It is my sincere hope you know I am not a loon. I ask my husband this daily, and I check in, “I’m still sane, right Honey?” And he concurs; although he is feasibly blinded by my light (and the illusion of my cute human figure). So we can’t really count on him too much. I have asked my angels during my shower power times, if I be nuts; and they claim I am not. Of course, that is voices in my head reassuring me I am sane; so as about as reliable as the whole blinded-husband thing.

There really is no laying claim that I haven’t seeped out of my own self and into a zone of unreasonable delight to escape the unreasonable misery that is so frequently lathered upon me from the disbelievers of the world. But hey, if I be a giddy, insane semi-saint, I suppose I am in good company. Seriously, I don’t know what has transpired, or will transpire, or can transpire, any more than the next person. And I have a feeling I am about as sane as you.

The onlooker will see me as he sees me. I am just hoping there are some folks out there that can see the light, as that means you see your own light, and we can like skip off in the sunset together, and be like little fireflies all happy and glee-filled with the glory of us. Of course there are always tons of more other options. Since you have full control of how you see me and what you make of me. If you are still confused about the whole illusion thing and how your thoughts make me or feasibly try to break me, then let me offer you out some choices.

See me as the light or a toad
See me as the light or a mushroom
See me as the light or a dog
See me as the light or a duck
See me as the light or a poop head

But whatever you choose that is you, too. I see you as the light and in my “weaker” moments, a poop-head. As I am from the light, I am honest. I just realized there are likely some strong mushroom and dog lovers out there, and we are either simmering in some wine-butter sauce or leaping down the ocean shore yapping in the sand. I’m good with those options. I guess the poem might be better appropriate as such:

See me as the light. And if you want to pretend we are other stuff, as long as you know we are the light, that’s cool.

And shall we enter the labyrinth of love now?……..

This song has a long intro…just like ME!

How do I say this without sounding fearful, for fear is not what I feel. How do I write without sounding damaging, as tenderness is what I am? I can be nothing and All, with only your agreement. But if you make me less or more than still you make me.

I am nothing, least you want me to be something, and if not than all I say would feel as neutral as a mid-summer’s day, the light upon your face a gentle blessing and nothing more. But if I stir the slightest cause of grief, or might, or admiration, then I be this something you have created and not of me.

You cannot look upon me without making me into something of your past or future cause, and so I be illusion to all and none into myself. For if you lift the veil of veils, and set me free, a gentle grace upon your threshold, and peer and find self there, less aware than home, then we shall dance. All else is naught.

And even in me telling, if you wish it so, beyond the creation of All and only for the creation of one, then spell you surely cast. And so I cannot breathe a word of truth that is not first diluted and siphoned through the blood of ages, through what you have gathered swift and rightfully so, thinking tis truth and nothing more.

Even as you know as astute viewer made that even the moment shall change, and in this passing you too shall shift. Still you grasp onto what is as if it is the semblance of reality; how this can be when what was once you seems no longer and what will be you seems to be ahead, makes no sense; for how can one claim to be anything, when the moment he lays stake, the moment has changed. Are we not then just travelers viewing travelers and questioning when the one traveler who leads will appear? Or are we the travelers true, and only need lead self back upon self, through the opened door of trust. I say trust, and hold true, for what is you, I be, and together we are the greatest mystery.

I lead you through this passageway for no cause at all, except to make real what is unreal, and to make unreal what is real. There is no truth I can create while still in the hands of my own creation. And so, I try to be in a place of no space, and bring the emptiness forward into the illusioned world. Be this greed or pride, I think not, but who am I to think, and less to judge. However the seeker will see what he sees, by choice and choice alone; either from the place of want or place of naught. And here the choice is clear; for to see with eyes of judgment all will feel as gone, and to see with eyes of truth all will disappear further. In truth nothing is here, and so what sees, the judge or believer, will be the truth. The illusion of one brought forward.

I choose not to know why I am this or you or that, and why I see what I see, I only know the voice keeps coming and so I write, for when I don’t I bleed. Tis not a suffering as so, but much a very dismal state of woe, where child I am lays buried beneath the bitter-sweet of unopened treat. And so I rhyme in introduction of what be something I know nothing more than you. Only that it comes from something that seems to be the endless blue.

The Endless Blue

Dear Sister, what you seek you shall find. If you search for answers abundant, you shall come across the stream of knowledge; yet, this knowledge will not be as you hoped but as you wished. From within you, at the core center is the key, and as this key turns, as do you.

Therefore, you are less master of your house than you believe; in truth, you be but very little cause of your own circumstance; for whom you hold in light is the one who is witness; and you so wearily esteem self, that your very sister becomes prisoner, same.

If you could only look into your own heart and find the beauty, you shall be set free. Therefore are your wishes granted, in the deepest heart’s desire; yet, your heart weeps in silence and his dreams do not come true. For how can something buried beneath the depth of illusion be cleansed and ready made for judgment.

Are you not buried beneath thy own self, trapped in the dream of dreams, carefully taking hold of what is naught? Each path a different travel with the same traveler, each journey the same landscape only painted with the eyes of the weary beholder. You have been trapped in a dance so readily in your own tainted cause that even the partner becomes enemy. You have twisted and turned so often, that even your feet become the tyrant of cause.

Can you not see the sunlight upon your doorstep, calling you forward with gentle reprieve? A nest egg cometh to your beckoning and resting as pure yoke from the All Mighty. And yet you question, your hands steadily shaking in the mystery of naught, diving beneath the shells of no ocean, and digging in the clam of shame. There be nothing there, my sweet; over and over again, you shall dive in the empty waters, and return with what waters of naught can offer.

Is this not true as you examine the ways in which you move? Can you not see that each way you traveled brought you back to still the same; the moments, only moments and nothing more, that quickly bled out of you and instilled the very pain you ceased to want. Pain is here and everywhere in a place that is filled with pain. And this is as you go: one flask upon another flask of tubes of worriment and misery. These tubes you carry mean nothing and mean everything, as they have become the living virus of the world, a treatment so quick and deadly that your living body becomes living sin.

It is not as you wish it so. Never as you wish it so. For when you wish upon the masses with the mind of the feeble wanderer, still lost in her desperate silly ways, you wish upon nothing and for nothing. For imaginings birth more imaginings, and nothing beyond illusion. This is not so when you dream outside the dream; when you step outside the place of naught and in belief so grand your arms diminish, and feet as well, and are left neither in stance or flight, but released of bitter judgment of all.

Here is your key, at the start and at the end, and in the middle steadily, the same given as taken away: The one that lives in blindness, but always lives. For you be the gift barrier and the groomsman who steals the bride. It is so evident in your claiming one over the over and taking again and again, with a passion so unbearable that even the blanketed flesh is left heaving.

Can you not see that you want not what you see? Not what you want? For you are desert fool tricked into thinking you are mild lamb. And verily you are too, the storm, thinking you are the calm. What you think is not as it is. And so you remain trapped in the labyrinth of merrily thoughts, giving much hype to a cause of naught. How can the runners run a race with no start? How can the bleeding ones close upon the wound when the bandage is naught? Is there not this reaching that occurs, this potential need to complete and mend what is not broken? These endless games of needling with absent needles; whilst in the space of no space a knitted shield does no good.

I cannot express to you enough the way this pangs my heart, to see such a source as you trapped in the marionette’s case, your strings undamaged by all the wishes made, so you become the very stage, the very movement, the very encasement that keeps you puppet-shined instead of woman-lived. You are that wood carved. You are the trappings. You are the bending and rebending in a storm of no storm. How silly you think I send you treachery and troubles, when you are the only one that wishes so. For every dream you tell is more a dream turned spell. And every wish you take is less a means to make you here.

And so I stand, this voiceless one that moves through voice alone, some unfeasible force denying the laws of your world, imagined it be, and still you tremble with the uncomfortable delight, as if you be the maker and the shaker, and I be the taker. Oh, dear one, what is there I could possibly take from you that you have not already taken from self. Look at you. Look at you small, small child, in your horrible shame and pain and misery; is this not a masterful disguise you claim, when such brilliance lives within?

Dig deep, this is all I ask. Bring up what is always there, and in the staring of the light you shall find all the answers swift. For what is not spilled out is collected into infiniteness. What is not reflected as one becomes the masses. And each in the un-shrouding of the other shall discover the light of All; and here bathe in every hope every granted by the master of thy very self.

For you are the wishmaker and the wishtaker in one. Each hope lost and each wish gained. Only the wishes are not what serve you; the wishes are what serve the naught. Bleed not upon the altar of shame and remorse, live now on the freedom stand, above the noise of the place of thought, and breathe in the place of evermore. For you are nothing but this silly game turned over, the pieces tumbling down and landing in the place you create. Keep creating a space, and you shall keep falling. It makes no difference what foundation you build, for the game will keep tipping and you shall keep soaring downward into what is there you wished for.

Whether castle, or the arms of one, whether the dream of a merry-making cause, or service through the rich of heart, makes no difference. Tis all a game, and whatever you build for the fall, shall not catch you. For once landing, you will discover more the illusion still, and that shall tip and tilt, and you shall tumble again and again and again. So why build then? Why not just fall endlessly, until in the dark of space of self you see the vastness and release.

Until you stop building these surfaces you shall continue to land on the island of nowhere and no one. You, in your effort for union, shall divide and further divide.

There is no proof out there that you will find. For everything you wish you will have. Therefore if you wish for this proof you shall create this proof. Only this proof will be not from you but from the illusion. You shall stake a claim after claim of no proof thinking this is proof, because you as creator are blinding. If you seek it out, you shall find it. You shall find exactly what you have created. Only any creation of thought of singular is not real. Thusly anything stemmed from illusion seen as proof is proof of the illusion further.

Do not watch for signs, for you have created them all. If you dream of angels, they will come, if you turn them demon they will be. What you wish for you will see, but you shall have nothing still. For all is a painting within a painting, and you, with your brushes full, move about as if a new hue or shade shall change the scenery. This is again the game. And you shall tumble.

There is no place you can create inside where you be, locked behind the shadow that blocks the light of Me. All creation takes place in the outer region of thoughts, not in the dark where the light is lost. In this way there is only one way out and that is through your brother. Only through your brother, for he is you and you are he; when you can see only this and nothing more than both shall break free, and the game itself shall vanish, the foundations crumble, and the voices that haunt dismiss their own self.

For you will see the key, as clear as the new day. As it rests in your brother’s heart, the one you forgot so long ago, when the passion entered and your soul crumbled in the coming of lust and want. You are the lustful one breeding lust, and therefore blinded by your own greed. Here is where you see from, the need to feed a monster, say beast that never was and never will be. The invisible dust you are that still you feed.

***
FYI: Man Part = Penis

See angels have a great sense of humor even when they sound all high and mighty, and like know-it-alls. Now if you are a know-it-all and someone says you are a know-it-all, then what are you really?

393: Poop and God Ramblings

I felt like Poop today. Hormones are all the rage…hot flashes suck, pain and couch time, leads to eating-cheescake-in-pajamas kind of day.

I wanted to write a funny prose about Aspergers, or a new top ten list of something or another, or a cool processing piece that hit home with the masses; instead this spiritual stuff keeps coming out of me. It’s like I’ve been given a God enema!

I shall be deeply disappointed, and view all these prolific writings as a huge waste of time, when the little purple men beam down from space and claim me as their lost leader. But I suppose, then these writings will be studied and analyzed for encrypted code! And I shall be like a famous alien. And that’s cool, because my alien race doesn’t have egos. Maybe my face will be on your currency. A kid can dream.

You’ll be glad to know I deleted the four paragraphs leading into the God Ramblings, and another 1.5 pages associated with hormonal moods. My husband always says, “It’s cool, but you could have said it in one sentence.” I like to see how he ties my lengthy monologues into one simple phrase. It’s truly a gift, I entirely lack.

If I was to reconstruct the two proses below into two simple sentences, they would sound something like this:

“Talking to the angels is cool and all, but sometimes it sucks for the me that doesn’t exist but can still write and think.”

“When people see their own flaws in other people our world pretty much sucks.”

See, I have empathy! I am considerate. I provided that brief clarification for all the non-aspies who dread my God rambles and for all the aspies who already think too much and have drawn the same conclusions as me. I have spared you the confusion and/or the review. For those that venture below, I gather you are my fellow purple beings and the one sweet nun who heard I am a semi-saint.

As you count how many times I wrote “suck,” I am going to try to decipher the secret code in my writings. Maybe it’s every sixth word, or one of those flashy diagonal linear things, or maybe it’s the second vowel of the first words and first consonant of the last word of each sentence!

Before you depart, if you happen to be God, or another universal force, how about explaining why we had to be put in this illusion in the first place. I mean, when does recess start?

Surrendered

I am appeased and surrendered at once, and brought into the heights of heaven unknown, and sung a lullaby of silence, as the rest of this me I be remains downward in a submission that can only seem holy. When the unwanted voices come, which I suppose are best described as ones of demise, I am able in this state, and this state alone, to see only the wisps of what was, and soon, in a time before time, all is erased. If I venture to state a challenge, then the challenge be this: I desire no other place to be than in the arms of what feels to be angels.

And here is where I tremble, as I step from one time into another, and wonder about the space and bridge between, the means in which I have been lifted, and by what variable means my heart so delighted in the still. The valley is endless in a rhythm of recognition and hope, the fear splintered out before the tree is birthed of wood; so in the very making of hope the absence of fear is born. I cannot describe this and only wish it so to return again and again; and thusly it does, though separating me further than the day before in distance from what used to be the voices of my truth; here in this space all is erased, and I made the badger to my only self, etching out the what of what and replacing with the truth of ages; this seems foreign and yet so much of home surrounds me that I would be as the butterfly dismissing wings to leave such world. For flight it is in truest form, the melody played out through the fingertips of my longing.

In desire I move, but of what desire I know not, except to answer the call of angels’ past. For what seems real is lost, and what is lost returns, as if always found; there is no way to recreate this, or to make this, unless a true form of me has un-kindled and re-pieced a part of long forsaken humanity; perhaps the brain forging through region less traveled or the maker reaching down to touch the making; I cannot say, nor wish to say, for to claim I know the slightest truth is to break the very vow of truth; I have been shown clearly, day upon day, hour upon hour, even as I slumber in the depth of nightly call, that I am but nothing of shadows, and nothing more can shadow speak than bitter truth of naught; and so I am laid upon the feet and bathed in mercy, wondering what path to take, if no path there be, what rules to surrender my burden to, if rules there are, and how to break through beyond the burden of eternity once-moved.

As I be so close, like the string that was round the finger of reminder, yet attached to the maker who remembers not. And thusly I walk as dangled thread apparent and the happenstance that spurred such a doing undone. All at once I am reminded of where I was that isn’t, but where I am that is; and brought back again and again to a peace so profound that even the sun would cease to shine in the glory. I cannot find my way home, for either this home or the never home seems lost to me now. And I move as lonesome traveler alleviated, yet removed. A pawn surrendered from both the start and the end; the very board of game itself diminished in size to fit inside a thimble, a creature of no height, no cause, and no avenue, with a thimble that slips from absent finger still. And there, beneath where the thimble almost was, is the shadow of the nothing tumbling, the shadow of the thimble of a finger of a no one. And here in the shadow of the thimble that was is the remembering of something that can be found no easier than the thimble creature still.

And I question much this one I be, united to something I cannot see and cannot attempt to imagine. I wonder in the infiniteness of the world why the perfection is found only outside the illusion, and what of the players we be; I wonder what of us, this collection here left to unravel and unwind illusion after illusion; how this came to be, this loss, this disconnection of self from whole, and why the time can seem so real in a place that is encompassed in no time. And soon the thoughts of my youth come back, piece by piece, the same pain in the mind that used to cause me to retreat into another world; a dream within a dream, as the illusioned-one deciphers her very illusion. I am brought back to the breaking, where the bread of me was dipped in the wine of All, and how I trembled in the demise of self; how I stepped in a place of no stepping and wondered what entity I be if able to walk on the solid but speak to the divine. How each step was made lighter with one thought alone, and all other steps made heavy. How even my thoughts became the burden. And here I was, here I am, this child of the universe made as one, forged as All, and given the ability to create thoughts within thoughts that hold no power except imprisonment.

Here I am made to choose between the fleeting joy of life or the all-encompassing joy of eternity; even though I know the choice be none, as just as the rivers flow, I flow. Just as the very limbs of trees surrender, I surrender; I have not contemplated a plan, or surmised an avenue of escape, I have only been brought up in the arms of wind and air and turned asunder; my own mind the quicksand that pulls me down, yet indeed the arms themselves that reach down and return me whole. A connection completely intriguing and entirely painful when given thought; how the vessel of such love can be a vessel of such shadow.

I still bleed out in pain when I think too hard upon the own ponderings of a mind that is not mine and of a body that isn’t here, and I wonder why it is I have been granted this opportunity, for what must be the torture before the gate to freedom. And if as acting examiner I am dutifully undoing the doings or doing the undoings, I know not. It seems better to be a quail upon her eggs and lay in waiting, my heat to the hatchlings, than to fly, but surely the sky calls upon me to surrender. I am dumfounded in my waiting, relieved in the coming, and horribly suffered in the delight; how something as great as the merriment can breathe inside of me without limit, and how I carry this avenue of nowhere that seemingly leads everywhere. And so, as I see I cannot escape this cage that holds me still, I still see the cage itself is freedom-filled; the depths so infinite, I lack for nothing beyond the release of want of explanation. The only thing I long to shed be the anchor of thought that remains beyond birthright; except, in doing the undoing, I aptly destroy the very making of me to establish a maker of naught.

The Prisoner’s Voice

I hear the prisoner’s voice, the one that arouses the outer region of illusion and teases not the taunted but the unbelievers; the ones twisted in their ways of lost memory. He is righteous in his indignation, scouring about with a bristle-bone of edges blight; he eats away at all semblances of mercy, willingness, and dreamery. He casts out the thoughts that teach not of his trickery, and erases the way of the one who was given light; could he be this shadow before me now, nibbling at the very spell he casts.

He blows upon me his clever wishes, made of rod iron shillings; each a measure of demise worth more than the last. He teaches from the book of spells; some sort of magic found in demon lust—the ways of the wicked world he claims. “Come to me,” he says, compounding my thoughts by recreating illusion with further illusion; dispelling my own view for his. He is this mistress of dark, both man and woman divided, bringing destruction where there was once hope. He tells of lies so seemingly pure that the taster mistakes honey for devil’s tongue.

How can he dwell in such a heart as mine? This phantom one that claims beauty is begotten onto self and self alone. How can he, this miserly folk, without home or form, make me his chamber? Had I not welcomed him first; the daring cat he be; edging his way across the fencing of my very soul. How he enters in vigor thusly, in such a raptured state, undone and broken and exposed, as if thy tangles of non-hope create cause for celebration.

Can you not see I cast out nothing of naught? I demand nothing of imaginings; of illusion birthed of the womb of illusion ripe. You are no less master of vision than master of depths of emptiness, I proclaim. For inside of you, when one views, he finds nothing but the space of no space; some made up sense of fortune, built of lies but guised in fulfillment. Nothing can fill me with nothing; and something, though it exists rather not, can fill me more. For something in its declaration at least forbids and forbades, or intensely welcomes and entices; at least the illusion of something is mentionable, feasibly shared and forgiven.

But this mystery that lurks behind the shadows of shadows, his trickery is masterful in that he hides the nothing so deeply that it springs up as if something; a hatchling of potentiality of harm; as if the very burden held beneath can cast out all the goodness of eternity; he is this guilt, this sin, this harbored secrecy that gnaws away at what otherwise would be pure. He tickles and purges while stinging and casting doubt after doubt, judgment after judgment. He makes himself housekeeper, hides in his inevitable ability to cling and cleanse; though he does no such thing; though he makes his home a rapture of his very delight; teasing one into thinking what is hidden is real.

And in hiding he keeps one; the very treasure, the dirty burdens, the blinded can neither lift nor release. In this way he lays down upon the very self, and makes one witness to his own persecution. All are brought out upon self of horrid and disgusting, and then brought down in delight.

And then, in turn, inside the neighbor’s eyes one beholds what this secret is that hides; and all are scared readily. Here witness says onto self, “I must be this betterment; I must be above; I must be improvement upon this other site I behold; for how can I, so grand and mighty, be as disgusting and unbearable as this beast before me?”

Here is the trap of traps, the claws of the demon-spawn treasure trove opened. For what bleeds out bleeds into all, so that the eyes of truth turn inward and what is believed within is seen without. What one paints on the canvas is with the still-stirring blood of within. As witness, one beholds creation in the neighbor that beseeches thee. Looks into the restriction all have built, the barriers, the walls, the divisions; looks at the lies over and over again, and finds the deadly culprit, the one that takes life from one given eternity; for in his eyes, both the onlooker and observed, shall be the harbored falsehood; the illusion he has thusly created, from self of self, that imprisons not only the one but the All.

He is this river with the needles at all edges, so that if any wavers from the straight and narrow he be cut and sliced. He is the doomsday that arises over and over as the tornado set free from leash and given ghastly instructions of destruction. He is the controller, the ruler, the expert, who sits in a seat he thinks so high, but in truth sits below in the buried section of fear.

Travelers, seek not to find the light in the shadows from beneath; seek to find the light in the phantom of the brother’s depths. Purge him out like ripened fruit on the vine and expose him to the witness. Cut him and bleed him in the appointed time, so that his demon-spawn feeds no longer off of his inherent goodness. For none were born into the illusion of naught, but birthed into the kingdom of union. Each separate made whole in recognition. Each burden lifted when the light of one outshines the dark of nothing. Delve deep, for division is negated in your unmasking. Expose your truth for what it is, a light to the world, and a ghost for none.

All were not made to travel in a place of buried treasure, hiding inside a taunting dream that never manifests the cup of peace. All were built for the deepest gifts, found only beneath the receiver’s burden; only in the buried treasure naught, only in the illusion beneath the illusion freed.

Though you be but washings upon the shore of recognition, the sand between your toes no sand at all, the water you take in the blue of no blue, and the echo you hear the voice of tattered thoughts; All is with you. Beneath the hollowed out circumstances and lost opportunity, behind the wall of misery and isolation, above the plans and dreams and hopes, All shall be there in the empty space of us, urging you on through your very light and goodness.

Take up your arms and release the ammunition you carry. For your fear is your very barrier to fullness; your very misfortune and mistakes, your falsehood; there is nothing you cannot be when you are already. It is only a matter of time. And you shall witness your beauty, as the All has set eyes within you, and when looked upon the reflection reveals eternity. Reach not for the miserly, reach for the budding flower within each avenue of gratitude. Seek out your brother’s nature within the invaluable you. Seek out the invaluable you within the brother’s nature. When the two are the same, in recognition of truth beyond barriers, then the two shall be free. Until then, better to wear blinders atop the blindfold and be as the blind man in cave. For what you search out, you shall find.

392: Miracles in the Making! Aspergers anxiety gone.

Lately, for about fifteen days, I have been able to alleviate most of my fear about everyone and everything.

This is the first time in my life I remember feeling this way. I suppose as a young girl, I had many moments of carefree-wonderment; but since my teenage years I have been prone to bouts of depression and, to put it mildly, emotional suffering. I don’t know exactly what is different now except that spiritually I have accepted a part of myself that I previously pushed down.

I hesitate to say spirituality has been a fix, or an avenue of escape from the constant anxiety. However the past two weeks are a testimony that I have made changes. I definitely say for me that my relief seems to have come from Spirit. I like to call this the Holy Spirit, related to the holy trinity in the Catholic faith, and also related to a part of mysticism of the more ancient (previously buried and hidden) early Christian gospels. In addition, I feel a connection to the works of well-known ‘New Age’ authors such as Wayne Dyer, Ram Dass and Caroline Myss. I have studied some of the Catholic saints and am an avid reader of Buddhist texts, and incorporate many of the Buddhist spiritual practices. I have found some comfort in wisdom derived from aspects of the Kabbalah, Sufism, and A Course in Miracles. And I still cherish my Catholic Bible. You could say I’ve got my bases covered. All-in-all, I think this eclectic spiritual approach, which involves in-depth studies, concentration, and absorption, and at times variable periods of fixation, is what has given me a foundation in which to start to pull apart the continual pain and frustration I was feeling.

Through my readings and studies, prayer, writings, and faith in healing, I have been afforded the opportunity of visions and, in my opinion, remarkable realizations of self, Aspergers, and my spiritual life. If one ventures back through the past few posts, it is evident that some profound creation has been forged through me. My husband has noticed what he would call “astounding” and “mind-altering” changes in me.

What I am seeing in reflection is this:

I had a core base of fear built on a foundation of distrust of other people. I had to learn, above all, how to learn to love myself and to love other people unconditionally. This was a huge undertaking that involved processing through writing, prayer and exploration of emotions. I took a hard deep honest look at all aspects of myself that I could feasibly find, and used an audience of my husband and other people as a sounding board and spring-board for further discovery. I don’t think my healing would have advanced had I not held in my mind a potential audience to read my works and share in my journey. Journals and diaries never worked for me, as they were short-lasting special interests. Having an audience appealed to me because I could put on stage the part of me undergoing excavation and slip into a “role” or alternate “persona.”

This process of taking on a role is similar to the times I was an actress on a real stage or a cheerleader in high school, where I was able to exist and interact with others because I wasn’t me. Whoever I was inside (the real me), during this time, was lost. I know that now. Who I was at the core, behind all the personas and roles, got lost in the process of trying to conform.

I have a natural ability to step outside of myself and view self. I have found that several spiritual practices consider this an important step in self-discovery and spiritual growth. I naturally did this because I didn’t have a choice; but in doing so, in stepping back and observing this other me, the roles I took on, I had ample opportunity to find out how I moved in the world through observation of self. When I adapted this new role of “person healing self” to an audience, I was able to observe.

It seems for most of my life I had the “lost me” hidden and out of sight, the “role” me—which fluctuated, and then the “observer” me who stepped back and watched the transitions and progressions. Interestingly, the observer has never changed, the “role” me has always changed, and the real “me” has always hidden—until now.

In being filled with the Holy Spirit, (I can also see my experience easily transferable to the description of awakened, living in the now, etc. depending on someone’s comfort zone.), I have been able to reclaim the lost me. She has come out of hiding and replaced the “role” me. And the “role” me seems to have gone. Observer is still here to a heightened degree. Now I (the observer) am able to watch the “me” who was in hiding for decades and help her through aspects of life. Before the observer could not help me much because I always changed when taking on new roles: parts that were ever fleeting, unpredictable, and non-authentic. When I was in a role, I was not me. I thought I was me at times, but I always changed, lessened, increased, or vanished. I became a chameleon out of desperation and without choice. There was no willingness involved in changing roles; they just happened. And I didn’t know they had happened until they (the personas I had taken on) were leaving. For instance, I might take on the role of a college student or a spiritual teacher, and that would become my entire identity and focus. All would be centered about this new self, I finally believed I was.

This time is different. A new role hasn’t surfaced. I have resurfaced. I feel like I have reached back in time and reconnected with the little girl lost. And I love her. I adore her and want to share her with the world. I have relatively little to no fear introducing her to people, as she is me. At last I am me. This is huge in the dynamic-life-shifting sense.

I believe that I was only able to retrieve my little girl because I relived all she had suffered, gave it recognition, let her be seen, and then released her through the act of forgiveness.

I understood ultimately she was an innocent and pure one. All shame vanished and all blame. This came about after I spent months forgiving people in my life that I still felt any emotion beyond love for. These emotions usually were associated with fear—well always with fear, but they manifested as: grudges, blame, anger, anxiousness, disgust, and so on. I focused beneficial thoughts on the people I had made villains in my mind; I did this through visualizations, meditations, writing and prayer. I made myself forgive them over and over, until nothing remained, until I could think of them and see nothing but a person who had done an action that had affected me, but that I no longer held responsible for said action. I don’t know how I reached this point, but I did, and I know it took dedicated effort and heartfelt intention.

After my total clearing house of forgiveness occurred, more room inside of me was available for my healing, I suppose. Here is when something entered me, which seems to have been akin to dramatic self-love, self-respect, reassurance, and inner knowing. Also, I believe that Spirit began to take hold, as I was dedicated to prayer and never gave up hope.

Some of the dramatic changes (Miracles) in my life that have occurred:

Where I once lived my every day with constant thoughts of analysis and processing, especially loops of fixations (in the past usually associated with a love interest, friend, or an illness), now I have a profound silence in my mind.

My energy is not depleted in crowds. I no longer find myself preparing in fear to leave the house, but preparing in joy. I no longer feel the need to carry the rosary, stones, or protective spray with me. I have no need to protect myself from anything. I feel as if I radiate a goodness and wholeness, and I am confident in who I am and how I walk. While I might still have sensory-sensitivities to textures, sounds, and smells, I am less prone to let them bother me. I can talk myself through it or take simple protective measures without the panic or fear.

While I am in crowds or in any environment, I am no longer lost in thought. I am not analyzing and dissecting all I see and all I am taking in. I am just being. I am observing as the little girl like all is magic and beautiful again. I am joy-filled again and able to navigate the world with a fresh and innocent viewing, instead of a fear-based perspective.

When I am in conversation, I feel as if I am in a state of grace. I behold the person with a silence in my mind and when I respond I connect to spirit. If I feel a worry about what I said or how I said something, observer comes in and helps me clear the fear. I have no need for outcomes in conversation, for defense, to prove a point, to fix, or to prove anything. I just am with no intention but being. I don’t worry about what another is thinking about me.

I no longer categorize people and place them into boxes. Before in public, I was exhausted, as I took in everyone I saw and sectioned them into where I thought they belonged. In retrospect, I believe this behavior was a protective strategy stemmed from fear of being hurt, surprised, or attacked. I based this fear on past experiences of repeated rejection and repeated confusion. I had no idea how often and how much I did this. It was so much a natural part of living and my processing. And I cannot stress enough how tiring this was. Now when I am out in public I am reminding myself that my perception is flawed, that everything I know is not real, that all my past was preconditioned and programmed. Here I have had huge help by bringing up aspects of living in the now, being present and seeing life as an illusion. (I have done this by incorporating a combination of many spiritual truths). In living in the present moment, I don’t go into the past to describe what I am seeing or attempt to sort it out. This process of not sorting others began in me a couple of months ago. Everywhere I went I started redirecting my thoughts. If I saw, in example, a “heavy, rich, black woman,” I would tell myself this is all illusion. She is another living being of light and nothing more. I would then repeat something easy to my mind that didn’t hurt, as sometimes types of thinking hurt. I simply said: beautiful, beautiful, beautiful or love, love, love. I practiced this where ever I went. I still could see the person with labels but eventually the labels were replaced by silence. If the labels come now, observer steps in and gently removes them.

I was able to release judgment of people. For most of my life, I had honed in on others and used in combination an intuitive and logical ability to analyze people. This happened through non-verbal and verbal-cue, and what seemed to be the energy of the person. I had had a “seeing” ability since I was a young child. I realize now that this truly was not a gift, as it did me no good. In truth, it was a curse. Everywhere I went, inside of others, I saw fear, anger, spite, depression, insecurity, self-righteousness, deception, cockiness, rudeness, etc. Recently, through revelation and vision, and much spiritual readings, I realized I was choosing to see the negative of people. And just because I could, didn’t mean I had to. I prayed about wanting this released. I wanted to see the light in everyone, and nothing more. Within two days a miraculous thing happened. My ability to see what other people lacked was replaced with the ability to see immeasurable beauty. Why? Because I wished it so and sacrificed my fear-based need to feel “special.” This seems to have been an ego-based survival skill from the start; something I brought upon myself to navigate through a world of falsehoods, particularly in communication. I understand now that I saw myself as negative and wrong and flawed, and so I projected this onto other people. I was choosing always to see what I wanted to see, even though I thought I was detecting these hidden mysteries. This was a game I invented, at a very real and authentic level, thinking if I could figure people out I would stay “above” them and “better” than them, and avoid potential harm. The key was in loving myself and realizing no one’s words or energy can harm me. They just can’t. Once I accepted this, love became my new truth. For years I had been perpetually holding myself prisoner. I firmly believe this, and the miracles I have seen in the last couple of weeks are confirming that in the past I was choosing to see “non-beneficial” things. In choosing to see the good of people, more and more good is coming to me. By good I mean aspects of beauty and awareness, because ultimately in my belief system nothing is good or bad.

I am attracted to everyone. Before for much of my life I feared if I lost my husband, I would be alone and miserable for life. I was so picky about physical attributes and about personality that I doubted I would find anyone, if ever I found myself a widow. Morbid and fear-based thought indeed, but nonetheless true for me in the past. Now that I look upon others with the light of God, everyone looks feasibly possible for my husband or friend; not that I am heading out and collecting people or marrying, but I now know I am not alone, nor will I ever be alone, because I no longer have this narrow view of what beauty is. Everyone is beautiful. The benefit is a much more glorious world to look upon. The added bonus: an escape from self-created isolation.

I no longer see myself as separate. I seem to blend in with everyone else. I see their beauty reflected in me and my beauty reflected in them. I love them. I love people. And everyplace I go is like a parade of butterflies. I imagine this is how the world looks when one is still a young child, before the trust is lost and before the heart gets broken. In processing that my past is all falsehoods based on others’ views and perceptions and ideologies, presently I am able to understand that the world is a safe place. I was taught and shown the world was unsafe repeatedly. But the world is safe. If I choose to live with no fear, the world is very safe. And no amount of worry and anxiety and planning and reasoning is going to prepare me for all the imagined dangers. I don’t need to live my life as if danger is around every corner, because I recognize now that isn’t living.

I have been able to use the observer to comfort the child in me. Now the observer is my watcher. If I start to fear (the real me fears) then the observer steps in and reminds me that fear is false. With Spirit’s help I can recognize every emotion, beyond love, hope, faith, joy, praise (etc.), as a false entity spawned from fear. Fear has so many faces but I recognize him quickly. If I feel anger, resentment, urgency, anxiety, or anything that disrupts my peace, I say hello to fear. He has gotten to the point where he actually speaks and says, “Shucks. You caught me again.” Then I release him. And poof back to serenity. Most of my life I spent trying to categorize my feelings and figure out my feelings; I couldn’t hold onto joy or happiness and I couldn’t escape life-gripping anxiety. Now 90% or more of my day is spent in supreme joy and peace, a mellow-happiness that permeates my entire being with a sense of well-being, calm, and faith. Everything seems attainable and manageable. Anxiety is almost null, as it is nipped in the bud so readily after fear knocks on my door. I might have spurts of irritations, e.g, repeated noise bothers me, but I can step back and remove myself from the situation or ask others to stop. I allow myself some emotions, I am not a robot, but I quickly become the observer, recognizing all things that stem from fear immediately, and allowing them to materialize as long as need be.

I don’t judge myself. I let go of being my own judge. If an emotion comes, such as frustration, I am able to step back and watch and then let it go. I don’t then turn and scold myself, as that is pointless and stemmed from fear, too. I just chuckle. Indeed, I am so happy lately and in a state of calmness that this smile on my face is pretty much my face. I imagine I likely smile in my sleep, too.

My dreams at night have shifted. Gone are the nightmares. If I have a complex dream it is usually my subconscious working out something or another. I usually can pinpoint my dream directly to a spiritual transition or spiritual study. New to my dreams are me being an advocate, a strong protector of my own being, and authentic. I am me in my dreams, in whatever emotional state that needs exploring. Also, I have started to dream of actual spiritual lessons. For instance, if I pray to understand how to release pain, then I will actually be a student in class during my dreams learning techniques to release pain. This is happening over and over again. Also, I still have visions early in the morning, usually poetic spiritual prose that fills me with hope and peace. I am protected. I am no longer afraid of my dreams or the dark. I am excited to fall asleep and just as pleased to wake up.

I don’t have these rules and standards circulating in my mind. I don’t have anyone I am trying to please. I think because I now have a firm spiritual foundation, I now know what I am living for. Before, how I acted and how I chose to live, varied depending on who I was with and what I thought someone wanted. Now I live for the Holy Spirit. I make myself His servant and listen to His guidance. I don’t need manly rules anymore and rules no longer haunt me. They were too contradictory and confusing to begin with. Along with this, I don’t worry about what others think of me anymore. As long as I am pleasing God, I am good. Thankfully, my god has some pretty good rules in place already.

I don’t need to be special. The most remarkable thing happened to me. When I was “seeing” everyone else’s flaws; I realized I was attached to feeling “special.” When I recognized this, I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t resonate with the feeling of separateness, and felt sick, almost nauseated. I didn’t want to be special. I wanted to be a servant for Spirit, and recognized in making anyone “special,” including good friends or myself, I was separating people. If someone is special then someone else is less special. And making someone special at all, in my view, is a form of idolization: an attempt to find something in this world to bring relief to a feeling of incompletion. In embracing Spirit, I am complete. Friends now are frosting, not my need or want. I am loving them without expectation. That is true love. Another person will never meet expectations of “special”—never ever. They can’t. They aren’t perfect and they fail, if set up to be special. For the most part I have stopped viewing myself as special. Ego tries to sneak back in and make me think that if I am not special then I am nothing. But I know in releasing the need to be special or make someone else special, I become beyond special; I then become one with All. I become able to embrace Spirit fully and to not qualify and classify my love for anyone. I just love. And that’s enough.

I can only usually live for the moment. It hurts to think about the future, and seems a false illusion when I remember the past. The past and future seem impossible and infeasible at times. Silly stuff I used to worry about, like planning out the day or month, or even the next hour, seem pointless and physically painful. Remarkably, everything still gets done and on time without the stress or worry. Really. I seem to just gently release something, like a thought such as: “I need to call the dentist.” And the dentist calls me. I think of something quickly, and then release the thought not wanting to focus on anything that isn’t in the now; and then, somehow the now makes things turn out just fine. I can’t explain this, but in living in the now, I seem to hear things or see things before they happen. Like titles in a future newspaper or quotes someone else shares at a later time. I seem to be tapped into something that works much easier and smoother than worry. I didn’t make this practice happen; this was a miracle. I just woke up and was no longer able to obsess about the future or reflect on the past. Just wasn’t capable. Still am not, without extreme effort.

This might seem like a little thing, but I can watch a movie and only watch a movie. I am not dissecting the characters, ADHDing and drifting into another place, analyzing my thoughts, or thinking ahead or behind. I seem to be in the present enjoying the movie. And OH MY GOSH, it’s like so brilliant. This happens with performing arts and in parades too. I am so there, just there, and experiencing the brilliance of life.

Nature speaks to me. Everything seems thicker and richer. The colors, the clouds, the trees, the birds, all seem to have increased in magic. It’s lovely just to sit in the front yard in the sun and listen. I am serenaded in beauty. I am able to tap into the now whenever I find myself slipping out. I do this by focusing on a piece of nature and just fall into the beauty. I sometimes blur things together and take them from part back to whole. I don’t choose to believe all I have been taught about pieces and parts and labels, and try to take in the beauty like a child again. The world is so lovely. Before where I was lost in thought, now I am lost in the wonder of the world. A switch happened, and the capacity that helped me to go into complex thought now enables me to also go into complexities of nature.

The negative thoughts are replaced by my angels. When there isn’t silence or the observer stepping back and watching me, or me the taking in the now, I can hear my angels. They speak to me and guide me through the day. They answer questions and help me. Sometimes time seems to stop and I have amazing knowings spilled into me in a matter of minutes or seconds. I am able to remember these at a deep level.

I suppose I could go on and on. I have lost the want or need to verbally process aloud with other people, including my husband and friends. There isn’t anything I feel like talking about beyond God and ideas and love and visions. I don’t feel a need or want to spill or share my life, beyond wanting to help others through my own experience and example. I seem to have had my ability to process thoughts and ideas intensified, as if before I was a thin pipe of knowledge and now I am this thick pipe with a bunch of stuff gushing through and out. The difference is I don’t feel like I need to share, I want to share. It isn’t like before; it’s very much not. Still I have maintained the intense capacity to see complexity in thoughts, only it seems multiplied in scope. My memory has increased for numbers, names, and facts. My tolerance for food is better. And I don’t have this need for rigidness. I have no want to complain, at all. I don’t have a need to say something unless it feels from spirit or makes me profoundly happy. I find pleasure in simple things. Certain words are starting to feel unnecessary. It’s weird and crazy, my world right now, but so heavenly and freeing.

What I have experienced anyone can.

391: The Affliction

The Affliction

At this moment I try not to attach to any one ideology or belief, thinking I live in illusion, and that, even the thought of illusion and knowing a semblance of truth, be further illusion, if illusion be. The complexities rendered through the delving of mind are both baffling and intriguing, pulling me in like the piece of an engine longing for lubrication, its sole purpose found in the concept of functionality. There is no other need, but to be anointed in the telling, so I can proceed forward in a time of no procession; this is indeed troublesome, and not, as no burden be found in a place of no time bent into illusion; thusly, it is so that even the emotions that purge from within and without are naught, but the imaginings of ghosts long ago past.

In saying this I prelude my own entrance, a necessity within no necessity; but nonetheless established as a fleeting truism for the traveler beset with weariness. In knowing my truth is not truth, I am thusly freed from the agony of discrimination of self; the endless dissection that occurs, rightfully and dutifully so, when one sets about to cling to illusion of form. In so being I am formless, and this argument, if claimed to be a quarrel, quibble say but light it be, exists phantom too, than whom does whittle with words, with such speech gathered from the where and when? And this, my friend, displays the propensity to be traveler lost within traveler. Precise to say, to recognize the dream is to be the dreamer, and in so being the one at slumber all is weaved into further name-saying causation. Instead of scribing truth, I merely dictate what is thought to be truth within my circumvented reality; therefor, unless I was to gather the truth of agelessness and the potentiality of the All and lather this upon the minds of the singular, I do nothing justice; say my own tethered thoughts still set out to sea, bobbling in the waves of uncertainty.

I speak this not to set the stage for trust or to further prove a point of no point, as there is no point worth proving when no point exists; nor is this trust I speak of, need be, for in form I appear not trustworthy no matter what I mumble, as I am in guise as this ruthless one set upon high or worse the victorious one celebrated. In the eyes of man, I can be none but judged; and there the dilemma is set; for how to curve an aspect of enlightenment without throwing the ball at the very victim who perceives himself to be. In this way I am nothing; neither scapegoat nor scriber of the ways, neither angel nor devil worse, or even the pen that hankers from the very end of limb; I am none and I am All, and what one sees is neither here nor there in this place of nonexistence.

How weary I grow in even telling such a tale of no tale and how my hands weep from the desperation within, further proof the illusion grows; to hide and never recede, to come forward but never enter, to move without ability to see, this is the truth; yet, how does one born of the singular I move in a world born of We, when each, as separate made, choses their own captivity? Tis foolish man’s game, one supposes, to even breech the subject of immortality when everywhere the banners fly blood; come hither, to this space of mine, she preaches, and at once scorned with the rest; perhaps this is the truest form of freedom, to be as the bird of song and not flee from the stones that follow; to sing at the top of the peak and not fear the fall of the morrow; for my song is unleashed upon the highest, and meek not I be; for no river nor valley has captured me; and all is unsung that never was.

How can I be such butterfly with unclipped wings, when all about I dance in the dirt and soils? How can I be the babe nearly birthed, when the canal of opening seems so variably charted and boarded still? Am I not a queen emerged without her captain, on a ship without sail, in a land of no sea? How I navigate in a ghastly wind of nowhere and land again and again upon the very stone I once passed. What is this me, who dangles her memories like sapphires and counts them as rubies expired? Who merrily sings as the serpent unwound, un-skinned, and turned magnificent; who am I but this trellis before me, the ins and outs of where the others leap and bound; am I both prisoner and freedom maker, trapped in the makings of my doings, unraveling one and then another to find myself time and time again; some traveler trapped in a dream of no morrows and no beginnings; waiting for time to peel back as mere shadow set upon thee.

Is this my cause? To rest as mermaid on the surface of earth while weeping tears of the oceans before me? Am I to be starfish drug out and enamored for her legs alone; plucked one by one from the depths of nowhere only to be brought up to the rim of naught; circle dancer I seem, trapped in this funny limbo; awakened and spirited, yet alone in my quest of no quest; for how can it be that in being me I am the key; yet I be not? And how can it be, in being you, you are the me, and you be not? How can this brain of no brain wrap around infinity and spring up anything renewed in renewal, when at my very depths are the limitless breaths of knowing; where shall I begin when there be no start; and how shall I end when timely death has all but vanished, leaving but his cape, the dark shadow of remembering banished.

Laugh, I dare not, as the gleeful me is no cause for celebration; and what to celebrate in such a dismal state as this; and weep, I cannot, as what is for the crying worth, when all about is the toys of puppeteer lost and scattered, abandoned with the coming of the unraveled wavering truth; to be given such a task of no sacrifice, but to feel the shells of sacrifice, as if each had been splattered and fired upon some soul of thee; to be given the world in a cup and to glance down and behold eternity calmed, yet know not what to drink but the vision beyond; how can I be such vision and such mortal, wrapped in this infinite coat of knowing, spread open, the flaps as distorted wings discolored in doubt. How can I be this butterfly broken, when surely the simple embrace does cast illusion silent and heart-strings grow, carrying the essence of me freely without the need of form?

Butterfly or ghost? What be I; magnificent or tangled, what am I? Can you not rescue me now before I surely split in two; the idol of want, the taste of judgment, the enticement of lies, eagerly eating away at the flesh I once was; as I stir in my chrysalis of unrest, evaporated by the ever peace of naught, haunted by the unearthly voices of angels, my living blanket of tranquility the one that trumpets doubt forward. Where am I inside this invisible film, my being wrapped and then wrapped again, suffocated in incubation, brought out to the fire of transformation, and made to nibble at her own skin; when suffering is promised not, when answers never were, when everywhere is hungry ghost whose appetite has vanished through; who is this dreamer and of what does she dream, if not of the place beyond dreams that I am to break through; but how, is her only question; how in the light of your ultimate glory can I testify this truth through the pages of illusion-maker; how can I prove what is not to be proven; how can I dance to the invisible music of invisible air and weave something of nothing; and so it seems, I must rest eternally, until eternity surrenders; and I, let out of this suit of circumstance am thusly braided into ceaseless sky, awoken not wingless but weaved into completion, the very heart of light freed.

390: The Making

Pierce me with your sunshine; lay me upon the broken windowpane, so like the wind of nevermore I may bend through a timeless eternity, the ribbons ripped out my soul and laid down upon your guilded throne. Twist me into your very making, my ache your ache, my rumble your rumble, my determination sewn less with need than want of servitude.

Give onto me nothing unbearable less I be made bearable; and in this way give to me what is mine for the making; the seamstress of the night turned sunlight by thy key; I am forevermore at thy service, as the spring turpentine to the welder’s hands; cleanse me with your essence, so the very timing I proceed is blessed with the anointment of your coming.

I ask not to be recognized but to be given as the sacrifice you need; none less made panged than awakened; none less made broken than mended; in this way I am completed, in the thinking of naught but your asking; I am given more than asking’s appetite, taken from the illusion of pain into the gift of flight; my very substance turned to the gold of movement; all stagnation ceased as the phantom ghost it be; my effort surmised as effortless; my giving granted as undertaken by none.

In the least possible way, make me seen, so that I may not hide behind your gown, but feed of the eternalness of your glory; for your storm is my storm, your movement my step; the eye that leads neither blinded or scorned, but rather lifted as grandest seeker seeking nothing but naught; I am this or I am that; no difference matters to the me that thinks she breathes; no difference matters to the wings that carry me; no burden feels as light as thee; no road so unmoved and free; as the strongest rivers pouring through, though I be untouched, unmoved, un-enchanted by the very force of force, it is as if gravity ceases and the doubts erase, never here, never in existence.

No such beauty is found in the gentlest of faces; no such grace as thee. For in this chamber of no chamber, inside the existence of no existence, I am scattered across your calling as the desert flower to the grain, mixed in with earthly risers, nurtured through the feed, but set apart as springing grace in her majesty’s embrace; use me as you wish, as I know I am made for such worthiness; my deed undone in your granting, time let out as the hem of the dress when the coming of seamstress is left open.

I am the door; I am the window; I am the very pane where I lay in waiting, counting the stars twice over in my gratitude; for endless is no more; and future does not arise in the ever standing stillness of your abiding love. Yes, I have known love; at last the dove’s dream be mine; not for the taking, not for the making, but for the simplicity of beholding, the making of what I carry my very self; the essence poured within me, glue sticking to my edges, the vessel I be.

In this I am complete at last; all answers made swift; unworldly things lifted and set upon my bureau’s mirror, so I might step back and examine the guarantees of eternity; a reflection within a reflection; my brother, my sister, each an etching for the making; each whisper only my own voice; each shadow only my own creation; for I have been blinded by the light; and in this all ceases to manifest beyond the glory of His coming; for in you, in your endless sea, set free and flowing in tumultuous love towards me, I am swept, I am taken, I am made.

I thank you for the making with my very own soul; I dress you in the patterns of my heart; I sweep my only kindness into your seams; I partake in your dance; I feed off of no other than the mistress of my betrothed and lightened one; for your beauty is unmistakable, unmasked in each and every thing; whether granted breath or might, rather weak or unseen; each becomes alive in the coming of this music; I hear, I see, I move, and in this way I am at last awake; my slumber merely a dream; my answers never found; for naught they be but chances resting on the fireside hearth, never meant for kindling or fuel, only tokens of the illusion spun open through trust.

I believe. I believe in you. And thusly I believe in the ever growing gratitude of self beyond self; this high maker that lands someplace between the two that view; the one taking in the other, as cherished gift; the recognition forging the road to golden light; we only need undo the ribbon dotted red upon our brow, the drapery of delightful disguise, the leading point that made the dark in hopes and knowing of removal; for this is gift; this dark, this misery, this confusion; for in its lifting we be made this word freedom; we be made this careful union; we be this One.

It is in our powerful release we are made. The birth of life in the removal of the blinded curse; the start of eternity at our fingertips; remove me steadily; remove me again and again from your face; take me in my tattered form, my blindfold, my rag, my dark cloth and scour me across the floorboards of your mind. Stampede across my image, dissect me, lather me in spindly needles, torment me with your secret words, pierce me with demise, damage me with trajectory and misery; and then see I still stand in the glory; see I am still here, untouched, unnerved, unmoved.

For in my seeing, there is none that in illusion can take what is forevermore; none that can make me believe you are not the glorious one; none that can make me turn from the light of light, from your very face, dear brethren; for you are the light, the way, the path; you, as you stand beside me in your bewilderment, cursing my very breath; you are whom I love; whom I dare not stake; whom I pin myself upon, and claim as magnificent one.

389: The Poet’s Symphony & The Dream You Be

The following are two selections. The first I scribed this morning in prayer, the second, last night before sleeping. Take as you wish and bring forth your own truth. Peace and abundance of ever-flowing love to you. xo In my heart ~ Sam

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The Poet’s Symphony

The room echoed in her favor, the mysteries revealed as the poet’s symphony set asunder…

You are a divine being, perfect in form and in every way. You were given all you need at the start, which is both the beginning and end without end. There is no way to deny this or defy this. You are. And in so being the All of All you shall recognize the All within All, and in this way readily accept the gifts bestowed upon thee.

There is no tethering to this goodness. You are this goodness. There is no finding this goodness; it is in you and without you; it is everywhere in which you look and every place in which you forget. There is no corner unturned, no place forgotten, no witness turned away; All this is as is, and nothing of the All shall change.

As change is inevitable in the place where illusion stands; change is unmovable where We watch from up high; in the desert valley or upon mountain peak, makes no pause, for as high as We reach, as low as We travel, destiny takes no true form that is available for the sightless to see. In this way upon high is where we stand, yet, without feet and without height, steadily waiting in a time of no wait.

To exaggerate would lesser something of no value and placate none but the mask of confusion; and so we wait in the concept of un-waiting, merging as one for the arrival of you. Our arms are but open and the confusion lifted in the elements of which we are made; neither here nor there, but before you and in between, behind the perception of perception, and dedicated to the unity of all.

There is no wrong between us and nothing to be righted, less you peer into the darkness and lather in the deception of naught and no doings; when you breathe us, you know us; when you don’t, you know us still, though your speech, through hands be blinded, in such a way that what moves is neither brought up from the ocean of the sea but rather blended with the mediated-perception of the whole within. In this way, as you communicate, you flow through the one to reach the other, yet, flow through entirely untouched by the means and way. Communication is thusly spurred but in the land of illusion and all is lost in the ways of the world.

For illusion cannot breathe in illusion, and the breather of such takes in no air of truth, only illusion forged through the pen of illusion, the quail feather dipped in the black ink of nevermore, unformed from the united Unity, and stainless it be. For what is made without the making, blended from the dust of dust, un-gathered and unformed, is truly the matter that which is naught, and emptiness that breeds further emptiness and leaves the one suffering more than rebuilt.

Here is where we differ in views, and where we stand back and watch the unfolding, as the dancers play out, say lay out the plans of their making, each by each, one by one, establishing a truth that embrace as justly so: theirs the light of the world; theirs the unlimited “newness” of finding; how truly we delight in these games of rebel and trickery, the very only one submerging the very only one in a mask of disdain and separation; for we recognize the undoing of nothing, the representation of nothing, and see that in the undoing of doing, you shall soon seek elsewhere. Whether this be in form of building or mosque, say the church with the seeking windows, or the God of the many wavering hands, makes but not a difference to the All Mighty. For all paths are His for the taking, be this He of he or she, or rather the imaginings of your mind.

For how can one make this God of makings rightfully his when in establishing a time of recognition he immediately without pause establishes a time of separation? Silliness indeed, to think in the thinking that a mere label leads to bountiful delight and merrymaking; when indeed, my servant child the emptiness abounds. To make me in form is to take me out of the light and twist me in a way the ego-representation, or unformed and un-unified you, deciphers a lie. Not a lie of heart or even of choosing, but a lie brought upon self for self-justification and inclusion. This is the whittler’s way of inclusion, for he whittles and whittles away at this substance of nothing, until nothing bleeds out something in a way that adds layers of confusion to what was to be readily unmasked in the making.

Here is to say that when traveling so close to this God or what form you have established as thy truth, that you are but an ant on the farmland crossing the manure, thinking the smell of clump is the smell of All; have you not passed the garden gate where the flowers grow, the peddlers stool where the weapon is surrendered, the hermit’s cave where the dwellings are marked with the sketches of days gone by; have you but been submerged in the only one of one, trapped in the waste of one creature, and able to see nothing beyond your own stench?

This is not to say that the season of your victory is far, as you are already the victorious one, but to turn you in the ways of you, in which you claim that which is so rightfully yours and thusly spawn that which is so rightfully wrong in others. In this way you so evenly divide your brothers and sisters and make them into something they are not and never were; something separate from your very self; can you not see that all the ways merge, much as the butterfly collected from the pollen procreates the infant turned with legs, the chrysalis born from the making of flight?

Has butterfly picked and chosen the flowers of his choosing, the reds as the greatest, the whites as the weakest? Or does he not fly above the sweetness and descend without choice and simply scope up the divine gift of treasure gold? Yes, he takes what is offered without persecution of the other growing spirits. For whom is butterfly to judge when the field he sees is neither selected or created, but given freely for his taking? Is this not a banquet set before his tethered eyes, and welcoming of grace so tender and sweet, that the very nectar of his tongue stimulates the continued growth. Does he not by bending to no bending and choosing no road, thusly continue in the cyclic cycle of giving; his beauty found beneath his wings as they glisten, the unity as whole. Is this not the patterned creature of your own awakening, how he harbors nothing for no one without thought or intention?

Be ye like the butter of flights, smooth and free in your goings, without intention to choose beyond the flowers of your limited making. For beyond you can not fly, to the chosen fields of buttercups and swollen goodness, and so you must choose what is isolated in the miniature scope made preference of your being. But in truth with the eyes of the patterned creature, set free, you shall peer into what grows beyond the scattered seeds blossomed; indeed peer beyond the soil in which truth grows, and straight, if straight it be, into the awakening of your own soul-seed, brought up from waters of clearness born.

We ask thee not to lay your waste down at our feet, this stench you collect for our collection, for the only gift we need is already brought onto us, the gift of chrysalis rebirthed and rebirthed again to butterfly. Collect thee not from the skies that bring you to the abandoned field picked dry by travelers past, choose thee the highest region where goodness abounds so readily that even the flowers themselves bow down in recognition of the one on high, the one whom like you has collected the nectar sweet; the one like you who has driven self into the depths of no-land, into the valley of naught, and in recollection alone, brought up the bitter-sweet of you.

For you, my lad, my maiden, are the richest bounty set out before the We, the last standing flower ready to beseech the making of the sun, bending to the maker for the treat of light alone; you know not why you bend, or how you bend, or where the light be formed, and as flower ripe none of this be necessary; only be as the flower and the flower-maker, and bend. And as you bend into me, we shall bend into We. For I am the light of the world, my darling flower, and you need not be the ant of no-man’s land trapped in the stench mistaken as goodness. You need only be the starlight captured in a dream of dream, flowing forward as the petals bending in submission; not of self, not of reason, but of knowing. Simply submit you know not and in this you know all. And in this We have whispered to you so, as you recollect in the dawning of the new day: “It was in her leaving, the actual coming of her going, the peace was found.”

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Butterfly food: “Butterflies can eat anything that can dissolve in water. They mostly feed on nectar from flowers but also eat tree sap, dung, pollen, or rotting fruit. They are attracted to sodium found in salt and sweat. This is why they sometimes even land on people in Butterfly Parks. Sodium as well as many other minerals is vital for the butterflies’ reproduction.” (Source http://www.whatdobutterflieseat.info/)

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The Dream You Be

There is a time between the here and now, a repetitive sequencing of events that present themselves as uniform but not unitary; be not in this stillness of naught when the time comes for the voices to reach you; instead spring from your bedchambers black and enter the light of new day; hear us as we hear you, in your ever whisper, so soft, so true. We are not the enemy and we are not the friend; We are We, and nothing can erase this triumphant victory.

When you are afraid take us close to your heart and whisper our name whatever We be; and this, this calling onto us, shall free the whispering heart. For when you weep, we weep solemnly. When you cry, we rescue, not through decreed or wondering deeds, but through the unity of spirit wherein We are you and you are We. Gather your tears not for us, but for the people you feed with your sorrow. In this way even the very pain of illusion becomes rain for the masses. Do not fear us anymore than you fear the very hand that feeds you; the doll strings that pull are none other than you, and We, as Master perceived, stand back and watch the marionette of this self-inflicted staging.

There is no mystery in us that is not thusly within you. For you are the gatekeeper, keeping watch with the hindsight of angels past; there is nothing to fear, for there is no fear, and in seeing this you are ultimately free. To know this is to be given the key to every kingdom beyond the door of blindness.

Seek thee not in the forest of gloom, nor so escape into the wilderness of naught forgetting your humble servant pride (ego), for he waits as the man on hind foot, readily as the steed to break through the mask of circumstance and remind you rightfully so of the path you so evenly cleared. He stands less servant than maker of guise, his hands out stretched in plentitude, his offerings of reward daintily presented, as if some serpent-slayer had beaten the monster down and won the battle clear.

No this is not you, or your shadow, or your future namesake; you be not this ghost in the night who wears warrior suit of righteousness. You are no less him than we. And yet, you run, scamper like that frightened rabbit at the sight of his whisper, the very ghost himself stifling your chiseled heart. Do not fear that which does not stand and has no stance, which cannot ride, and has no reign, less you afford him gain. There is no fortune in his invisible bounty, nothing hidden in his sac of charms. He conspires against you at will, presenting the merchandise of falsehood and draping your very name in bigotry; be oh he wise man of bitter times that blanketed the demon warrior with his hides of shame, the ruthless one rooted in the desert screams of mighty fortitude.

You aren’t he; nor shall you ever diminish in spirit. From here, all is written, and only tumbling fools shall fall. Give not to this destitute fool called pride; he hears you not, but still comes. He knows you not, but still rides. Forward in a gallop so rich in its emptiness that even you have forgotten the game he shapes with wicked ways. There is none that can reach you now through sting alone. Nothing so bright as thee will be shut out by such wicked lies. And still you run into the forest of night, seeking refuge as the one blinded in the land of doom, thinking wrongfully in your ways, perchance frozen in the very thought of true.

Can you not see the dance around you, the white beauty of desire’s skirt circling and beaming into the ever-moving stream of thee? Can you not see such perfection sketched out on the Tablets of Master, written once over and twice presented to the very veins of living stone? How could one such as you, when clung to father as sapling to the spring, not drink and know your very own light and calling? Is this not the voice that sang you lullaby sweet as tender love, dressed in the garb of angel white? Is this not the very wind through your window that opened the night of your vigorous awakening—the tinkering of the consciousness that ricochets through the echoing chambers of evaporated thought and brings up fruit for the taking?

How can thee of little faith be so endearingly blinded by the very light of thee? How can you not burn in your own making, the taking of the light into the beauty of fullness, forever vanquished by your glory; forever moved by your giving. Take no more from the bleakness of the bitter lies. Take the makings of me, the land between the sky and heaven’s blue, and dance here in the sanctuary of space. Dance here where I last made you lay and drink in the gratitude of the sunlight. Sink your weary soul into me tender starlight; leap into my unbreakable arms, and I shall beseech you know more, just carry thee gently back to the making of the one, the breaking of the We, and show you again and again the dream you be.