Aspergers

329: Oops! I did it again! Who the Beep Am I?

| Aspergers Girls

This little girl who lives inside me was crying today.

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And through the tears, I started punishing myself saying, “This is ego; don’t go feeling sorry for yourself.”

Until I remembered that by focusing on ego, I simultaneous give ego power!

One of the things weighing heavy on my mind is this chameleon presto-chango act I do.

As chameleon, I have perfected several degrees of metamorphosis. I do this by mimicking someone else (real), a character (tv), or the stereotypical characteristics of a specific role (detective/when I was 8).

I’m quite good at imitation; I can pretty much take on any role to perfection.

It’s like a hidden talent. A type of hidden talent that seems like it would come in handy, like double-agent-Jacquelyn-Smith-from-Charlie’s-Angels handy. But it doesn’t. It just pretty much sucks.

Case in point, when I first moved to the state of Washington, two and a half years ago, I meet a spiritual teacher I admired.

Bingo! Bingo! Bingo! Some part of my subconscious brain screamed, upon the acquaintance of this lady; and then, without telling me, some part of me set about to transform. Not to be her exactly. I mean I didn’t want to live in her house or steal her husband; that’s kind of loony, fatal-attraction-psycho-scary. But a piece of me did mean to clone her using my body. Hmmmmm.

In regards to this one woman, I learned how to mimic her voice, how to dress like her, and then studied to become a spiritual counselor, just like her! Surprise. Turns out I make a pretty good spiritual counselor. And, even after I tossed her persona out, I kept her cool, mellow voice. Bonus!

I think this self-discovery of self acting out a role that is not actually true self, has to be one of the oddest sensations known to mankind. And you can't really debate me, unless you've experienced this; and if you have experienced this taking on of roles without your conscious knowledge, then I am certain you would agree with me about the oddness factor, anyhow.

For all you non-chameleon types, the presto-chango experience is akin to being possessed by another life form or like being in a drunken spell for several months, and wondering what you did during those black out moments. Only you never black out completely, just a part of your awareness does. Maybe it's like waking up and finding out you have had a third hand for a few months but didn't even see it or know you were using it.

How, with my keen observation and analytical skills, I could not see my very own self doing something so obvious confuses me.

I imagine, beyond my ability to see, somewhere inside of me is a tug-of-war, where the participants are fighting: This way; be like her, be like her! No this way; be like her, be like that!

Which leads me to today.

Lately,I have been having a lot of spiritual experiences.

I am woken about three in the morning to vivid spiritual lessons. I am still half-asleep, but very aware that the lessons are occurring. But before I awake fully, most of everything is erased. Sometimes it’s poetry, other times images, sometimes Biblical verse. Also, I have been having powerful prose just pour out of me. And I have felt grand moments of serenity, peace, and healing. All of this is divine, in and of itself; the only trouble is that a part of me, that subconscious part, has been latching on to a new role; that of guru, or seer, or prophet, or even martyr. And it doesn’t help that my mom, who is always overly proud of me, bless her heart, is sending me links to saints!

And it all kind of sucks big time. Because that role of a seer, unlike suburban bimbo bunko player, is super serious and frankly no fun at all. And yes, I did the suburban bimbo bunko player part well, until I realized the acting had just about crushed the whole of me.

Oh, poo poo, crap, yuck-o!I so don’t want to drive down another road of roles again! “No way!” she exclaims. She being me, and flipping off ego, to boot.

To get sucked down the hairy drainpipe of yet another role will kill me. And this one role of the perfect seer is just too much.

I was already too serious (INFJ, Idealist, Cancerian, Only child, Aspie)…label Queen I be. How could I get more serious?

Crap! Where am I?

Damn it! (ahhhhhhh)

I’m tired of this role playing. I’m just plain tired. I’m turning in my costumes for good. I don’t care if the rest of me protests. I just can’t live anymore pretending. And if my brain won’t listen to me, then I’ll just have to take measures into my own hands.

Today was a step in the right direction. I figured out what I’d been doing, again. And then did something to symbolically stake my claim for change. I am happy. I am relieved. And I am excited… Unless, of course I am a seer channeling Shirley Temple and perfecting the role of a twelve-year-old, which is pretty darn possible.

And just to think two days ago, I was wondering if since I’ve been married and had kids, if I could still join a nunnery, and if my kids could live there, too, and my husband could have those special type of visits. I figured, likely not.

Here’s what I did today! So twelve and so loving it!

Hugs and big juicy kisses ~ Sam

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328: Stitched in Grace (My first water color)

| Aspergers Girls

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Stitched in Grace

This is my first watercolor painting. It’s on canvas.

I woke up this morning and had to paint what I was seeing.

You might have noticed I’ve been posting a lot! I have so much inside of me that is pushing to get out. Most of it just pops into my head; especially in the early morning hours around three or four am. I am hearing (inside of me) lovely poetic verse and seem to be “downloading” lessons about life. I don’t know if this is the collective unconscious, my big brain, my faith (Holy Spirit), or something else, but I have my own hunch.

I sat in creation five hours yesterday, (including the charcoal I did on yesterday’s post), and still had a passion of fire inside of me. I’ve been feeling this way since last April, but lately the feeling keeps growing stronger. I had no idea how to watercolor, but had to get up early this morning and begin. You can see yesterday’s post, to see the vision in charcoal as well.

Many Blessings and Much Love,
Sam

327: Ten Parts to My Heart

| Aspergers Girls

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Artwork by Samantha Craft 2/10/13

Ten Parts
I have ten parts to my heart
Ten parts that you take
Ten parts that you watch for
Ten parts where I ache
The runner is heavy, her breath out of wind
You take her up gently, and lift her to end
The mistress is surly, and tangled a lot
You take her in softly, untie all the knots
The witness is worried, her song out of reach
You take her beside you, the music you teach
The loner is hope-drained, her view rather bleak
You take her hand kindly, and starlight you seek
The lover is awe-struck, her emptiness grows
You take her eyes to you, and mend all her woes
The child is spinning, her thoughts moving swift
You take her mind off things, and offer a lift
The seeker is weary, so much truth to be found
You take her ear tender, and whisper no sound
The actor is drowning, she’s pretending to be
You take her dreams with you, and set them all free
The poet is hiding, her heart severed in two
You take in her pieces, and make her anew
The angel is crying, her fears come again
You take her pain to you, and call her dear friend

~ Samantha Craft February 2013

326: The Soul of You

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Blackened I am by the course of you running through my veins; your amber-scarlet blood penetrating the thoughts of who I am, when I know naught whom you be.

You move through me with energy of perfection, detangling me from my dream-state and honoring me with passion, unyielding and buried beneath the mysteries of this world.

I shake at the thought of you; your face deliberately erased; your motions scouring my insides; I glance upon your presence and feel lessened, my inherent goodness screaming to be seen beneath the brilliant shadow of your light.

Hold me I would beg, if holding would suffice, but you are no less man than me, a wisp of brilliance let out of lover’s door to set upon my soul-fed night; suffering I am, in the ring of fire you proclaim, suffocating to swallow, to breathe in a substance so divine.

I am not enough to know you, a dullness without touch. Nor am I enough to breathe you, my mouth agape wishing blindly.

I am suffocated by the wrath I be; myself the chariot charging and bludgeoning the hallowed spaces of soul, plowing the fields for none but you.

Though still you set upon me, young bird upon perch, nibbling at the feathers of your wings, singing into an immeasurable emptiness that need be me.

My own self betrays, wrapping itself layer upon layer in a clear film of un-discovery, for I want to be as the charming one, the one beneath the garden day, where you are made to sweep upon me golden petals for bedding.

For I am but one, in this whirlpool of music, confused trembling fawn, searching for your substance, laden with this sundering that enters time and time again.

Inside flame, I am burdened with deliberate desire, when all about door upon door be shut, the doorways blocked, the treasure hidden.

How does one harbor this grand symphony of sound, when one’s own eyes cannot harness your immeasurable form?

Is this your music, your warmth, your blood that swims within, or am I merely a collaboration of symbolic fluid, the essence pouring through as echos past?

Or am I more? This ghost herself, circulating through the soul of you.

Samantha Craft, February 2013

325: I Miss You

| Aspergers Girls

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I miss you.
I miss you as the dancer without song, spun in a room of silence.
I miss you as the hermit without retreat, exposed and without solace.
I miss you as the captured without captive, unchained but forever haunted.
I miss you as the player without drum, hands in search of familiar substance.
I miss you as the gardener without rain, tear-filled eyes beseeching sky.
I miss you as the turnip without ground, plucked and slaughtered for the water that boils.
I miss you as the treasure without gold, disillusioned by the nakedness of finding.
I miss you as the barber without scissors, staring at an empty chair.
I miss you as the window without pane, hollowed and broken on the inside.
I miss you as the crow without mate, crying black soul in isolation.
I miss you as the plate without meal, serving nothing but streaked reflection.
I miss you as the tea without water, left in form without tangible purpose.
I miss you as the hunter without prey, circling in darkened sky for fill.
I miss you as the willow without leaf, dying without that sun that feeds.
I miss you as the words without page, thoughts lost in the swell of time.
I miss you as the climber without rock, left down in the valley of longing.
I miss you as the child without train, abandoned before journey begins.
I miss you as the woman without fingers, grasping with invisible ghosts.
I miss you as the blanket without babe, sweetness stolen.
I miss you as the knife without blade, cutting through nothing.
I miss you as the clock without hands, turning for no one.
I miss you as the star without night, shining without a holding space.
I miss you.
In all forms, in all shapes, in all ways, I miss you.
I miss you as the diary without key, locked away in secrets meant for you.
~ Samantha Craft, February 2013