Balancing the World; thoughts on leadership and autism

My entire life, like many on the autism spectrum, I have oftentimes been misjudged, misinterpreted, and misunderstood. When I finally, after over four decades on this earth, located individuals with like minds, I was overcome with mixed emotions. I’d finally found “my people” and at the same time lost a piece of myself that I thought was extremely different. Lost in the sense that I came to realize, after conversing with other autistics, that I wasn’t so different and “unique” after all. However, this was okay—extremely okay. Finding a home base community in which I was at last understood, accepted, and supported far out weighed any sense of loss of elements of self.

Four-plus years later, after an outpour of online writing, and I am navigating another aspect of my journey. I am entering another unfamiliar zone—a place of no predictability. I am facing a wide-open space of new people and new encounters. In addition, I am trying my best to maneuver in rarely frequented territory: that of an autistic leader.

Autism, in my case Asperger’s Syndrome, comes in all shapes and sizes, multiple colors of the rainbow. It is truly a spectrum. With autism, there are the typical “gifts” and tribulations. For me, the beneficial attributes of my ASD are profound empathy and insight, prolific writing, poetry, and the ability to put into words my suffering in a way others can understand. In this way, I am able to make the loneliness of some less of a burden, and I have been able to serve as a sort of gateway into a supportive community of other autistics. A community in which we find ourselves in one another. I don’t say this lightly. There have been streams of individuals filtering through the pages of my blogs and social media pages to essentially say that they now have at last found hope—and some a reason to not end their life. I don’t say this to brag, either. Those that have known me, know my heart, and it is for them I speak.

The trouble today is not so much my tribulations related to ASD, such as peak moments of heightened anxiety, bombardments of feelings that at first look are hard to decipher, the jarring reminders every hour of my waking day that I am somehow not built like most others, the intense heartache and lack of breath from searing pangs of empathy, and the worries brought on by my minds ability to steer off into complex, multi-level corridors of discovery. No, it’s not so much in that—though “that” still consumes me. More over, it is this new place I find myself, in where I am exposed.

I am a natural born leader; I always have been, despite my own qualms and misgivings. Despite my protest. Despite my quirks and challenges. Overall, I tend to end up as a voice of some sort–usually for the downcast or underdog. And it’s not amongst my favorite of tasks—this speaking up for myself and others. Indeed, it would be fair to say, I dread many moments beyond the comfort of my home. Still, there are mornings of great hope and gratitude for my ability to reach out, and with this comes waves of great peace; but there, on the other end of the pendulum, is the bareness of naked vulnerability, the removal of shield, the entranceway for stinging spears. There, in the darker zone, lives my fear and weakness, and the very brittle fight to survive exposure. For I’m not the average person, I’m not made the way of the masses. I am very much, despite where I stand, still autistic.

I am hurt daily, by my own accord, by the acceptance of others’ truths as mine. By the energy it takes to abstract and remove everything that doesn’t ring true to me. And to then wade through the muck of others’ ideas, input, feelings, insights—and on an on—to hopefully decipher what is valid and necessary at this time. I am not only balancing myself, which those on the spectrum readily know is a gallant effort, I am also balancing everyone within my reach. In this way, it is hard to be outside exposed in the “real” world.

It is especially challenging when outsiders (who do not know me and often see a reflection of their own self) try to pin their tail of identity onto me. I feel smothered, unrecognized, and brought back to the bastardized halls of my high school years. Brought back to the pettiness, the name-calling, the finger pointing, and relive the nightmares over again. It is equally difficult when another, particularly in the autistic community, starts proclaiming how I should tailor my words to suit their needs—the current societal trends—the current “right way.” To see this conglomeration of “do-gooders” with supposed good intention in mind, attempt to steer me into what is the most well accepted approach of the day is excruciatingly exhausting.

I can only be so much. I can only do so much. And I don’t understand why my own tribe would not see this. They forget that I am autistic. They forget how dreadfully scary this is. How frightening to attempt to build a bridge from the autistic world to the non-autistic world, and to appear “normal” enough in the typical arena to be heard and listened to, and “autistic” enough to be trusted in my own community. It is a fine balancing act in which I am continually on a high wire with a long heavy pole. Constantly pushed off balance while attempting to get to the other side to the unknown. I am walking step-by-step toward something that is neither a goal nor destiny, but rather a calling. I am serving, I am giving, I am loving, I am supporting, I am being my all. Yet no matter how I struggle, no matter where I step, to some, as is this world—it is never enough.

 

(I normally post at my blog Everyday Aspie, but my WordPress options were not working accurately there today.)

 

Sam’s book Everyday Aspergers is now available internationally on Amazon.

More information can be found at her company: myspectrumsuite.com

535: Empathic Aspie

I take on other people’s emotions and experience.  I become them. I am empathic. I am pure. And I am a blank slate. At times, most times, I am a mirror to whom I am with. My interactions and choices of companionship affect my being. I become that which is before me. Time and time again, I transform intellectually, spiritually, and emotionally into what I am exposed to. I am much like the yogurt cultures hooked up to electrodes that respond electronically and energetically to the thoughts of the observer. Or, akin to the frozen water crystals that transform based on the word written and prescribed to them. I become that which is. I see this in all my relationships. Whether across the states or face-to-face, whether up close or through a mode of distant communication, I am affected. It makes no difference my present state. In any form in which I enter, I exit transformed. I am not me, except with a rare few who see me as me. And it is this rare few, who too, are mirrors, who too transform, who too see and watch themselves become what they are not, or perhaps what we all are.

No matter who I see, they see what they are. In visiting a shaman, he said to me I was a powerful shaman. That I was previously a ball of light. That I carried no baggage. That I was powerful. In seeing an astrologist, she said to me I was here for a purpose, that the stars aligned, that I had a powerful calling: that of an empath, teacher and healer. That there was no denying this. In seeing a Buddhist psychologist, he said to me I was an enlightened genius. In each case, each without knowing, projected onto me the way they viewed their own self. I became a mere reflection. I became a viewpoint—that transcendental lookout.

In less formal meetings, I become, too, what is before me. If a friend is angry, spiteful, and holding a grudge, I take on these states of beings. I shift instantly, and having harnessed such emotions, I begin to apply the emotions to my own life. To piece together what I am feeling to make logical sense. Suddenly, when there had been no such thought before, I am remembering my own spite and upset, and I am connecting what is felt to what has seemingly caused the upset. I am reversing my typical logic and instead of going from A to B, going from B to A. In reverse, I am dissecting my history to make sense of my present. This is one way I know when I am picking up on someone else, and not my self—for I am not proceeding from cause/source to reaction, but experiencing reaction and then searching for cause/source. It’s the opposite of being triggered, in which there is a direct obstacle, event, or circumstance that has set me aflame internally. Here, there is the counter-experience, of having the flame, and searching within to understand the feasible reasons for the fire.

I, in being the way of the mirror, become more-or-less the subject before me. Be this through intellectual conversing, close connection, or something else, regardless I am penetrated. And there is no boundary. No protection. No barrier. Distance makes no difference, nor does the mode of contact. The instant messaging can affect me as much as a long, drawn out conversation. I can feel the other as pricks and pins. I can feel the other as a heavy weight on my chest. I can feel what is inside another and feel it on my body. I can take on the exact physical and emotional pain. I can develop symptoms: rashes, lack of mobility, acute pain, allergies. All which are that of the carrier who has crossed my path. I can pick up on the past, the present, and sometimes the future. I can see, at times, illness or malnourishment. I can see hopes and pains. And I can especially see fear.

The worst is the unspoken words I hear. The lines that vary from what is spoken—wave lengths of what I sense that are in contrast to what is shared. I can hear what is hidden and I can hear what is buried. I can feel the person judging me and feeling me out, as tentacles from the octopus or giant squid spread out, retracted and then flung forward into the depths of me. I can feel myself being dissected and observed. And I feel the thoughts of the one that isn’t me entering and exploring. I feel the argument before it is said. And I sense the contradictions before spoken. I know. I just know. And this knowing comes in gathered strings and unraveling twine; a web of sorts broken apart and about to reform.

I deny this all, in moments, as the happenings themselves leave me exhausted in the thoughts of how and why. It is easier at times to claim myself delusional or incorrect than to face such a process of living. Each expectation is felt. Each motivation. Each intention. I know the foundation of what the other is thinking. And some, more so most, are not ready or wanting to know. And I, for the most part, am not wanting to tell. It’s not my business. Nor is it my wish to see. And yet I am left spinning in a whirlwind of another, wanting to escape the ‘me’ they have made me, or I have allowed myself to become.

I leave not knowing myself, and at times feeling the worst over what I had become. I doubt my own existence and substance. I think I am what they are. Trapped in the illusion of the other, I wonder who I am. I doubt my genuineness and purity. I doubt I know the answers of self. And I begin to think I no longer understand anything about the being I am.

I come out of it untarnished, but exhausted. I return to my norm, which is very much level and at peace. I exist without the drama and without the immediacy and urgency that seemingly haunts most of humanity. There is no longer a rush, a need, a desire; there is just me. And I am at peace, returned to my self and state of being. Here I am at my best: in the alcove of solitude. Without the interactions of the world treading upon my esteem, here I am untouched and bathed in grace. Here I am free, until the next passerby touches down and finds me as himself. And I am left lost, running a race without realizing my legs are still.

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504: Had I but a voice…whisperings of Aspergers

“This is your Aspergers. It is your brain searching for something to fixate on. It is our hyper-intelligence. Our brains are puzzle solvers. We are here to help the planet. When we focus on light we make dynamic shifts. But the yang of the yin is when we focus on the dark; it is hell. The trap, we Aspies fall into, is trying to solve our emotions, instead of sitting with them.” ~ Sam

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We believe we are never going to be good enough, right enough, or enough. No matter how much we read, decipher and figure out. No matter the conclusions pondered and information transmitted, the puzzles seemingly solved, or ideas seemingly mastered. We remain somewhat in awe of ourselves and the world. Our bodies and brains, and everything, unwinded and dissected, and nonetheless remaining singularly tangled and unmanageable. Our brains were made to conquer and conquest, and yet, we are the ones conquered in the endless ways in which to surmise our reality and exponential experience in life. Through our ability to mesh objectivity with subjectivity, we are made into a conundrum of possibilities; ourselves delivered to the world through a large scope of outward introspection, as if the audience is the All of everyone, and we the victim of circumstantial evidence. We are hunted, say hounded, by our innate ability to view ourselves from a distance, whilst climbing inside of others, many others, and imagining a collected viewpoint and conclusion of us. And this transaction isn’t something purposeful or invented for cause or reason. The exact act of becoming this observer of the observers is ingrained into our essential state of being. We are in essence and in truth, a mini-version of everything we take in. In this sense, we can never be that which is good, right, or enough, as everything is projected and taken back, endless mirrors upon mirrors of becoming the every changing of that which is around us.

We are made to be puzzle solvers, and the dynamic labyrinth of us, and that of the singular ‘me,’ eludes the perceived self. We become so twisted in thought that the truth hides between and beneath complex layers of potentiality, a state of existence at battle with forethought of failure. A concept considered is quickly sliced and diced and made into the sectioned out pieces of avenues of demise. We can see with hindsight, foresight, and insight into the depths of each solution we consider. Thinking therefor becomes exhaustive itself, and at times, many times, uncontrollable. As if we were made to conquer the exact thought perceived, only our tools of conquest are both our weapon and our curse. Had we the opportunity to rest our minds, the remainder flows naturally; however, the resting itself is continually challenged and masked by further thought of the concept of ‘rest’ itself. Making relaxation still another puzzle to be solved and pieced back together. For everywhere is this appearance of a ‘challenge.’ Everywhere our brains want to pick and perch, peck and devour, until the end point is found. Even as we know there is no end in sight. This is the deviation sector of our searching, a place in space in which we can step back and observe ourselves hunting for something we know does not exist, while simultaneous lacking the ability to halt said action. Had we known how to stop ourselves, our minds would be different, lacking the cohesiveness to piece back together that which is before us. We are made this way for reason unknown to us, even as we feel there must be a reason: for how could such a ‘thing’ as I exist, if not for some purpose other than the regions of hell in which our thinking leads.

We long for order in a world that dictates discord, even as nature professes the circularity of wholeness. We see behind the curtains of societal games and rules. The prophecies of past make sense to us, wherein the theories, the solutions, the ways in which modern leaders point, do not. Everything we create is created at multiple levels. Sometimes our own thinking manifests further outcomes. Sometimes the coincidences are incomprehensible and impossible to explain. We are descriptive creatures. Everywhere and all about is description. We take in information like manmade thesauruses and dictionaries. Had we known we’d be mistaken as ancient ones marked as ‘know-it-alls’ and beseeched with unceasing ways of interpretation, perhaps we would have failed to live without taking first breath. But regardless, we remain. Our quest is unreachable to those that think not as we. We are, in many ways, separate in how we perceive the world. Our sensory input on high-speed, our ability to reach a temporary finishing point, beyond measure. We endure a silent suffering all day and all night, the intensity of the world bearing down on us as a tangible concrete weight. A heaviness indescribable and ever moving into each crevice that is ‘self.’ To wake is to take in another day of battle, as to sleep is to meander through that which was taken in the whole of the day. The subconscious combined with another powerful force abstracting the decayed ravaged thoughts and replacing them with an unspeakable knowledge beyond us. Our scope of intelligence so vastly far-reaching that our own minds become lost in an ocean, torrential.

……………….

Had I but a moment to replace my being with another, less common than I, and make this person enter me, then he would know the hell I speak of, the way in which the mind made mad taunts and slithers as snake to fowl captured.

In every way I am me and I am not me; and so it goes I am divided into multiple selves not knowing who to expect. Calm on the exterior or upset. Weeping or cursing. Lying to self or submerged in the illusion of truth. I know not what will happen next. I am subjected to the layering of others: a natural empath taking on both the hurts and wants of those around me. I soak in greed. I breath out anger. I force myself to stand, even as I know not where, as vultures around me circle, taking in what they think is me, and spitting out their awful truths. I am invisible. I know this. I see this. I write this on the edge of my soul. The outline of me marked in words “I am,” and yet sucked out into that voice which is the masses.

I am slipping as I speak. Lost in the places of public where people proclaim this sense of righteous being. I drift in a world where I long to be seen and where everywhere I am branded with harsh judgment. It does not matter how many people love me, need me, or attempt to protect me. Even as my guardian circle expands, the vultures come closer. It is not the ability to build my force field of love that guides me; more so it is my built-in longing to move beyond the vultures of society, which propels me forward in action. Had I not the torrential rain spurted down by the falsehoods of this world, I would be not urged to continue onward. Even in the darkest moments, I know the voice that tricks me is merely a reminder of the voice that tricks all.

Had I but a voice that could penetrate the walls of me, I would pierce me a thousand times through and be within and without, transmitted into a time without time, and cast out as minion to the masses of humble-seekers. Had I but a heart a thousand times pierced, I would ask another blade to enter, if only to free that which is imprisoned: myself upon self.

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“We think we are ungrateful, but that’s not it. Our brains are just always solving, so we conclude we are never satisfied. Thinking we are not thankful, we then self-punish, believing ourselves less than and not enough—incapable of finding this so-called “satisfaction,” a mythical word that is a leeched byproduct spawned from societal whimsy.” ~ Sam

482: The Greatest Casualty

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I woke up with three pages of information involving archetypes and symbolic representation, and the challenges I face of being keenly aware to the illusion of life; in so much that I am aware of the way I must choose icons in order to live and communicate in this dimension. This followed by the off balance of duality at my core level, if it be off, in that I am primarily feminine energy. Then I was conceptualizing the time space continuum, in regards to how I can’t think in simple format but instead in what is a visual expansive viewing in which, in a short amount of time, it seems I am viewing a series of variant options and pathways to conclusion.

It is impossible for me to think in a linear fashion.

I think in where some are persecuted and ostracized for perceived secrecy and aloofness the opposite occurs with me. As I am interpreted as smothering, over-sharing and clingy. But in truth I am at the same point as the latter, in so much that I am overwhelmed with thoughts and information, and my coping mechanism manifests itself as verbally processing likely to off set the feasibleness of insanity. Couple my intensity of thoughts and emotions with my capacity to remote view others emotional, say spiritual state, from a distance, and I become bombarded with such vast amounts of data I overload.

I struggle with being seen beneath what appears to be a constant shifting of perception and representation of what I am. I become that which I am observed by, and, in essence, I am reflected to that person through his limited capacity to view what is before him. In this sense, I remain entirely isolated and invisible, much lost to my own self with intense longing to be seen. Ironically unable to see myself as nothing more than fluidity.

The greatest casualty for me, in great contrast to some, is my advanced empathy and ability to tap into another’s emotional field, as this capability serves to intensify my awareness of suffering, isolation, and the tendency for most of the world to be asleep, if not lost somewhere trapped within what they perceive and what is. My greatest discomfort comes in craving to be seen as a true representation of love and compassion, vibrating at a frequency that is both beneficial and of comfort, but feeling the discrepancy between who I am and what the other is interpreting.

I am that I am, yet others in their closed ways turn me into their wishful dream. I long to break out of the isolation and this brings the fever to my writing. However, the more I try the more blinded I become to the rest of this existence; in essence, sinking into this self I neither know nor understand.

I cannot see faces in real life. I have no idea what I look like. Each moment I shift as do others. This makes the world very uncomfortable for me. Perhaps it is the eyes that are the only thing that remain constant. ~ Sam

456: Osmosis

I am from a different dimension watching the happenings in awe, taking notes, mental calculations of everything about: the climate, the temperature, the ups and downs. But not just of the environment, but of the people. Mostly the people.

Everything is taken in, at both a conscious and subconscious level. There is a sense of no time, and a sense of too much time at other intervals. Much transpires in a quaint amount of minutes, and the mind becomes lost in some labyrinth of intricate and dynamically complex ponderings.

In viewing the situation, the actual being in a room with others, the actual processing of the brain, and the very real presence of self-observation, coupled and quadrupled with observation of others, there is a dutiful evaluation unfolding, a recollecting of past knowledge, gathering of nearby circumstantial evidence, and a preponderance of scaffolding—taking the old and making new form from prior existence.

Both the complexity of thoughts and complexity of creation of newness propel the observer forward into another space. Minute time spans get lost, placed somewhere else, as the mind interjects the mind, interrupting self; something akin to rapid thoughts, but far beyond even the concept of thoughts.

It’s as if the machine is oiling itself, feeding itself, spinning itself, dissecting itself, and spewing out product all at once. To say I am “adrift” is far from factual. To mention the words wondering or surmising, not even close to justifiable. The state of existence is beyond the scope of man. Far reaching, like a power still undiscovered; some creature hidden in the far region of a deep forest, not yet classified or identified, and in so being undiscovered, unable to place a face on his own face, a name to his own name. He just is. A living entity with a breath that is neither here nor there, but nonetheless existing evermore.

To say I enter a room untouched is foolishness. Everything reaches out to me, begging to be gathered. I am overwhelmed, spun, juxtaposed to self, and then brought back to reality, to the present; only to be spun out again—some exotic rare yarn undone and spread throughout the room, feeling and touching with my softness of inquiry my whereabouts, needling myself back through loops and holes, gathering the loose ends and reassembling substance into understanding. Making myself a shape to match the surroundings. Osmosis and inquiry warped in union.

I am what I am, here, in this state, some constant creature of transition. I am hyper aware that my existing affects my being. Hyper a tune to the ways of the world, in how the people move about: the motives, the causations, the wants the needs. Here, thoughts prick at me, trickle in, more like clinging vine than cool running stream. I am pinched and prodded by a foreign entity, and left to breathe in the unfamiliar and daunting. All about me is information—the exterior and interior of bystander intertwining and creating pictures in my mind.

I know not what to do with self, as self is transformed by the collected data; the shapes and forms, the meanderings of thoughts, trying to stumble through the input. A part of my engine made to live. A part that knows not how to sleep. All is alive and real, subscribing to me, as if I were the words expelled—the entities around me, whether forged with their own thoughts or merely spinning molecules of substance rock, connecting to me, reaching, collecting the avenue I be. I become to them what they are to me, some highway of transgression of thoughts.

We combine in a dormant way, hiding behind some wall, filtering our way about one another. Feeding and living in the backdrop. I know no other way to describe this, except that I dance with that which is all around me. To walk into a room is not to enter a space. To walk into a room is to transcend self, and to be returned forever changed.

454: Sometimes I am so very real

I believe this collection of random thoughts I have had over the past two weeks emphasizes both the tenderness and complexities of my heart-mind. Much love to you ~ Sam

Sometimes I am so very real in a world of falsehoods that I am mistaken as fake.

Listening to another’s words is telling. A truth seeps through. Inside the words there is restriction, beyond the words, too. Any self-based motivation and intention is detected. The ego’s ploys and plots. I can feel them. The way the one tries to place his image on another to validate his own truth of existence. The way another tries to categorize an experience through cloaking a person in his own garments. It feels heavy to me, to be around someone who is attached to his own sense of self, his own sense of what is right. I feel attacked with daggers. Penetrated with judgment. It is not that my own identity is so fragile and in need of repair from the demons of the world; it is because my soul is tender to the ways of people blinded by their thoughts of superiority. I see others as equivalent to self, as equal. And so many times another wants to define me as more or less. Both disrupt my energy flow and energy purpose. Both make me momentarily stagnant, slipped inside the seams of another’s perspective, and bent into the shape of their doing. This isn’t a defect or something I need to alter. This is. And I sit here wondering where these people go, so lost into themselves, that they can not find the truth of us.

I do not share my story to receive empathy. I do not share my journey with any intention at all, beyond love. And even this intention, I release. For love exists fully in freedom. I place no expectations on my readers, and no expectations on my self. My hope is abandoned, in the sense I choose not to hope for outcome based on my words. I don’t steer, nor do I drive my voice. I simply speak my truth. I am that I am, and whatever flows out of me, I bless with my authenticity and with our shared light. I do not seek approval or acceptance. No longer do those traps entice me. I seek only to shine as a representation of your own beauty. And in doing so I am placed ten-fold above my own interior pain. I am lifted beyond the seemingly endless singular journey and returned to the arms of All. You, me, we: traveling as one united.

Sometimes I want to pour myself out, like spillage from a sac. Plop myself right out there in completion. Everything from the biggest secrets to the biggest fears. And just say: Here I am. Take me or leave me. But if you’re going to leave, do it now. So you don’t take the good parts of me with you.

For me, the challenges with religious doctrine or any spiritual doctrine, is that more times than not a person will pull out a singular element of his interpreted truth from the literature, perhaps a quote or a philosophical idea, without having studied the whole: the works in completion in original voice and language, the history of the interpretations, the effects of man’s interpretation, and the effects of man’s darker virtues, those of greed, power, and control. In my current view, pulling out one singular element from a vast and complex teaching that has been made more complex through man’s influences and tainting, and claiming a singular truth, is the same as taking a body part off of a human to explain a being; in other words, I would not cut off my ankle, place it on the table, and say: Here I am. Here is my truth.

A true friend inspires you to shine your own light, expects that you prove nothing, and loves you in any condition. She neither takes away from who you are, or adds to your existence, but neutrally supports you with her own self-acceptance and self-love.

Too often I have been admired, and mistaken this admiration for love. Too often the admiration fades, and what is left is this empty shell of another’s perception of me. I long to be loved for me, but seem to get lost inside the busy-ways in which others build me up. It is lonely falling from a place that never was to a new place that is even less a reality. Back to this hole of somewhere, the gap in which people bury their disappointments.

It isn’t your opinions that bother me, or even your continual judgment and evaluation of who I am as a person. I don’t mind if you disagree with me, or that you believe you can fix and control me. I don’t even care if you find my ways repulsive and unsightly. I care that you don’t love yourself enough to see that you are already whole and complete, and instead take your illusion of a broken self and try to pound ‘broken’ into me.

Often I absorb the energy of someone that is around me. For example if she is angry and bitter, I feel this. If I am around the energy for a certain time interval, usually more than an hour, I begin to reflect back to that person what she wants and expects to see. I, in essence, shift, becoming an image of the other’s projection. If the person is in a state of contentment and bliss, free of judgment, and full of unconditional love, I can spend countless hours in the one’s company. If she is tormented by fear, which is often the case, I become wrapped up in her fear myself, transforming into something I do not find comforting. As hard as I try to maintain my sense of self, I slip into the evaluation energy field another has of her own self. I become who the other perceives me to be. I have heard other spiritual teachers speak of this phenomena. What amazes me is that no matter how much love I give out to another ‘seeing’ me, she will eventually make me into her truth, regardless of my love. I am beginning to understand more and more why silence in the presence of others is sometimes not only beneficial but necessary.

Some of my most far-reaching works were driven by an intense and utter sense of isolation, separation, and desperation. I cried out from the dark of my soul in a state of pure innocence and agonizing pain. Here, in these dark nights, the light came. The light of you. Many blessings.

No one, absolutely no one, is trying to escape. We are all trying to get back in. Back in touch. Back in bliss. Back to the place where we are whole and entirely connected. We aren’t stagnant beings trapped in a prison. We are pulsating light attempting to penetrate from the outside in, longing to return to the core of love.

Just because I appear to be at a loss right now, somehow fallen and maybe looking to you broken, doesn’t mean I won’t be back on my feet in a few minutes, entirely renewed and ready to start again. I recover quickly. Reentry into this world has become my habit.

My honesty runs deep. I am not just layers of honesty; I think I am built with bricks of it. Each comment I make is weighed for truth, and in turn each word out of another’s mouth is felt for accuracy. Not my way or their way. Not right or wrong. But whether or not the words spoken resonate with the underlying energy. If what is expressed coincides with the empathic pull I feel. Even the facial expressions, the body movements, the tone of voice—I wonder as observer of self and other—is this a truth? A true reflection of the state of being? I dig deeper and wonder what truth is; and thusly, the simplest actions for others, become rapid moving complexities to me. The sound of a ‘hello,’ the movement of a head shaking, the words ‘I love you.’ The daily norms aren’t easy for me. So much rests beneath everything. And yet everyone seems to be skating on the surface.

It is hard for me to be in balance. I want to. I try to. I study how to. I look in books. I look at others. I watch and observe. But it appears I wasn’t built the same way as the rest. It seems I move in extremes. I am either overly passionate and obsessed or I am shut off entirely. I am either running full speed ahead or dodging what is coming at me. I don’t know how to be the other way, the way people seem to be. I am a mess or I am pristine. I have all the answers or I have none. I am on cloud nine or I am in hell. And it isn’t anything that brings me out of balance, not a mood swing, not a chemical, not a drug.. it is this place, this world, the confusion it brings: the energy, the questions, the bombardment of rules that aren’t rules. All this makes me cling to one thing and then another in hopes of answer. The clinging elevates me to a place of momentary security. The obsessions trap me away from reality. But then the reality comes and I am swung back down to who I am in a place so unfamiliar. It is a constant game of pendulum dodging. I am at the bottom somewhere with the pendulum above. I hold on and swing, right to left, left to right. Hope to fear. Fear to hope. And then sometimes, I just give up, let go, and fall into a dark place of not wanting to hold on anymore.

I woke up raw this morning, bristle brush to the inner parts. Scraped, with my protective tarnish all but removed. It’s hard to find equilibrium when certain events are altered. When what I’d thought would be does not transpire. I find myself repeating teachings of letting go and trusting, living in the present, and having faith in the process. Only this lesson seems to be on a annoying feedback loop, some old record I can’t turn off. I am tired of trusting. I am tired of trying to let go. I just want to find that state of being where even the voices from the record are silenced. Where there aren’t any droning reminders and no need to pacify the feeble self I perceive. It’s a grand frustration when all the answers are there, are given, are ready for taking, but my body and mind seem to be frozen in a distant state of deafness.

I don’t understand why I fixate on another person. I am not what would be labeled co-dependent. I am not needy. I am not desperate. But certain people trigger a dire hunger in me, as if I found a lost piece of my own self. I wonder if at some spiritual level I recognize the person, if I know outside the limits of time what has already transpired. Perhaps my sensitivity stretches beyond this moment, and shows me in dream and waking-state my other part; and then, the earthbound self I am cannot handle this sensation without succumbing to passion. Perhaps I am recognizing where I used to be, whom I used to be, or what I am to become.

I hunger for a love I know not. A deep penetrating, enveloping love that never leaves and never enters. That blooms from within over and over, eternal in its giving. Depletion exists not, nor does retreat. Only constant renewal and rejuvenation. When I taste this love, from within the space of no space, in the light’s birthing and rebirthing, I am home. When I do not, I am perpetually lost and wondering where I was before I forgot.

The worst for me is loops.. looping.. spinning.. the cyclic thoughts that overtake me that feel much more biological/fight-flight than logical. I can be fine one moment, one hour, one large portion of the day, and then something triggers me, e.g., a strong emotion, an attachment, a hope, a disappointment, or various degrees of stimuli. And Boom! I am smack in the middle of some lost land, where I cannot catch my breath or my sanity. I am falling and wondering if I will ever touch down again, if ever I will ground myself in factual evidence and reassurance. The same thoughts move round and round me, a merry-go-round in my head. And I am not only dropping at high speed, but sinking inside too; shrinking in fact, become some diminished self: less worthy, less me. It takes all my strength to keep from drowning, all my reserves and energy. Then I am momentarily in a state of limbo that seems to last eternity, where time is stopped, and my whole existence preoccupied with whatever it is that is consuming me. It feels as if I swallowed something of substance, but then in turn it grew and began to devour me. I wish then I’d never taken hold of whatever it was: a person, place, thought, dream. I wish then I was someone different, someone more prepared for this world.

Sometimes I over explain myself and give a lot of details because I know from experience people are swift to form their own judgments and opinions about me the moment a word escapes my mouth. In many situations, I instantly feel misunderstood, before a complete sentence is even formed. I interrupt for the same reason. I can feel the person steering away from what I have tried to say. Words, they limit me. I feel and sense too much to explain in a paragraph, or even in an entire book. Mine is an endless stream of thoughts, and to speak for only a second, I am already lost to the world. There is an isolation that follows spoken communication and a reminder that peace is found in silence. An isolation in which I realize my way of communicating is often unheard by the masses, and only collected by the delicate few. Still, I rejoice in the few, in their endless compassion and love. Here I find my refuge and my true voice.

At this moment I agree that thoughts can lead to manifestations in life. I believe this because of the mystery of moving atoms and the mystery of water molecules, in how they respond to stimuli—the observer. Sometimes people will tell other people to think positive and to not fear. This is not beneficial. It only further perpetuates the conquest of fear. When anyone tells another how to be or how to find the way, he is implying he knows more than the receiver. The resulting energy exchange, the product of ‘telling,’ negates any power a message might have carried. The most benefit is gained when someone is loved unconditionally, when another shines his light in love with no expectation that the other person be any certain way or respond in any certain way. There is a confusion in the world, a deep confusion, in which people think they have the answers and are here to share the answers. The truth is we are the answer. Within us is the light. When someone feels the impulse to penetrate another with her truth, this is not love. This is fear disguised. This is believing that one has a secret the other does not possess. We have become a ‘How To’ generation, built with a million upon a million keys of separate generated ‘answers.’ Everyone is so busy telling everyone else what to do, that they forget to listen to their own heart. When others begin to open up their own soul, we will be a much quieter world.

I am awake in the sense I know myself. In knowing myself I know others. In knowing the all, I recognize the constant change and transitioning of life in everything and everyone. Yet, I exist in a world where people worship stagnation, confinement, and the boxing up of attributes. I understand nothing is as it seems, but all about me people try to declare what is and what is not. I used to listen to their echoes and believe. Now I listen to my own heart, and know.

My vulnerability and openness is not a reflection of my strength or weakness. I am not a degree of something or another someone sets upon me. Up on one scale of attributes, and down on another. I am whole and complete. Even in my perceived ‘low’ points and ‘failings,’ I am enough. I am that which is beyond this physical being, this limiting ego-state. I am that which is already entirely love and light. If one chooses to place upon me a definition of his or her truth, then this truth is also who the person believes his or her self to be. In choosing to see me as only light and love, never stagnant, and continually transforming, the other chooses to see self the same. What I am is what you are.

I will love you no matter what you say or do. I will forgive you no matter what you say or do. But this does not mean I will let you back into the circle where I keep my heart. If you hurt me, I close. A part of me surrenders from our relationship. And to trust again, seems infeasible. Yes, I will cherish you. Yes, I will support you. But to be connected again, may be an impossibility.

There is a difference between loving unconditionally and allowing anyone into your sacred space of self. It is not hypocritical to announce you love unconditionally but to still choose to limit access to certain people in your life. In fact, it is essential to have boundaries and self protect. In order to maintain unconditional love, one must love herself first and release self-judgment and self-expectations. In the process of self-love, one must maintain a freedom to nurture and uphold the self and balance this act with applying the wisdom to protect the self. In choosing to let go of certain individuals and to establish physical and spiritual distance, I am not announcing a degree of separation; instead, I am pronouncing a continuation of the honoring of my holy light and purpose. I won’t allow the capacity of a singular to diminish my light and counteract my energy resources and my ability to serve and love others. In truth, sometimes one must be set aside from the proximity of self, still held in light and love, still held in hope, but no longer set in a spectrum of space that can essentially snuff my light. Better that I focus on the circumference of the radiating love of all then on defending myself from one who is negating my efforts.

He came in with his opinions, and rearranged my life, sifting through what was right and wrong, and in need of alteration. I was dusted off, pulled out of my place of comfort, and turned upside down. Made to believe this title of faults were the end all, the cause of turmoil and disruption. Luckily, he couldn’t reach my heart, the cornerstone of my existence, my truth and my steadfast peace. For even in my disarray and utter sadness, singled-out on a weary shelf of ‘wrong’ and in need of ‘fixing,’ my heart cried out ‘false.’ And she sang, you are beautiful for always.

We (many people with Aspergers and others who are sensitive to the falsehoods) see through the illusion, even if we don’t know what we are seeing through. We feel this falsehood at our core and recognize it as poison and not real. We often don’t know why, but we do. When we are around like people who bring us comfort, it is because they resonate with our core. If our core is authentic, we resonate with authentic people; if our core is fear-based authentic, we resonate with fear-based-authentic; if our core is non-authentic fear-based we resonate with that. Regardless of a neurological condition or any type of label. Like attracts like

Sometimes I would prefer to meet someone in my perceived moments of ‘weakness,’ instead of my perceived moments of ‘strength.’ In that way, I am not set on a pedestal, and then watched until I falter. More so, I would prefer to connect with another who sees me as neither weak nor strong in any condition, but merely whole. There is a profound emptiness that flows through when one establishes one as something or another, labels experience as theirs with an unreasonable ownership, reckons they know and can figure out another soul. They can’t, unless they know their own soul. And even then, two get lost in the endlessness of no boundaries. I am neither longing to be admired for my strength nor longing to be forgiven for my weakness. I don’t exist in a stagnant state. I only exist as love and light. And all else is falsehood appearing real. I love you in your completeness, not for your moments.

I am supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. And awesome. And a bunch of other cool words. But if you are seeking perfection, you better find that in your self first.

It isn’t your opinions that bother me, or even your continual judgment and evaluation of who I am as a person. I don’t mind if you disagree with me, or that you believe you can fix and control me. I don’t even care if you find my ways repulsive and unsightly. I care that you don’t love yourself enough to see that you are already whole and complete, and instead take your illusion of a broken self and try to pound ‘broken’ into me.

I have this ongoing list of how I am supposed to be alongside an ongoing voice of how no one really knows how anything or anyone is supposed to be because everything is self-created, perceived, and rejected and/or accepted.

I don’t do well when someone I meet excites me. I am like a dog set free for the first time at a dog park. I frolic and pounce, over-sniff and over-lick. And then when I am back in the doghouse, I wonder what came over me.

374: Moments

“It is not that I am not present in the here and now; it is that I am so entirely present to the universe that I become intoxicated in possibilities and rapture, and self must retreat back to the echoes of my imagination in order to breathe.” ~ Sam, Everyday Aspergers

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Everyday Aspergers, Samantha Craft

The moment when you know you’ve spoken your complete truth, whether it was a word or thought, and you sift through what you said, wanting to make sure there isn’t a splinter of doubt, that you didn’t indicate anything other than truth. And you feel your stomach twist, because maybe, just maybe, somewhere inside of you, you were wrong.

The moment you speak your truth loudly and clearly, with extreme empathy and knowing, weighing the validity of your words with the interpretation of necessity, while fighting back the voices that analyze and dissect the coming unspoken that is surging its way out through your veins, as you question your need, your want, your intention, wondering if the silence will win out over the pulsating necessity to share.

The moment you risk for the higher good, knowing if you speak your mind that you shall be persecuted, ostracized, and judged, but also knowing, all the greater, that you shall in speaking your light have conquered the darkness, at least a splinter of the darkness that permeates your world.

The moment you lie, only to protect the feelings of another, and you replay the falsehood over and over in your mind; a broken record that hurts your ears and leaves you suffering; not for the sake of another, but for the sake of going against your own self and truth, as you wonder if a better course could have been detected, discovered, and executed; something beyond the distasteful torture of falsehood.

The moment you realize no one has the answers, no book, no preacher, no teacher, no guru. Absolutely no one. And that all of your efforts have led you back to self; only now you are carrying a giant book of something that resembles truth. But in actuality it is a drafted, desperately edited and marked up tablet stack of contrived and siphoned rules, many of which contradict, point fingers, and leave in the ring either victim or prideful one.

The moment you speak your truth and the others leave, except perhaps one that stays for analysis and judgment, or to set you straight. And you listen, trying your best to look like you are interested and are learning, as you bleed all over the sidewalk from the bitter and deceptive words; your heart only wanting love, acknowledgment, and acceptance, not to be told again how you don’t fit in, don’t have it right, or don’t understand.

The moment you realize you understand more about a topic than anyone in the entire room, but to say so would immediately set up barbwire fences of division; thusly, you keep quiet and nod, trying to ignore and not comprehend the analogies that go against the base foundations of truth, justice, and love; with your last hope being that someone, somewhere in the room is like you, sees the light in your eyes, and wishes to not push their belief system upon you, or prove to you their theory, or embrace you in their way of life, but only enters your space to welcome you unconditionally as another being of substance.

The moment you dial up a conversation, and with first word, the person on the other end begins the game, following the rules of conduct and behavior and asking you blank, empty questions, not caring, unattached, unwilling to connect or even listen; the shallowness of the encounter physically hurting your chest and making your heart weep, as you attempt to move through with your life-preservers of nodding and smiling, acting as if you are comfortable, while feeling the energy of the speaker pierce you like daggers: the tone of the voice, the inflection, the pauses, the drawn out non-silence that does not match who they are, what they are, and where they are going. You are merely a dancer in some line of communication, knowing not where to step or when to pause, trying not to step on toes, and staring at a blank empty face, whose only need is to check your name off of her list.

The moment the sun rises, and your breath is taken away, and you are dancing in the rays, your heart free, your child like nature set to the wind, spinning, leaping, abounding in spirit, without moving an inch; and wanting to share this experience, to share the opportunity of hope you see, and in the dawning of a new day, you giddily laugh and celebrate and raise the arms to the magenta skies; only to discover the persons surrounding you can’t sense what you sense; and you think somehow you are made wrong, too attached, too intuitive, too knowing. And so comes the feeling of separation, the sun’s hues shifted, the day begun, with you lost to self, trapped within thought of why your way is not their way, and why your way is left out of the equation.

The moment you kiss another and you wonder what the kiss means, because it has to mean something; and you question how two could connect without connecting, touch without touching, and how the game of romance is only a game, marked with pitfalls and dungeons and war. How you have instinctively set up camp upon another’s territory, and in so doing have been given a safe zone, in which you shall not tread outward; for in stepping out, you risk annihilation, alienation, and doom. You weren’t meant to spread across his land and place flags of declaration about your feelings or experience. You were built for silent torture as you sit spinning in your small space of reason, wanting to scream out the ecstasy and dynamic shift of being, but forced to crease your edges, sew your own self shut and hide out until the coast is clear, or the being you so loved, simply slips away.

The moment you want to be present, but you can’t; and the guilt settles in as friend or child, spouse or son, he looks at you with wide open eyes ready to connect at his level, in a place of happiness and delight, without deep thoughts, without theories and strings of reason, without doubt, without prospect of future circumstances; and how you sit in this passing moment, longing to reach out and be this same way, to stop the clock of the own mind and silence the tick-tick-ticking; and so you pretend; you try; you harbor your very own secrets of misery; a false grin, a false laugh, an intense glance, all means in which you try to give back and let the other know he is loved and needed; even as your brain radiates outward, living in an imaginary land, pulling you back to a place so distant that all connection, all being, is lost in a blink of letting go. To speak and be present, like the other, is to balance on the plank, with the sharks below, knowing without fail, you shall fall with a splash, that your eyes shall dim, your mind blank out, and you shall undoubtedly sink into the dark and murky depths, embracing the emptiness and cold, where once the potentiality for sharing, an open beckoning space with dear one, existed.

The moment you know you are different and you celebrate the uniqueness, recognizing you have a purpose and a bright light and that you will make a change in the world for the betterment; perhaps you feel enlightened, like a teacher or creator of beauty, or . . . but to speak this to the world would be the death of you; for others would claim you are self-centered, grandiose in thought, or egotistical; but you know deep down you are meant for greatness, even as you walk in a world that seemingly does nothing but dilute your own fuel to your own fire. You are passion, you are insight, you are intuition, and you are connected to the grand scheme of life; but to say so leaves you breathless and unsure of yourself, dipped in the pool of humility time and time again. Only to be told you are wrong.

The moment you understand that you are only a perception, a glimmer of what people think of you, and that no matter what you say, or how you get your point across, that no one will see you other than how they choose to see you; that ultimately you are an island onto yourself, with tourists that caravan by and wave, but never set foot onto your sands. And so you stand, unmoving, shining your light, wishing upon the star, that feels more liken to friend than any other being you know, waiting for the day, when a brave one will enter, and join hands to the infinite beauty of you combined.

The moment you realize you are no one, but you are supposed to walk in the world as someone; a someone who acts a certain way, dresses a certain way, expects certain things; but you no longer expect anything and no longer know how to act, and stand on this endless stage watching the ones garbed in their costumes, refinery and fancy ways; and you wonder where you are to stand, how you are to observe, and what you are to take in, if not the bewildered stares of stagehands, whom keep pointing and glaring at your indecent and unpredictable ways. Where to walk. Where to move. Where to be—each become your questions, as the world moves onward to a beat you cannot hear and do not wish to hear.

The moment you realize you do not have a condition or a syndrome or a fault, but understand intensely people are trying to make you believe you do, trying so hard that they convince themselves they are this illusion of normal, and you are this jumbled mess of faults; only you see the truth. Your blinders have been removed. You march in the silence; the one not dictated and orchestrated by the misers controlling the masses. Your eyes have been made open. In essence you have been reprogrammed, the barrier of righteousness, to shine the light on falsehoods and bring out the truth; yet, no one knows this, but the few others that see in truth; and thusly, you move forward half-blinded in lies and half-open to truth, stuck in a place of limbo, with something beyond the beyond, urging you forward through the life that seems not life.

The moment your hands hurt, your feet hurt, your eyes hurt, your heart hurts, but you can’t stop, because there is a force inside of you that burns so deeply that if you do not open the crevice to creativity and let the flames burst out, as dragon releasing delicate-rage, then you shall perish in your own internal war. And so you move, in whatever way called to move; your own self bleeding in the efforts; your own self lost in the time without time, sinking into the separate land where no one can see you move with the freedom of angels, and you cannot see where this world was that you were made to walk in. And here you breathe, inside the escape of freedom, where the others cannot reach in and pull you out, cannot shape you and make you, and tell you lies of whom you be and whom you are not. A place of refuge where you can meet your own maker, whether self, universe, or God, and sit there in your trembling awe.

The moment you can no longer stand being you, as the music never stops, the thoughts never linger, but leap and bound across eternity, bringing up the genius of the world and making you into a spinning top of fury-making; when even the sound of the silence singes your ears and stops your heart, so that you want to scream at the annoyance of the drumming universe; though none around you can hear the pounding. And you cringe and cry and rant and plead, exploding inward as much as outward; for you have been placed in a merry-go-round of havoc with blind-seekers, each dumb and deaf, and wishing you were something other than your own self. And you have no way, no thread, no line of communication in which you can explain how you are the one displaced, removed from where you belong, and brought down to be tortured by the nonsense. How you have all the answers within, but are continually haunted and stopped in your making and doing; when the others, who know you not, shun and persecute your actions. Can they not see you are only trying to be, and that the more they stomp on your being-ness the more they push you back into the dungeon of no recourse but explosion? Why do they force their ways upon you, when they, in their infinite blindness, know not what they do.

The moment you recognize you are not alone, that there is at least one other person like you on the planet, and you recognize their heart, their purity, and their need to make a difference; and in seeing her fully, you fill her with hope, because she knows at last you believe her and you trust her; because, contrary to what she has been told, she is not pretending to be kind, she is not pretending to be generous, nor is she pretending to love. She does love you, with all of her being, with all of her heart. And like your lonely, forlorn and forsaken self, you long to scoop her up and paint her in your compassion and security, to blanket her in your own goodness, and let her know she is this thing called beauty; she is this joyous light.

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362: The Span of Two Blocks. Thoughts on Empathy.

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painting by Sam Craft

Lately, something remarkable has been happening; in truth this something has likely always been happening, as it does for all of us, and just perhaps a new door of awareness has been opened. I am able to spend long periods of time in what feels like a bubble of light and safety. Sometimes this ability, or more so happening, occurs from when I awake until late afternoon. I notice during this “time,” I remain in the moment, I do not think of the future or past, and I have no experiences with fear. There is a gentle vibration I feel up my spine, particularly at the base of my neck, and a tingling sensation throughout my body that is very mild, except at the tips of my fingers and toes where the vibration is stronger and seems to collect. I can feel this vibration as I am typing. I can connect into this “state,” (which I hesitate to call state, but can think of no other word), more easily when I am alone or in nature. The soothing sounds of the water drops dripping off of the evergreen trees after a spring rain, the eruption of singing birds flying and their noise tipping my senses into ecstasy, the sweet stream bubbling and flowing downward, the echo of my own footsteps against the soil, all collect and calm my being at multiple levels.

During these times, when I am at would could be called a heightened awareness, I am able to easily tap into complex thoughts and ideas. I experience multiple awakenings and what I can only think are visions. I am entirely calm, seemingly in a state of surrender. My senses are heightened but not to a degree in which I am overwhelmed. Sharp noises and sudden emotions don’t exist. Nothing pierces me, and I am soothed by a voice that isn’t there, a whisper that feeds me with no sound. When I was a child sometimes I would hear angelic music or entire symphonies while alone in my bedroom; during these experiences I had a sense of awe and amazement. I remember feeling safe and protected. When I am in this state of grace, I feel this sense of safety that is reminiscent of my youthful times of music.

Often, through out my day, whether I am existing in this “bubble” or existing beyond or outside of the state, I am given knowledge at a fast and vibrant rate. So unexpected in the degree of capacity that I, as observer, step back in amazement and ponder how a vast amount of learning could be poured into me in a small increment of time. This reminds me of the abstractness, and better yet, invisibility and non-existence of the concept time, a collaborated truism based on our collected and created illusion.

Walking today, beneath and beside the towering pines and cedars, I was reminded of the beauty of connection, and given a mini-lesson in the time it took to walk two blocks. So much with so few steps. And I slipped again into the outside of the varying experience, and watched myself take in the viewing—all in images and a sense of “knowing” I cannot describe in words or in action. There is no vocabulary available, and if there were, then the experience would no longer exist; as it feels entirely secret and precious, in a sacred and honored space that one must reach with delicacy and sincerity of heart. Scattered with images so profound, but equally simple and easy. The complexity wrapped in the packaging of innocence, indeed.

I watch, and simultaneously am soothed, my pain lifted, or at minimum dissipated. I feel as if I am a child and remarkably small but remarkably significant all at once. There is no barrier, no difficulty, no stopping to understand, question, or figure out. The voice is of many weaved and ribboned into one, neither feminine nor masculine, but powerful in the gentleness. I hear from within and from without, even perhaps at a cellular level. And within a moment I understand what I can best describe as pages of information—a small book or pamphlet perhaps, but without the struggle to read, to decipher, to even be present. The occurrence is as simple as slipping under the covers and taking in the coolness and comfort of the bed sheets after a productive and satisfying day, like tired and well-used muscles easing into the reward of finality in the space of safety. And not just my muscles, but my mind, spirit, and entire body—this organism I be.

I see things as if for the first time but also as if for the millionth time, in a way in which I feel in every part of me, I have always had this wisdom. My body becomes light and unburdened, my mission clear, my beingness validated. There is the opportunity so vast and so undoubtedly un-narrow that the chance for growth seems entirely feasible without effort or know-how. Just as my hair or nails grow, I grow. There is no telling, no reminding, the “truth” just comes. I cannot will this experience, control, or even know when this place of no-time will exist, if it exists at all.

I am reminded during this process of the goodness of the world, of the goodness of people, of the heart of people, of our innate love and capacity for love. I am reminded of the lesser and the greater being the same, of the endless sea of potential. I see the universe in the water drop and the universe within each soul.

In these moments of gentle clarity, I cry out in in humility, and through tears beg for the release of pride. In response, I hear this gentle knowing, almost a laughter, but sweet-joy of laughter if it be. The sound without sound whispers joy and hope: “Oh, precious child, it is your humility that carries you.” And I cry again, not out of fear of the experience, but from fear of my own self, that I be not worthy, not entitled, not enough, at least not to partake in an experience that is neither grand nor small, but completely serene.

In this span of being, I can become the trees. I can become the sky and both be and fly. Below me I see angelic shapes, above me the mirror of the angels beside. Everywhere is this gentle flow, and nothing unsettled or too much or not enough. And I can remain here, watching myself walk through this time of no-time, reminding my own self that I am okay and all is enough. I can hear myself whispering, too, that there need not be an answer to this, whether formulated by mind or created by something beyond mind, that beauty is enough without comprehending the source. And then I am brought back through an endless pull and stream into the flow of the universe, increasingly ready to swim without effort. A pull so magnificent that no desire is laid unturned or unexplored, and all the answers laid out in front of me with only a first hope, slipped in before thought.

Today, as I was here, in this place, I was taught of empathy. I was shown in pictures and in moving scenes, and with words without words why I am the way I am. And why perhaps some others experience the world in the same way. So much was shown so fast that I hesitate to scribe, for how can I, being only me, give justice to what transpired outside of time. And in so thinking, this same thought of inadequacy or forgetfulness as I walked, I was told, reminded again, that I will remember enough.

In so far as empathy is concerned, I witnessed many of the sufferings I had experienced throughout my life, too many to list, and too narrowing to mention; but with each of these sufferings, in experiencing my individual sufferings, I understood, as I walked through an outpour of knowing, that because of my suffering I am able to feel and relive another’s suffering.

I understood that true empathy does not exist. That empathy is yet another illusion, and a label being used to classify, and in some ways minimize a people or sect of community.

In my understanding that came in rapid pictures entwined with messages and a quality that can best be described as mini-lectures without pretense, hierarchy, expectation, or manipulation, I was shown the capacity I have, (and in turn others have), to relate to suffering because I have suffered.

I was shown that to state one has empathy for another is to believe he or she is experiencing the others’ emotional, physical, and spiritual experience, and that this is an impossibility; however, the easiest and closest cousin to empathy is the capacity to love and hold another in love while he or she is suffering; this can be attained at a richer and purer level when the one holding, in this case me, is capable of going back, almost slipping back at a biological and spiritual level to a similar experience. In this state of remembering, I, the holder, have the ability to be as close to the one suffering as I can.

This closeness is only achieved, if I have experienced a similar suffering, but not the same, as I am a separate individual with my own scope of experience, my unique sensory processing, and my own way of reasoning, theorizing, and connection. My experience can never be the same as another’s, but the closet thing to sameness is this remembering and connecting.

In this way the true way to connect is in thinking back and knowing what the experience of another might have been like, but at the exact time knowing that the experiences are unique. Taking this into account, the next step or part, is recognizing the own self in another, and how his or her journey reflects an aspect of my own self and my own path. In seeing this I can simultaneously, as I hold and remember recalling my own experiences, also reflect on what could big the “bigger” picture—that of us, the suffering one and the holder, both being spirits living a spiritual life, from the belief point that one reflects and teaches the other.

So whilst I am deciphering and remembering at a physical and emotional level, I am also remembering at a soul-level the purpose, and ultimate meaning, of my own life: to connect and to love. In this I am serving; in having experienced my own suffering I am able to serve by connecting and loving.

All this occurs when I display what the society has labeled “empathy,” and in some cases my lack of “empathy.” In observation, yes, I am focusing on self, but I am focusing on self for a higher-cause and higher-purpose. I am reflecting back on what would be my life and my spirit in hopes of better serving the sufferer. Ultimately, I am serving not empathizing. For to empathize simply means to put oneself in another shoes and feel that experience readily; that is only the first part of what I do. I am also reflecting and remembering my spirit and my mission to love, so I am taking this empathy beyond empathy.

In seeing all this in the span of a few minutes of my walk, I was also shown another part. All of this played out at the same instant, not in order, not chronologically, not spilt out, not split up, not categorized, but gently placed within, as if eye-dropper squeezed out the molecular reflection of a droplet of rain into hand, and I, as learner, sat observing the dynamic spectrum and pyramid of light from something so miraculously small and at first glance simple.

In this span of un-time, I saw that these group currently classified as “Aspergers” are not lacking empathy, that in truth we are complex beings deciphering large amounts of random information at multiple levels and classifying this information into categories to better make sense of this world. And when a sufferer comes, we do the same as we do in our everyday walking life, we look, we observe, and we attempt to sort out. When we encounter something that is not of our “knowing,” as we have not felt it nor experienced it, we try to make sense of this experience the sufferer is having. In this way we may come across as logical or even be perceived as rude, or self-centered, but in actuality we are trying to serve the sufferer by first connecting to our own self, so that we can experience the level of sorrow and be capable of sitting in the pain with the other. When we hit roadblock is when we decipher and categorize, and attempt to cling to a memory or prior experience that is relatable to the sufferer, but no such moment exists. Here we become baffled, as how can we show this compassion and understanding to something that does not exist in our “knowing.” As I received this information, I saw myself in many scenarios reliving the moments when I was able to feel (connect to my own experience based on the past) and when I was unable to feel (finding no reference based in my past experience).

Furthermore, I was taught in these brief moments, that for me, when I am undergoing “empathy,” it does not make a difference to me who the other person is. I feel as much connection to the homeless man, some would deem “stranger,” as to the friend I have known a decade. I do not distinguish. As a child, and still to this day, I felt the suffering of animals, insects, and plant life. In this case I did not need to connect and live as another species, I just knew, and innately understood the root of suffering, that is oftentimes felt as a state of being unseen, alone, and isolated. I do believe that all organisms have the capacity to suffer. I cannot explain this, but I have felt it and seen this. And as I see it the suffering is released, but still remains. Again, I cannot explain all of what I see and in a way seem to “know.” Perhaps this suffering is the mirror image of my illusioned self suffering and seeking companionship, and perhaps not. I do not know.

In so being that in my eyes, since a child, I have within me the ability to love all at the same level, I empathize with all at the same level. This is not to say that at moments I do not feel a higher connection with some people, for instance my children, but I believe, at this time, that connection is brought on by biological means, and perhaps at a soul-level of recognition, or even as a “knowing” that the person or element has entered my life after a long absence of waiting and wishing. In these circumstances, at close look, it is not the other person that I am connecting with but indeed my own feelings and experience. For to truly connect is to imply unconditional love, and in the definition of unconditional my own individualized interpretation and emotions do not come into play.

Walking onward, in only a few more steps, I saw that in some ways, if I was to label this commonly agreed upon form of empathy in present day, that in many ways it resembles something self-focused and not love focused. Again, I saw all of this in an epiphany of knowing, all entering me in a droplet of substance, joined and unified together. There was no judgment or right or wrong, only this knowing I cannot explain. Here, this instant within another instant, all intertwined but separate onto itself, I witnessed the suffering of many.

I saw couples, of many shapes and sizes, holding a space for the other in this dance of “empathy.” But I saw beneath the façade, and understood instantly what mainstream calls “empathy” is not empathy at all. As a majority, many claim to empathize, and many claim that aspects of Aspergers character traits disable some individuals from empathizing. I saw clearly the falsehood in this belief. For in watching the knowledge pour into me, the water flowing with clarity, I was able to grasp in the movement of images once again, the capacity of another to empathize is not related to what he says, does, or did. The capacity to empathize is not held in the viewing of another’s words or actions. Here is where some get caught up. He or she watching the one that “should” be emphasizing has readily decided that the way in which the person acts, in so being what he does or says, is a reflection of empathy. And this is a falsehood.

The empathy is only seen when peeled back beyond the actions and presentation, and thusly seen as a sheer garment draped around the soul. It is in truth at an energetic, connected level where empathy emerges. Therefor what is said and done does not emulate or communicate empathy, true empathy is found in the emotion beneath emotion, and thought beneath thought, at an ever-moving state of energy flowing.

Here is where the empathy takes place: In the space that two allow the both to mingle and join.

Empathy occurs when one is held as the mirror and teacher to the other and one is aware that the other, though undergoing this illusion of suffering, is still learning, growing, and embraced by divine goodness and healing waters.

Here is where true empathy exists if empathy were to exist in any realm: It is in the holding another in a space of unconditional love and acceptance with the absence and non-existence of judgment.

Here in this space one is saying to the other: I like you am spirit who suffers. I like you recognize and experience suffering. I may not understand your exact suffering, as I am not you and you are uniquely you. Yet, I recognize you as spirit, my brother, who like me walks in this world thinking he is alone when in truth you are never alone. I am here now holding you in this space of union and here to remind you I am both yourself and your reflection. I am your heart and your knowing. And in this way you are never alone in your being or in your suffering.

Here is what I understood about empathy—that in the falsehood of actions empathy is masked and recreated into something it is not.

Words are not empathy. Actions are not empathy. Somehow we have been trapped in an imaginary game of believing what one says and does is truth. But in fact, it is the core of the person that rests his truth, what is beneath the layering of humanity, a layering of presentation which tries so very often to way the pros and cons, and to in essence manipulate before taking action.

In this way so much empathy is false and painted to be perceived as caring, where at the heart of the person there exists jumbled and confused thoughts (falsehoods as we are all one), such as: I am glad it’s not me; I am glad I am not going through this right now.

There may exist feelings of detachment, of wanting to run away, of not knowing what to say. But what comes out so very often is yet another way of communicating what is not there beneath the surface, but instead doing in action what one thinks another one wants to hear.

Empathy itself is best shown in just being with another. Just being. Not responding. Not reacting. Not fixing. Not speaking words of sympathy, but just being. For so often the words will not accurately reflect the underlying feelings and/or energy of the other.

All of these thoughts came to me in the span of two blocks, these thoughts and more in an almost endless flow of capacity for knowing. And yet, I was left unburdened and my own fears subsided. Perhaps this is indeed the clean waters pouring into the murky and still-standing being I am, and relinquishing me from the stagnant state of my existence of illusion.

343: How I long to be the sun

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How I long to be the sun…

I am such a dichotomy of prisms, multi-faceted in a way that confuses me, the observer.

I keep looking into myself and finding only tunnels, web-like hallways leading in all directions. There is such mystery here, and clutter. I am an open book, but not to myself. I am an open book to only that which I let out and that which I allow in. Even as I share so much, I hold eternity inside. I worry, when I have all the reasonings harvested of why not to worry. I fear, when I have all the reasonings set out of why not to fear.

I am this pendulum; this constant pendulum. I know not what moves me, but I am continually moved. At times I feel I become the person you are. At times, so many times, I lose the person I am. I absorb the world, all of the ingredients brought into me; and then I am left, in my loneliness, both awe-inspired and drowning in pain of recognition.

I see too much. I feel too much. I know too much. And there is no remedy.

I am the heap of pain that one carries on his shoulders. I am the sorrow of the mistress. I am the angst and guilt of the destroyer. I am the pillager weeping at the joyful bounty. I am the child in the glee-filled park. I am the mountaineer on highest peak. I am the widow crying at the grave. I am the tie tightened around my very neck, chocking me from the outside, to match the fury of pain within.

I am enveloped in need and then enveloped in release. I am tortured by thoughts and misery, and then let free by understanding and the depth of beauty. I am unstable, yet stable in my instability. I am consistent in my varying degrees of emotions. A spit-fire of desire brought to tender knees by only the touch of your words.

I am affected by all and none. This silence speaks to me. And the loudness hurts. I am the fury in your eyes. I am the heartache in your bosom. I am that raw pain that eats away at you. Time and again I rise, some mercenary to the many; unable to stop my vengeance; my need to take revenge, to beat the rhythms of my own soul down.

I am anger. I am rectification. I am renewal. I am lust. I am all this and more. And they merge and spin inside of me, claiming their take, and taking more than was offered. I eat of myself, devouring the agony.

If only I could find a way to balance the esteem of you with the esteem of my own being. If only I could find a way to stop the pain you feed me. Your naked trembling fear. To unchain the leash that takes me to the dark side of my own moon.

How I long to be the sun, the perfect sun shining overhead; and then with one touch, without consequence, to set free with flame this yearning for rescue.

~ Sam 3/20/13