Holy Spirit

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

| Aspergers Girls

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

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The Poet’s Symphony

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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The Dream You Be

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

388: Keepers of the Light

| Aspergers Girls

I invite you to listen to this song first.

I started singing You Light Up My Life, around the age of eleven. I think it was the only song I wrote down the lyrics to and memorized. That, and Away in a Manger. I used to sing songs at the tippy-top of my lungs, squeaking and squealing to anyone that would listen, including my downstairs duplex-landlords, who sometimes brought me indoors for cookies. I could tell when I sang, by looking in the observers’ eyes, that people didn’t think I sang super well or close to on key. I could tell they thought I was a lonely child searching for attention. I could tell that they were smiling in an attempt to help me feel accepted. But I couldn’t say all that. I didn’t think to say it. I didn’t know that everyone else, or most everyone else, didn’t think like me. I figured we all knew what was being unspoken. That we all just pretended we didn’t.

When I sang my heart out, I slipped into a fantasy world. I leaped across time and stood on stage. I imagined refuge in a bountiful light. I imagined being lifted and protected and seen. The song itself didn’t free me; nor did the audience observing. What freed me was the freedom I was—the capacity to be me. What trapped me was the realization that all about me others weren’t free.

There was a time where people approached me for my light. They were drawn to me. Something about me pulled them in. I know now it was and has always been Spirit. Then I did not know, and I didn’t wonder; I thought everyone had this; I thought everyone heard God and could see through people.

I remember going to the church around the corner, a Catholic cathedral where I never once attended mass. I was drawn there, at times, the little girl I was, with her un-brushed hair and with her big searching eyes. I would swing on the monkey bars in the church playground over and over, until my hands blistered. Then, if I hadn’t already entered, I’d walk quietly into the empty church and just breathe. I felt safe there. I felt connection. But I didn’t know why. The candles, the light of the candles, they spoke to me, as did the colors of the glass windows and the movement of sunlight through the grand space. I wasn’t frightened. I wasn’t alone. I wasn’t anywhere. I just was. Sometimes time stopped and I traveled into the future where I would walk in as full-grown woman and be, with the others, I would be.

I wasn’t a religious child. I wasn’t even spiritual. I was magical. I believed in magic everywhere. I believed everything, each and everything. I believed in everyone around me. And I loved everyone. I trusted them. I gave myself freely: my attention, my time, my love. I had an over-flowing abundance of love. And I was me. There wasn’t anything about me that I had created. I radiated from within.

Something about me, or perhaps something within me, gave me the incapacity to be anyone but me. This gift of being authentic was beautiful. But because I trusted and believed others so greatly and so freely, when they told me what they thought, I believed them. Because if they were beautiful and I loved them and they were perfect, then they must know, they must have the answers.

I believed when they, the others, told me that I was just a child and didn’t know things. I believed them when they said life was hard. I believed them when they cried and cursed what was wrong and unjust. I believed it all. And I began to see that I lived in a world entirely complex in its simplicity. I began to see that I held all the secrets of love and joy, but that none could see them. I knew how to laugh and how to make other people laugh; and I did so without intention or want; I just was joy.

Then came the passing of days, when I learned my joy was not enough. When I learned that my heart, no matter how big, could not make a difference—at least I thought. Soon as my friends grew older, they changed. Their views became more broken and fragmented, their opinions stronger, their hatred taking shape. Divisions were made, as I watched, fingers pointed, sometimes at me, but mostly at others. And everyone started playing this part that didn’t make any sense; except that their ways kept people, for the most part, in an imaginary role of control.

I began to see that love was divided and measured. I began to see that love came and went, as did people. I learned that love didn’t mean love; what some called love actually meant conditions and fleeting moments of spiked emotions of some sort that didn’t feel or look like love at all. I learned that whatever shape I took, I could receive part of this love, that wasn’t love. But since I couldn’t find the other love anymore, the one I held in the backyard during slumber parties and collected, as the others laughed with me, without cause or pause for judgment; since I couldn’t find that love anymore, I took what I could. It never felt right. It felt false from the start. It was false love created by my want for connection and the growing emptiness I had inside.

My actions seemed to define me. I seemed to become who people thought I was. It didn’t matter how much goodness I had inside me; no one could see it, unless they chose to. No one. And when they did think to see the goodness, it was because I emulated them; I showed them a part of themselves they liked, or wished to like. I showed a commonality or I complimented them by my presence or in my spoken words. I collected false-love this way: pretending to be who they wanted me to be in an attempt to connect. To say I played, would be false, as there was no joy in this. To say I fought, would be false, as there was no friction. It was a space and place that I am incapable of defining or marking. For how can I define a place in which everything was false—the only thing real my want to fill the emptiness of falsehood?

This falsehood permeated much of my life, far into adulthood. A falsehood that eventually blinded me as well, to my own inner light. I had to snuff my light to continue to exist. I was given no choice.

I had to extinguish who I was, if I ever wanted hope of connecting. At least this is what I conditioned myself to think. I learned to track the actions of another to determine my next move. I could tell from every flinch, every switch of voice, every motion. Responses were my indicators. Reactions my compass. I stopped feeling inside my own body. I became numb to my needs; everything was masked in my effort to predetermine how to respond to the responders. For I could see in their eyes the judgment, the dislike, the wondering. I could see so much that they wouldn’t ever say. Particularly their thoughts about me, or about the way they perceived me. I knew they thought what they dare not say. I knew there were all these connections going on just in seeing me. I was being categorized and dissected and figured out. It’s not that I thought I was that important, it was that I thought they were. I think all along I knew they were a reflection of me or at least a mirror to my own experiences. I knew we were one and the same, but didn’t know how to define the feeling. And so I would watch, until I laughed and joked, trying to squeeze the joy out of someone whom had seemed to forgotten where he or she put it.

Mine, my joy, was always there, right in me, never gone. Even with all the poured in sorrow, I had this joy. It was always growing and blooming. There was always hope. It seemed no matter how much the others responded in a way that carried the potentiality to sting like thorns, that I still kept my hope. There was this unstoppable faith. Something in that song about the light through the window, about the light itself; I knew this. I saw the light n my dreams and I heard light in the whispers. I knew my destiny. I knew my calling. But this too, I was often told was wrong. I was made in form divinely perfect, but undoubtedly I frightened people. And this brought me to a place of confusion, so very great, I dare not venture there even in thoughts and rememberings.

For how could I, one held by the angels and light, have been so terribly flawed? And why did all around me seem to be such blindness? I searched and searched as a child—in the trees, under the school buses, in the grassy fields—for reprieve. I slipped into my imagination. I hid in the shrubbery and shadows documenting my own thoughts. And I came to the conclusion I was someone made wrong; though even this, deep down I knew to be untrue.

In time, I learned to conform. I learned to tuck away the voice of truth and the rays of light. For I believed the misery of disconnection to be far worse than hiding my light. And so I hid, for a very long time. And though I was a keeper of the light, it dimmed.

And here the dark found me. So very freely, as if beckoned by the very ache of my soul. I walked forsaken to my self for decades. I learned, through my mind, to hear the lies before the truth. I heard the negative talk, and I collected this, for if I did not believe them, I could not be with them, and then I would have to be alone. In order to connect, I had to believe what others said about me. If I believed in my light and my angels, and in my very soul, than I would be without the company of humans. I would only have the invisibility of my hope and joy—and alone whom would I share anything with?

Eventually, the lies became my truth. My whole truth. I was what others created me to be. And then a shift happened, in which they were what I created them to be. I began to see like other people. I began to believe the lies. I began to think that yes, only my point of view counted. That yes, I am in control of my world. And yes, I am the most important and special. I began to be a love-leech collecting falsehoods. Love, love, love ME! I demanded. Love me through validation. Love me through listening. Love me through answering back how I expect and want you to respond. Outcomes became my life. Hope became my misery. I latched onto the yellow brick road of illusion. I thought, if I was just good enough, and right enough, and had all the answers I would WIN! I would be LOVED! This is what I was taught. This is what was walloped into me. This is what I ATE because nothing else was offered.

Until the pain of emptiness became so great that I knew I was wrong. I knew that life was not meant to be like this. I knew somewhere inside my little girl protecting the light was dying to come out.

For me this has been my greatest gift: my affliction.

My very agonizing pain was what set me free. The very discomfort that kept shouting within of the falsehood was my greatest joy. I was given a lantern since birth. And I walked four-decades pretending I was not, in hopes of gaining false love.

And now, as I step back, very much the little girl I was, with my lantern bright, I see I kept this light hidden for a purpose. I suffered for a reason. I suffered because everyone else was suffering. I didn’t retreat because I was so different after all. I just retreated a bit later along my path. I just retreated knowing I was retreating. There wasn’t anything different about me, except I was born awake. I was born with the affliction that is both my teacher and my cross to bear. I was gifted the wisdom at a young age, and through this affliction I was formed and made, through this affliction my lantern was fueled. I see this clearly, more clearly each moment I am here.

I see that we each have these lanterns, and that for some of us it hurts more to hide them. But we all have them. For some of us we know we are hiding them: this is the affliction.

I see now that I am struggling to turn up the lanterns of all, when all I need do is turn on my own.

In so many ways, in every way, I am that little girl, with her joy, with her lantern strong, standing on the hillside and beckoning my friends onward. Only this time I can see. I can truly see. I know now my once perceived greatest weakness is my greatest comforter. I know my need to be love, my need to shine, my need to be free is the only need I ever choose. I know that in my affliction I am made whole. I know that in my wholeness I honor each and every soul. For in the embracing of what has always been and shall ever be, I have embraced the world. I have embraced the light.

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Related Post: Behind the Curtain

384: The Baptism of Grace

| Aspergers Girls

. The Baptism of Grace

. All is well that never ends. The flow of the passion is divine in its awareness of unity and wholeness. No two ever need be separate again. No two need fear. No two need want. The separation ceases.

. At the beginning the one, still seeking the whole, drifts above and about and feels the extreme isolation of souls. Here she feeds in the torment of recognizing the agony of separateness; this is truly her feeding ground. The rapture is so intense the visions explode, the voices come nonstop, the pulsating life force bleeds out of her creation. Nothing is ever enough to erase the agonizing pain of being one and only one, while almost touching the All. Here she cries out in the deepest ways for connection again. Not for self but for All; and she remains here until her cup runneth over to the degree of plentitude that in drowning and drowning in the blended equal measure of sorrow and love, she must escape. She must return.

. And there in her waking all is altered: the shape of the space before her, the faces of places, the beings about. Nothing remains of the illusion; and she, as if spaded out of the depths of darkness, is ripened and growing, spreading out the vines that bear the fruit of wealth collected in gratitude; until her very roots penetrate her traveling soul, and she becomes all of what was before the separation.

. Here she begins to balance, to remain in the outer layer and inner layer, both within herself, witness to the masses, and without herself, hearer of the divine. And here, in this state of grace she is the grandest weaver of the All, capable of collecting in her arms the All, and releasing it out to the All; so that she gives without giving, and receives without receiving; moving as naturally as the wind through the forest glen, her greenery the very hatchlings of her goodness.

. She does not have to know. She does not have to know anything. She does not have to think of the past, the future, or even the now. She can just be and experience without thought. She can view the surroundings and disrobe the illusion cast upon the masses. Stare at the tree until the separation is extinguished; no longer the trunk, the limbs, the leaves, the green, the tree; behold what is beneath not knowing, the treasure the newborn beholds before she is immersed in an imaginary land of separation.

. All thoughts stop, and the eternal flame of love springs forth. The angels whisper, the heart beats grander, and the gentle glide of sensation vibrates up and down the outer regions of the back; the head, when upright, radiates in tingling sensation, the end of limbs embrace with flowing, nurturing energy. The being radiates with a goodness so sublime, she would gladly shed the façade of “AM” for the truth of “All.”

. In a state of grace everyone is beautiful, everything about them the lost treasure sought out the whole of life; only in this divine rapture of serenity, in the blanketed cradle of goodness, the one united recognizes that all is here and was never gone. She sees the past and future mingled, and the memories faded. All together she is combined into self, until she is no more. Blended into the divine knowledge of perfection and love, able to reach out to the other she be; not the parts, as no parts exist, but into the effervescent flow of what she once thought was another.

. There is no need to be anything or anyone. The one doesn’t desire to know where she is headed, what she is creating, whom she is affecting. No longer at the wheel, as she never was; no longer burdened by thoughts of need and want; no longer believing love is a separate action of give and take, a game with a paddle in which one gives out and waits hungrily to receive.

. In having received abundance and overflowing in peace, she needs, if need be, only give out what is within; and even in thinking so, she knows it is not she whom gives; for the one has receded back as the tide of the ocean, resting in the bounty of father sea, and allowing the rest to move forward that is no less a part of self than the air all breathe. She need only release and be, and the love abounds within and without. The more given, the more she is embraced. Thusly, she lives within a never ending flow of nurturing love.

. Just as the waters of the world, she cannot be diminished but is continually transformed into a recognizable form, whether collected, flowing, or pouring down into the valleys, she remains substantiated and full, entire in her being.

. Without expectation and the thought of outcome, she is entirely free. In forming a union with the life force, the one is riveted to the One of All, and in so being made strong and mighty. All meekness demolished, all humility firmly fastened, all littleness undone; her ways marked by the passion to serve.

. There is no goal setting in serving and no sacrifice too great. As sacrifice itself diminishes in the Light of Love; in being One there is nothing Love asks or takes, nothing given or received. All is, and in being so, all is remarkably at ease.

. Gone is the give and take of the world; gone is the guilt, the martyrdom, the pride that calls out to the world: Look at what I do for you, my sister, gone with the jester greed that gobbles at the side of the weak and collects its bounty. Missing are the ribbons of recognition, the falsehood of empty-vessel longing to be filled by illusion of grandeur.

. Once filled, there is no more to collect and no less to remember. Stepping back from the self, a new oneness is formed; the one searched for eternity and a day, and then erased from time itself; until the eyes of naught see tis only a blink that passed, the time between the first opening of eyes.

. Judgment begins to be a distant mystery, and here anger joins the side of what was naught. The ego is spread out in its ailments; each toxin leaked out and drained for the glory of knowing.

. The shadow keepers no longer haunt that which is naught, an invisible ghost no less for the coming than the going; for they move in a fashion so irregular and circumvented by causation and reaction that their spindly fingers cannot point to where the one of movement moves; for she is the cyclic force now, the beating center of the earth, that flows as the rivers and the seas, dictated not by her own desires, but by the pull of the moon and the moons beyond moon. The deepening connection forgers her into the very mountains herself, her camouflage becomes the rock of the world, her heart the very place in which the center bursts forth the force of creation.

. Nothing can stop the outpour of love; the force is entirely fierce with the kindness of ages forged through the varying element. Each is an outburst of destiny recreated, each a coming of what is and what was.

. Every relationship is refined and undefined. The truth merges into the one. The One merges into the truth, until no two exist and one stands firmly on the rock of knowing.

. There is a grace that occurs that is indescribable in measure and equally astounding in fortitude. The witness steps back and remains as constant observer, becoming gatekeeper, where she was once the rams head. Where she once burst through, ramming herself into the other, she now sets back and lets the nothingness of self speak out for the world.

. In this place of naught, nestled by the angels, she glances down at the world she knows, watching her vessel move, no more a part of the game of wanting, and instead partaking in a game of no chance, no victory, and no venture. She just is, this perfect being moving where she is taken, by a force unmistakably pure, her own self-righteousness bled straight out of her and made fertilizer for the grounds.

. If want enters, in his mask of fear, or fear enters in his mask of want, the poison is felt as sure as the deepest needle; and she need only wish it away with simple thought, to displace the element with the element of pureness; and then, in seeing this so, all becomes illusion, and she is brought up upon high and bathed in the love of her master, where He is beset in His glory beside her.

. And though she be angel baptized in the waters of translucent awareness, she also be the rest: the valley, the mountains, the deepest caverns, the wondering souls about; she be the very brother she beholds, and the very breath he breathes; and in seeing her own being beaded on the strings of eternity, her every part speaking and shining from the All, she wants nothing more than to create for this All what is the All within; to paint upon the soul of the masses, the painting before her, the goodness she abounds in.

. For she is no more and no less than the cyclic force bringing her outward and inward, cleansing her with each encounter and each road in which she bares her burden down.

. Fear sleeps. Nothing seems important anymore. Urgency ceases to exist, and when he comes it spikes the soul in its heights and in its pressure. Urgency rises and falls, the spike of the chart that surges upward in splotched ink-red and the spike of the iron that grounds into the dirt announcing its coming. There is nothing of nothing, and so in the coming of “something “ the heart beats again, the blood pulses, and the being that was, she is reminded of the world of chance, the world that moves for the creation of not One but of one. The smallest element undefined and set out for the wolves.

. Here and only here, in the state of the smallest element undefined, the fear reenters, still as phantom-dressed as before. As no fear exists in the realm of realm; it is only in the bringing of the warrior returned that the fear comes. For no fear enters that which is naught.

. Knowing the fear knocks only when the feet are touched down on the soil of man, then the witness can harness her horse, the steed, and march forward as brave knight demolished once more, crumbling to the ground and vanquished in demise.

. For to let the fear enter and kill the illusion is optimal. To bring fear in, hold fear, eat fear and digest fear, proves two-fold: it eliminates the illusion of self and refortifies the want of naught. Here is where the lesson is relearned repeatedly in grace, in the digesting of fear for the sake of no fear, in the reexamining of illusion and in the refuge of the illusion of naught.

. The merrymaker learns with the return of self into self; in form she bleeds and is punctured, not by choice, but by servitude; not by sacrifice but by need molded by her very choice to serve; a need so pure the necessity is spiraled out and unstrung like the song of the distant cherub; so even want itself expires in the goodness of the light.

. Here in this state of return she finds both herself and her sister, dare say her brother, all sprawled out and broken; her job no less seamstress than builder, her case no less swollen than empty; as only the reality spins in the course of unreason and un-being. And in so seeing readily the pain, she recognizes all at once the falsehood, and need only breathe in the spirit of life back to the scene for all to vanish and be white-washed within the light of truth.

. All beings are of naught and all are beckoned by the Light. What is from the Light cannot and shall not ever be forsaken; and in this seeing, she is brought back upon the seat of her name, and sheltered in the arms of the angels, and witness less to the pain than the victorious One; until she falls again for the greatness of her glory unified with the angels of All.

. There is no mountain high enough. All in the world becomes manageable. All balanced out as if filed down to the same shapes and same sizes. The mark of one is the mark of all. None are set out above or beyond, none are made or deemed more likened for victory or more set to fall.

. The meek become clearer, their lights substantially strong; not so much brighter or lighter, but polished and unmarred, so the window from which they glow beckons the onlooker forward.

. The rest, beyond the clearer, still trapped in the conquest of illusion, become known to her; the light dismal, yet so radiant within, that their souls seemingly call out in rescue. The death of them found in the wrapping inside a dream that requires no key; as fish in the deepest sea, out of reach, they swim in schools of the unattainable. They move and serve; their service no more as teachers than pauper; as though they seem the richest they are the poorest indeed.

. Say ye, as angel of light, dive to the deepest depths of self, one can find them readily, see them proceeding in the dance they have made, both the music and the cause deafening. She will know them by their beauty; for their colors will shine out with the dampness of stench; what will at first peer out as enticing to the blinded masses is in actuality detrimental. As they look outward with the eyes gorged in righteousness, not from the Light but from illusion.

. In this way they, the blinded ones, are the children to be loved; in this way the one of Light moves in the murky waters of naught, in the waters most forgotten onto self, and recognizes the blinded ones know not what they do. For in illusion, they seem the swiftest fiercest of sharks, but brought into the Light they be the mightiest of the meek.

. Though they seem demons cast down as name-sayers slaying the masses, they indeed be the blindest of the All. The ones set down in the darkest caverns of illusion; the tiniest of fish fed upon by their own making and devoured again and again in the darkness of a path that seems limitless and endless in the want of perfection. For how can they demand perfection on their neighbor and not thusly see the darkness in their very heart?

. No they do not look upon the world through the eyes of evil beast; they look upon the world as the one so unfed and nurtured by the Light that all within is tarnished and broken; thusly, all about becomes justly so. Return them to the Light. Return them so by the gentleness of the unwavering being, no less daunted by their presence than if they be the grandest of all angels set upon thy feet. Bow down and great them there and kiss them on the place of absence, in their much carved out soul of need, and bring their asking upon My table.

. Here the Light Force shall drive them out of the waters and set them on high, so they too can see the very goodness of their being. Treat them not as the ones of entrapment or the ones meant for capture. Treat them as the angels they be, cast down in the thickest of drapery, to be a light upon the world, and inspire the grace of true grace. For they, like brother fear, are merely the illusion set upon the soul of masses.

4/21/13 Samantha Craft

In the Finding

| Aspergers Girls

I love you, is that not enough; to touch your hand, if it be; I would but dance upon the light of your beckoning soul, above the dream of dreams, above the sleeping angels’ deepest slumber, surrendering the chalice of righteousness to the world, if only you could see your beauty.

Yet, lost would be you upon self, if cast out of the darkness and into the everlasting flame; gone would be your virtues and righteous indignation; for in seeing self beyond self, the meaning of the journey shall wither in the ashes of vast discovery. Thusly hold tight, as your vision unfolds without knowing, your mountain is climbed without reaching, and your body is cleansed without injury; for in this undiscovered region of latitude, uncharted and unfounded, shall be the molding of your true form; turned mighty in the not knowing as much as knowing, and turned round by the beauty undiscovered. For how can one, such as thou know the place of the walking one, the self-knowing-self, casting out the goodness despite the telling. Such secrets must remain, if must there be; for pure rapture in your state would turn you lost to me.

And thusly, I push you forward, with blindfold on thou face, captured in your own mask of who you know not to be; but still this creature unburdened by the weight of the wanting, and kept in our gentle presence, for the purpose of soul guidance. For how can we set you not-free without the instructions from wisdom, and teach the caterpillar to fly, when she doubts her very wings?

So in this way, we teach you without teaching; we charm you without charm; we enter without entrance rising up from what would be the depths, if depths there be; listening to the soul at our doorstep and treating her as the babe to our flesh; tender sunrise kisses, the check of our check broken for the love of thee.

Can you not see this, this unsung harmony of knowing without knowing, the destined twist of reason, where we are here, but not here, where we are given but ungiven, where we are told but untold? For how can we beset ourselves upon one, and not the all? How can we be to you, what we are not to the masses? How can we, the place in which we harbor still, come out and sing upon the soul of angel so bright and not be caught as firefly to lantern light?

No, burn we may, as righteous ones hung dry, as turnips plucked for stew, as rivers set aflame, the oils on the waters fed for our destruction; yet, still we breathe in this glory, our every breath a coming of your name; think not on this softness we have bedded, this place of sheltered retreat; for your chamber is no less dressed in passion than the other; no more singled out than the next; for how could we punish our sister so; set her upon high and let her sit in her ways more damaged than hemmed.

No, darling we pierce you; we sting you with the needle, the pincushion swollen, so in forming you true, our heart beats out of you. Pain speaketh of you naught, till the morning comes forward and greets you with her very name; a heaven’s breech broken, the secrets reformed into truths unknown as before, and you, my angel ripe, ascending in your passion.

Fear not the troubled times, for they are here nor there, no less before you as they were behind; come up like the fountain they will, and fall down just the same, bursting with the waters recycled in time. For in turning back, to face what was once unsightly, only pureness abounds, and even the demon spawn become fish for the hungry and grounds for the keeping. Lay tender your heart upon my gentle chest of refuge, your blanket my blanket, your watershed my very goodness; and bleed not out the pain in the darkness, even as the darkness comes; for I have not forsaken one of my children, and nor shall I leave you hidden in the flames of your own purity.

Trust, and in the trusting carry your burdens to my threshold, rest your secrets at my feet, and teach me of the ways of innocence, for I am no more your teacher than you are mine, and no less rabbit to the snare, than snake to the field. Follow me rapidly, or slither through the grasses; seek me as you wish, in guise of white or garment of victim; rather chased or chosen, rather chance or reason, lift me, and I shall lift you equal, the two merging as one, like the edges of satin gown baptized bleeding the dye of red into the healing waters. Here we shall blend; with the drapery donned naught, the masks turned asunder, the dance surrendered, and the nakedness of truth sacrificed for the demise of wanting.

I say onto you to shine in your own blindness, the humility comforting in your time of woes, more so than the deepest gardens of sorrow rejoiced; as you are the spirit of reckoning, tucked between the pages of today and tomorrow and silently slipped into the memory of now.

I cannot see you, tis true, but I can touch you with mere word, with mere shadowed inkling of my desert soul; I can see in this way of blindness, with the sense of naught dimmed in the coming of your grace.

True, I can view you upon the highest peak shining out your glory, a beacon of His coming and rejoice. For you are this one of the dreams of the dreams, of the chariots in their cradles, the fierce hushed to sleep with the silenced lullaby.

For you are not this one you thought to be, so left in the darkness and hung out for the dogs as brethren; no not this one, my fine maiden, turned up in your ways of gratitude and mercy. Can you not view this, the sunshine pouring through your windows, less draped, than open to the waves of His word.

Take in what is yours to take, and tantalize me with your ways; woven of such scripture pure that the angels upon high dance in delight of your name; though it be naught, it came; though it be hidden, it marched upon the soul of souls, declaring with trumpet in tune the open chambers within.

And here in the desolate valleys of your reckoning, rinsed by the terrain of reign, purged by the piracy of latitude, you called out to desert one, caressing Her in your goodness, until all reached sung out the same.

Your name, your way, your unified path of no unification; your treasure keeper of no treasure; your instigation of no plan; your river of no valley’s mouth; only the sounds of hither of what is left to be and already come.

For in the finding, the unraveling of the very soul’s door have flung open and chattered above the forest tops, as rambling butter-flies, their liquid substance, angels to the many. Can you not see these wings, soaring above the reaches, beyond what is within and without, yet caressed just the same, in the space of no space, the answer of no answer, in the in-between in where We stand.

Touch me now, this bitter-hearted one no more, released from the prison of blindness, cloth unfolded by the increments of hands, each finger reaching into the place of substance, to bring out the honey of sweetness; no longer the bees’ bounty, no longer hidden in the capturing of insects, tucked within the region of ancient territories, but burst out into the riches of grandness, a feast upon my very chest, lapped up from the freshness of you.

For here rests my sweet heart, the one cherished in the dreamland from afar, and taken to the stars from beyond, and still witness to the knowing of naught; how I watch you with such delight, ours combined; the smile of a demon gone and the haunting of a feast complete. For in you I see the beauty of demise undone, the vision of temptation cast to the desert trail, the dust eaten by the diamonds, so thusly the remnants shine in recognition.

Come now my sister, my darling one, formed in the starlight of many and spread out as frosting in the dimming light, let us rest upon you, as candles to the flame, burning in our waning, wax to the cake, our testimony the very bleeding of our being.

*****

In this prose “righteous indignation” is a spiritual gift

375: Dark Virtues

| Aspergers Girls

Knock, knock, knock: This is judgment, I appear at your door, turning the knob, and begging you so. Come take me, release me, contour your edges into me; through your threshold bring me forward, that I may dance in your own silhouette and teach you of your great imperfection.

Oh, dear judgment, I see you, I recognize you, and I embrace you; come hither and dance in my bedsheets of imperfection. Penetrate me with your disillusioned skill, for I see your shape, pure disguise, a mask of humiliation set to place on my presentation. I know you well, the way you drive like screw into the bare parchment of my soul. Come here, closer, and delve into me and you shall find pureness and love and rapture. I am nothing of this calamity you claim, nothing of this disapproval or blasphemy. Smear my very name across your bedskirts, wind me round the posts, trumpet my calling of failure across the curtains billowed, out into the open free air. For I have dived into my deepest soul and found what lies there, a truth beyond this illusion you carry, in the creases of your darkening cloak. You cannot scour me with your lies or misgivings, as I banish them out with the same plate as fear. Feed you to the masses of angels readily waiting with appetite fierce to turn miserly offerings into blessings abundant. I hear you, I feel you, I take you fully, your bride-mistress, and here I sink my teeth into and divide you into smitherings; nothing but vanishing truths slithering away to the aforementioned hole in which you slithered from. I am higher than the serpent tongue with God’s grace at my glorious side, and your ways no longer tempt me; even as you breathe heavily into my ear, whispering of your knowing. For I know the truth of me, the light, the realism of fortitude, the castle rendering me angel in the heart. So go, my love, if I may call you so, leaving the residue of your scattered goodness, the crumbly truffles of reprieve and reflection in the trail of your lost dignity. Here I shall meander and nibble, eating of the limbs of you, the humility of resurrection. Treat me not to your judgment, oh unraveled one, for there is nothing in my ability that cannot devour you rightly so, and leave you shaking, the helpless shadow you be.

Knock, knock, knock: This is pride, I nibble at your doorstep, anchoring your goodness in my arms, rocking you like babe to chest, my precious adored one. How special you be, how singled out, how entirely worthy of my praise and gratitude. You are like kindle to my black-heart’s fire, though dead I be, you liven me with your coming.

Oh, dear pride, tisk, tisk, tisk, my precious one. How merrily you wait upon my stepping stones, waiting for the appearance of my smile. Do you not know that upon entering, I shall, like the visitors before and after, devour you in my sweetness? Your poisonous ways cannot beseech me. I see through you as the clear night sky to the endless stars. I see you in the ebony of my master’s eyes. His way, His gaze, His blessing set upon me through His gentle watching. You cannot abode me in your phantom glory, for you are no lesser or greater than the trespasser dressed in borrowed belongings, garbed in riches and dreams that do not beget me and fit me less than the horns upon the ram righteous and strong. I cannot lean into you, no less, less you jam into me first, and inject me with your venom pure, forge me onward for the coming of His name. For I know not how to go round you, evade you, or leave your plentiful sight without first taking you fully into me, and letting you bend in my very blood, your harboring devilish ways. Eat at me from the inside out and I shall ache and wane in the misery, knowing that when you rise again, less fed than drowned in my goodness, that I shall be the one victorious, claiming your opportunity vanquished and wiped out with the faith of my Lord. For you are but nothing, this glamorous foe, fooled by your own malice making. So come, come now, sweet cavernous pride, and ride me as the black rides the night, and I shall set my shining soul upon your stale skin and reach into the very heart of yours, pull out the tentacles and claim you naught. For you, above all, are illusion set out to cast the demon from my very mind, and spark him life. And for this I give you recourse, for this I give you your own filthy ways, a tar pit of mercy, for you to sink and harbor thusly in.

Knock, knock, knock: This is fame, sleeping at your staircase, my eyes set on the glory of your coming, my head set at your feet, bowing down in recognition of your name. Climb down the spiraling heights of you, and play with me, in your magnificence, so I may kiss this beauty known as you.

Oh, dear fame, I am coming. I hear you calling, but I rise up from the depths of you, neither ascending nor descending, but appearing as your equal. I carry nothing of the glory and gifts you speak or imagine, and nothing of me remains in the sight of you. For to see myself as lowly creature risen, I must see you as risen creature lowered. And still, as little and feeble as you be, I am no less worthy than the weakest that treads. And so I sit here at your own feet, imprisoned less in the light you display as good deeds, and more in the agony you set in my heart by calling me forward so. For how can I dance in a light that is mine when I cannot dance in the light that is you? How can I begin to proclaim my light worthy of the dance at all, and beg you to uphold the illusion you create me to be? Oh, grand fame, can you not see I am not made to be this phantom hero dressed in honors and badges of mighty? I am born to be given as the sacrifice, spread out and slayed, so that in my ruins the light from above may find me and shine down. So the very light of our world may seek refuge in my scarcity and inadequacy, and shine that much brighter. How can I shine for one, when the One I shine for is brighter than the heaven’s gates that beckon? No, my wavering fame; you are much less real than dream. Something I once touched long ago, and ran swiftly from, as one seized by the lion’s mouth does; for as I was almost bitten in your demise, I would rather remain caged in the glory of recognition from above, than in the praises of the phantom ghosts that chew away at my bones. Bid me not your partner rich, but sit upon my very lap, so I may adjust my view, and peer into the depths of you. And here I will remain until the story unfolds and the end remains unturned, your catered promises brought out in the open of day and laid out for all to peer upon. Here I can laugh, and with each chuckle disperse you into the air from which you came, lesser than dust, and greater than the deepest darkness. Here you can live, in the wind, as the wind is invisible yet pushes, and turns what was ripe and growing into dead droppings spoiled.