433: Five Ways

marcelle in lightFive Ways

1. I recognize that I am okay in who I am and where I am. I recognize I am okay in where I am going. That everything is unfolding as it should. There is no rush. There is no destination. Only now. This moment. This breath. I breathe in the essence of the world. Taking in the ingredients of millions of breathers before me. I am one with the universe and the world is safe.

2. I recognize I am changing every moment. Each thought, each stimulation, each person, each encounter, affects me at a molecular and spiritual level. I am no longer who I am within a second that passes. Beyond change, I am nothing. I am that which transforms and rejuvenates. The entirety of me working together to live and breathe. I am enough in that I am like the all. Interconnected in my being. I exist. And in my existence, I strive. Not for goal or need; yet simply as an intricate and important part of the whole. I am completely renewed each moment I am.

3. I allow myself to experience emotions. As the observer, I step back and watch. I move in recognition. I speak in recognition. I think in recognition. But I do not attempt to control, counter, or interrupt. I allow myself to be as the river, flowing in a natural state along the stream of consciousness. I remove all judgment and unchain the bondage of should, could, and what if. I release the pain and suffering, and breathe in the constant joy. In my silence, I rejuvenate. In my stillness, I grow. In my grief, I embrace opportunity. No emotion is punished. And likewise, I am not chastised for simply being. I am aware. I am continuing to prosper in awareness and recognition. The rest is unnecessary. In awareness all avenues are opened, all veins of love moving at full capacity. I am all that I am and nothing less or more. Nothing is in need of repair or evaluation. All that I am is already enough.

4. I allow myself to feel attached. I am attached to substances, to dreams, to places, to goals. I am attached to others’ evaluations, opinions, emotions, and energy. I am attached to beliefs and perceptions. I am part of the whole, and in being so, I am part of everything. I am attached, yet I do not need to cling to the attachment. In recognizing the attachment, I can watch, as I move in the motion of need and want. I can watch as I cling, and watch as I attempt to let go. I can see myself in tears, in struggle, and in the illusion of triumph. I can glimpse the happiness attached to substance and the sorrow attached to absence. I let the joy move past the now and into eternity. I am neither an empty vessel nor a net that traps. I can hold nothing, as I am already over-filled with love. Everything I am is plenitude and freedom. There is nothing outside of my own understanding of self that can satisfy me. Everything and everyone is fleeting. All that I need is already within. The light of me is serenity, peace, and gratitude. The light of me is complete love.

5. I release fear. Emotions are a part of my being. All emotions are okay. Fear is okay. Fear is my teacher and at times a protector. Fear reminds me of who I am and where I have been. Fear instructs me of the inner workings of my mind. There is a mutual relationship between what I feel as fear and what my body communicates to the whole. Each part of me responds to anxiety and discomfort. Sometimes I sit in pain. Sometimes I rise out of pain. In everything there is release. I am like the seasons, the tides, and the nature of the living world. I bloom and I wither. It is natural and expected. When fear comes I approach him without caution or dread. When fear comes I answer his calling. I welcome his company. I let him move through me, to penetrate my being, to whisper to the rest of what he seeks. And then, in union we release. Together, hand-in-hand, we walk out of the shadow. In the darkness I have learned, and in the light we are formed as one. My friend. My darling companion. In loving him. In loving all in completion, all turns to light.

415: What Happened to Sam?

awake (painting)

AWAKE Painted today

awake (no time)

What happened to Sam?

Man, I was really missing me, today. It’s a strange sensation, missing the person I used to be. I know I am still me. And I ultimately believe people don’t completely change. But I also strongly know people can transform. I think we are meant to transform. We are meant to become the best we can be. Not in a perfectionistic way or in a people-pleasing way, but in a way that accentuates the positive-ness of our authentic being.

I am a flutter of blossoming self at the moment; no longer clinging to fixations, rapid thinking, complex worries and obsessive anxieties, I find I have an over-abundance of creative juices. To pour out some of my creativity, I started another blog, in which I share my spiritual prose, poetry, writings, and paintings. This has been a fantastic outlet. However I am missing Everyday Aspergers.

Tonight I found myself thinking, “I wish I could write a post on Everyday Aspergers.” I know! Silly, right? But I still have this thing about rules and the ‘right thing’ to do. I have managed to hold onto that Aspie trait rather firmly. I am definitely more lenient on myself and am quite capable of releasing self-judgment; yet, I get caught in this tango of evaluation of the next move without even realizing I have stepped onto the dance floor.

For the most part, I try to live in the moment, now. It is simply AMAZING…there is no other word beyond miracle and healing that I can think of to describe how I have transitioned in the last fourteen months. I owe an abundance of thanks to the readers who helped me find a space to be me.

I realized I died a thousand deaths here…and if not a thousand at least 400. Every time I wrote posts, typically, I was in a state of fear. I was afraid of judgment, of evaluation, of being seen and not being seen, of not being heard. I was longing for validation, friendship, and love. I truly thought I was an unconditional giver and lover—but I know now I had expectations, projected outcomes, and allowed myself to live on a roller coaster of being built up (very fleeting second) or tore down (torturous hours of misery). I dissected comments and instinctually found the tiniest bit of objection, insult, or non-congruency. I was a victim through and through, validating my own need for rejection and super fantastically gifted at highlighting my flaws.

That’s not part of me anymore. I am not easily offended any longer, nor hurt, bothered, brought off-balance, or quick to judge who I am based on another person’s opinion. Swear words don’t even make me quiver! Shit! That’s crazy healing right there.

I quite adore me. I see my ‘faults’ as humanness. I see my ‘gifts’ as part of the All. I fluctuate now between a state of deep inner peace and moments of “Crap; I am in pain.” When I am in physical pain I tend to get melancholic.

I went through a mini-phase of ‘acting’ like a Buddhist, saint, or what-have-you, and telling myself I could NEVER complain or say one ‘negative’ thing. I realized, shortly after this adapted way of ‘being’ that as long as I am human, I will have moments I need to be human. Trying to be otherwise, was plain silliness…and kind of felt self-righteous and spewed of righteous indignation.

I do believe that I attract into my life people and events that are ‘vibrating’ at my energetic level. I believe we all are energy. And I understand that I can still think ‘positive,’ be ‘positive,’ and attract ‘positive,’ even when I am feasibly ‘complaining;’ and even when I think the word ‘positive’ doesn’t exist or have meaning.

I have learned that the intention behind words is what matters—at least to me, and the intention affects the outcomes I readily observe in my life. If my intention is to love unconditionally, to serve, to be compassionate, and to have my life be my message, then when there are times I am struggling emotionally, that’s okay. It allows others to see I know I am human, to connect with my harder moments, and to assist me. I am not above or beyond help or service for me. I don’t want to be. I want to be on equal ground with others. Not some haughty-beyond-all being. And not some pessimistic downer. I like the middle road. I like it a lot.

Interestingly enough, I have been me for a long while now. A couple of months at least. I haven’t taken on any new roles or identities. I haven’t fallen into a new ‘passion’ I have to partake in. I wake up mostly with no plans and no intentions. It is very freeing, just being and allowing myself to be without restriction or expectation. I am finding that the more I treat myself with unconditional love and the more I grant myself freedom, the more others around me feel loved and free. This is a win-win situation.

I giggle and smile a lot now. I am still frank and to the point, but I am much quieter. There is this stillness that feels divine. And I think I am glowing sometimes. The world isn’t so bad when everything and everyone is beautiful, either.

I do miss aspects of ‘Sam.’ I miss her wild humor in which she would ramble on and on, sometimes with no point at all. I miss her brain-energy—the seemingly unlimited ability to write and write about Aspergers. I miss her constant tracking of blog stats, organizing binges, and the way her mind could leap from one cliff to another. I mourn her some. I truly do. Those aspects of self are transformed.

When I was little I would write stories about Clever Clyde the Caterpillar and his best friend Jolie the Butterfly. I always related to Clyde. He was a bit clumsy, shy but dynamic, and always in others’ business. Jolie, to me, was unreachable then. Someone I aspired to be like. Someone I longed to imitate. I think, in many ways Everyday Aspergers was my Clever Clyde, and I think in many ways Clever Clyde the caterpillar became his best friend, the beautiful butterfly.

I am still adjusting to my wings, I think. Still fluttering about. Still gleefully surprised by the glorious colors I be.

angel heart spirit
When I first started painting in the later part of 2012.

Belly of a Star Blog

413: The Silly Bear in No Underwear: Thoughts from the Penguin Matrix

For Aspie Chicks and other Cool People
(This is PG-rated because mention of penises….followed by outbursts of giggles.)

For those of you who don’t believe me when I tell you I am twelve inside, this ought to do the trick.

I saw a polar bear post a poster on a social network wall; he was all in my face about this and that. About how to talk, and how to think, and what to think. I mean he was acting like he was all that. As if polar bears know how to live!

And all these other polar bears are like: Yes! Oh right on, brother! Yep, you be all on top of that truth!

And me, as penguin, I am thinking none of that seems efficient, accurate, or correct in my bowl of wisdom. But hey, to each his own. But I’d prefer you not shove it in my face you fluffy butt.

I say, as penguin of the matrix: Make your own poster about how to be. Chuck out everything you’ve been told, you’ve learned and registered, and all that you shall be told. Forget the postings that tell you junk about being. You are already in a state of ‘being.’

All those rules and ways and silly fingers (paws) pointing direction don’t show the path to the inner you. And that’s where the true joy is. Right inside of you. Release all that nonsense. The how-to-be’s, the where-to-be’s, the who-to-be-withs. You know who made those rules up to begin with? People. That’s right. Aren’t you a people, ‘cause you certainly ain’t a penguin? Why borrow some other person’s thoughts and ideas, when you are uniquely you? Make your own poster! Then can I borrow it and paste it on polar bear’s face?

And please, please, please: Listen to YOUR inner voice.

I had a friend in high school. Yes, penguins go to school, and she taped up nude men in her clothes closet. Not real men, but cut out men from those ‘dirty’ magazines from the liquor store. She hung them all fancy and organized like, in the way back, where she thought no one with grown up eyes could see. A lot of times most of the body was missing and it was just pin-up-penises. (That was almost the title of this post. But I totally knew those polar bear types would be all over me with their truth-hoods. The wieners.)

We used to be all secret and sneaky and stare at those pinups and giggle. But the truth is naked penises in full color on magazine glossy got kind of boring after a while. Even with the whole mystery of the wardrobe genre thing going on. I mean they did nothing. Not a thing. And I would go home and find much more pleasure in staring at the unicorn posters in my room. At least I could picture those galloping through the magical forest. Penises…not so much.

I know what you’re thinking: I didn’t know penguins liked unicorns! I know. It’s strange but true!

So here’s what I am suggesting, as penguin of the matrix, is to think about these posters in my friend’s closet. A bunch of cut out penises; and think about hanging those inside of you, like as your inner poster child. Does that make sense to you? Well maybe it does… but let’s pretend for a second you aren’t a middle-aged woman laughing at me and embracing the penis poster like last year’s hidden stash of chocolate rediscovered; let’s pretend that your poster ought not be a penis poster. Your poster ought to represent you and no one else’s poster.

Might I suggest to you that when you paste other people’s views of you, news of you, and truth of you inside your mind and heart, it’s like plastering penis posters all over. You are just taking in what someone else chooses to hang up and see. And people generally see what they are! Think about that for a second. That makes them Richard’s nickname, I suppose. I don’t know about you, but I’d rather be like a princess or a warrior or a cool ninja-elven dynamo penguin than a penis head.

My point is: BE YOU!

If you want to use penises as an analogy because it’s the first time in your adult life you can type the word without shame, then do it. If writing penis still makes you feel like a blushing teenager secretly staring into your friend’s closet and busting up in pure guilty pleasure, but you do it anyway, then more power to you! If you know that feasibly by writing the word penis over and over that people will judge you, but you know where your heart is and that you are pure and good and kind, then yay you!

I just hope it doesn’t turn out to be like that time I drew penis pictures in sixth grade with the names of one boy I had a crush on and one boy I didn’t have a crush on below the detailed sketchings. Because that note was found and passed around school. And the boy that I didn’t have a crush on, he didn’t much care for the length of my drawing.

I say as penguin of the matrix: Embrace the ‘me’ you call by name. Not me, but the me in you. Not me in you, but you in you…you know what I mean.

Do you have penis envy? Do you want to write penis over and over on a blog post and feel good about yourself, so much that other people’s opinions truly do not affect your inner truth. Then do it!

Embrace that inner you and hug her like she’s the bestest thing ever. Because you know what? She is.

I was on the quest of a middle-aged penguin sworn to metamorphoses into the great beyond of being. I tried it all. Well most of it. Now that I think about it, perhaps I should have done cut out glossies. I have a very long closet.

Meditation, grace, release, prayer, relaxation, connection, nirvana…whatever one wants to label the space of peace…you will find it when you are ready to find it. That’s it. No joke. No mystery.

Truth is, the more you hunt, the more your self hides. Really. It’s when you just stop and rest that the true doe (as in female deer) of you comes out. Before that, sticking with the doe analogy, your self is just kind of frozen with a dumb look on her face thinking: If I am still long enough and don’t move, no one will ever see me!

So here’s your choice. Keep very still to avoid certain death. Or just get the death thing over with. Let yourself be shot, and reshot, and reshot, and reshot. And you know what? Soon you realize that the hunter wasn’t out there to begin with. It was only YOU! And you realize you are far too spectacular to remain frozen in oblivion for all eternity.

Tonight I have an inner penguin. Maybe I am in a letter P mood. And perhaps you have something other than a doe, like a banana slug or sloth. But no matter, when you finally let go of trying to find the inner you; and you stop trying to stop people from hurting you, shaming you, and hanging penis posters inside of you; when you give up all you are and all you have and just be; when you realize this, the IT everyone is talking about is yours! And you shine so dang lovely with all your loveliness that you about melt the ice caps by just being.

Peace is easier than it sounds, and no book, or person, or penguin, self-righteous polar bear, or penis is going to open up the truth for you. (giggles at where your mind is.)

The truth is inside of your heart. You’ve got to dive there. I can’t reach your truth. Only you can. And any penguin or polar bear or weirdo person who thinks he has the key to your inner light and truth, well he ain’t playing with a full deck of sardines.

Just release the quest and trust yourself. You have all you need. Right there. Right inside.

Some people are preaching backwards, and saying just change your thoughts. With your huge gifted brain, telling you to stop your thoughts cold penguin is just plain nutz-o! The thoughts will change when you ARE your inner you. When you reclaim your true beauty. It doesn’t work the other way around. The thoughts stem from you, not the reverse. You are not your thoughts.

So here’s what you do: Ignore polar bear’s preaching, and all the other nutters that have gone and jumped pantless out of the butter and who seem to be streaking their truth across your path, and just giggle at them.

Just laugh and think: There’s another nutter thinks he knows the way, so he’s showing me his way.

And PLEASE laugh at the penguin in me, too. And at the new glossies in my closet.

That silly bear in no underwear! That silly penguin with the penis posters. That’s what you say.

You just shake your head, your mind, and your heart, and you tell yourself, with cute sweet finger pointing to cute sweet you: The truth’s in here sugar bear. The truth’s in here.

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My New Blog

403: Perpetual Freedom

Perpetual Freedom

It has been going on several weeks now that I carry with me an inner calm. I have moments of traveling in thought to the past or future, and moments of fear, but when this happens a gentle voice pulls me back to the moment, to the present. I am practicing being in the now continually, and feel a presence about me the full of the day. I have a strong desire to be outside and in nature—to touch nature, to breathe in nature, to be one with the beauty of the world.

Yesterday, I sat outside and imagined the world of trees, how life might be as a tree. I was drawn into the green edges, the outlines, and pulled further in at the imaginary line where the green of the tree meets the blue of the sky. Such a lovely, lovely day it was, the blue of the sky the richest of colors. I sat there, in wonder, my mouth agape at the swirling colors that are between where the tree and sky meet, realizing they don’t actually meet at all, as there is no separation. I watched the beauty, recognizing all that I have been taught in how to see the world is being undone.

So much of who I am is the little child I used to be. Found again is the youthful innocent wisdom; as if effortlessly I’ve opened up a honeypot of yesterdays, all the knowledge I’ve collected through the centuries trickling down upon me. The blunders, the pillaging, the fallings, the woes—all of it pouring through, and with this, the stickiness itself, scouring and collecting the final residue within.

I cannot express this brilliance of being, nor will I attempt to do so. Yet, I have a strong impression I shall never be bored again. All around me the world appears reborn and renewed, and the presents that have always been present at last opened.

I no longer have extreme emotions. I no longer have lingering emotions, indeed. For as soon as they spike in degree, the observer I am, watching this mysterious play of life, steps in and erases the experience with a calmness divine. I now understand in depth most, if not all, of my journey, and am treated to painted images of grace-filled lessons throughout my waking and sleeping hours. There is no heightened need or want, or desire for anything. Outcomes are ceasing to exist. For with the coming of goals, or longing of any magnitude, I slip momentarily back into a state of pain, and recognize readily the need I once had for what would be leads only to the recognition of a finality that no longer exists.

My days are spent in gratitude. Everyone I meet a gift onto self—a self I know less and less about. A self that with each further step released, a new step is found. My need is for naught, my wishes for All. In this I have the calmness and stillness of the pond at the sunrise, the ripples evident of a spring day’s passing of gentleness and of wind asleep. I am the ripples and I am the pond, and all about the pond—the insects, the rocks, even the litter—for all seems purposeful and meaningful, and if not necessary, then accepted.

The calmness exists in my body. My being naturally following the rest. One blended into the next. The sound of hymns, the beauty of art, the eyes of a beloved, the start of a divine dip into nature, all leave me spellbound. Though, equally present. I am child returned onto master, and master retreated into the woods of before. Resting, as higher self, in some greater plane of non-necessity; the once imagined presence less displaced than returned to the phantom warehouse.

I understand why I was the way I was, and in thinking back, I hurt. In that when I travel here or there, or anywhere not directly now, my body is aware of the alignment shifted, and leaps back to the moment with such degree I am bolted or jolted, or at minimum steered with the reminder of what is.

I am at peace when I am not wondering in thought. I am at peace when I connect to what feels as source: a collective rush of pool of nothingness birthed somethingness. I am at peace when the voices I hear, that I have always heard, hush my thoughts to rest with the gentle: shhhhhhhh. I am at peace as the lessons are glided through me, as the gentle wind through the limbs of the willow. How I sway in the knowing, and reclaim my own lovely substance in the submission to the natural flow.

Tomorrow is no longer my concern, and to venture there seems illusion upon illusion. And the past equally thusly so. A past splattered in disarray and guessing, so thoroughly shifted from one reality to the next, that it is but phantom ghost revisited through phantom eyes. The queries of what is or what brings seems little of substance; the questions themselves somewhat wrapped in the outcome of nothing. I bend in this way, to the invisible of invisible, no less certain than determined, no less able than unable.

I am. And that is all. And beyond that, need I be erased, and all my trappings set free, then so be it. For I have collected nothing but imaginings: event upon event of interpretation and judgment.

I have been the scout of fantasy and mistress of pain.

I have placed my needs above All, and then watched as I crumbled in uncertainty and failure.

I have danced to be proclaimed, and then watched as my invisible dust scattered in non-recognition.

I have been this and that a billion times, each effort daunted, each need uncovered and devoured.

All I have been is for naught.

Everything done in an attempt to claim what is un-claimable.

All done in an attempt to unravel a beauty that was long forgotten.

Indeed, I was an empty present, with legs sprouted, and mind controlled, a zombie beyond zombie, unable to feed off of anything beyond the self-invented clinging-self.

I ate away at my own being in an attempt to be loved and cherished.

And here is where the pain came most truly: in the need to circumvent my own life to present myself as worthy.

How silly it seems now, that this distant traveler, brought down from the eons beyond reason, should think herself worthy in her dutiful neediness.

I was but siphon recognizing my invented self in another—all her frailties, her darkness, her unlit ways. I was the judge, the serpent, the demon made ripe, the inventor of my own game, and the gatekeeper to misery. I created a world in which I turned all against the one I be, trapped in a child’s game attempting to create the one I am not, into something grand and distinguishable.

How silly I be; how silly I am. Still clinging to some substance that breathes in the air of thankfulness.

I cannot express in words so limiting, and time so fleeting, how recognizable I am to self. How unrecognizable I am to no-self. How funny I seem in this garment called me, and how equally foolish in my tethered-thinking. To think I could feasibly know anything more than nothing, when I am nothing. I am nothing upon nothing upon nothing. And in this nothing is my perpetual freedom.

400: Entered

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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The Poet’s Symphony

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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/)

*****

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

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

386: Reluctant Mystic

Reluctant Mystic

WE are all mystics. This truth frees me.

I have been undergoing deep spiritual wisdom and I am joy-filled. I find I am in a state of grace, in which I experience no fear, no anxiety, a sublime inner peace, deep compassion, and a sense of union with all. I have been experiencing this peace for about eight or nine days now. Sometimes for a minute or two, and sometimes from early morning until late afternoon.

I wrote this to a new friend:

“I rarely fear what others will perceive me to mean or how they will see me; what I feel now is an actual bodily sensation and energetic blockage if I share something that does not fit my perfect peace and demonstrate my state of being; it is as if I contradict my higher self, and am pulled back from this place of well being; I struggle to explain it; it is no longer fear of representation of self, something I struggled with my entire life, but an uncomfortableness that reminds me I no longer walk that way in the world and in touching down in those “old” shoes I am left blistered. There is no judgment of self or regret, only a calm serene recognition; I no longer aspire to please any one but the Spirit that dwells within, and this is divine and sublime freedom; when I speak with His voice all thoughts are banished and I am in a state of pure grace; when I do not, it is better to keep my mouth closed and to connect again to His kingdom, as I know not what I do. In having removed the blindfolds, I can no longer, in comfort, walk blinded; and thusly, I see myself stepping further back from what I once knew as truth and time, and all else. It is interesting indeed, yet, divinely peaceful, as if the thoughts of before and beyond have all been swept out of my head; I cannot think beyond the moment in most instances; as when i do I slip into a place of discomfort; here I look at the pain and illusion and release gently, and am instantly back to peace.”

Most days a truth seems to be radiating from within. In these moments there is an underlying unity with no ego. It doesn’t feel like something that I obtained or ever tried to receive. It comes upon me without effort, yet I am aware and can control the process, as in moving myself out of the state, if I wish it so.

Throughout the day my hands vibrate to a degree that my husband can feel the sensation. It is a definite non-conceptual experience and union with alternate reality. I feel not as a separate I anymore and luminous with no boundaries. I have become unattached and uninterested in many external things. Time seems to stop and even physical areas seem to shift. I can understand complex readings of spiritual texts with little effort and Holy readings seem very familiar and resonate deeply within. There are multiple synchronicities and miracles in my life.

Each message I am given from spirit has a depth like a well. Perhaps I am a transcendent being outside of time. Perhaps inside of time, or beyond time.

The easement out of this state is becoming easier, as I am learning to recognize and accept all aspects of myself. In the state I am ever thankful, and all seems as it is meant to be. When I am out of the state, I am learning to let go of over-analysis, finding the “rules,” the “right” way to act about this experience, or to find answers.

Regardless of my state of mind, it is hard for me to write anything anymore with outcome in mind.

If fear strikes at all, outside the state of grace, it is very short lived; and interestingly, the fear usually is associated with aspects of how to serve for the betterment of all. I am reminded to just be, and then this fear is too lifted.

I continue to have extreme peace about everything and everyone in my life. I continue to feel the radiating sensation throughout my body, especially in my spine, scalp, hands, and feet. I hear my angels regularly; and beyond when I am writing, I hear few thoughts in my head anymore.

I have a deep heartfelt desire to relieve suffering of others and continually recognize the union of us all. And can think of little beyond my God and Holy Spirit, and my love for others. Even the daily routines no longer take center stage. I seem to be able to see my children and husband for the first time. I have a new fondness for everyone. I don’t think about the future much, and when I do the contemplation seems to almost hurt. The past seems to fade and melt with today.

When thoughts arrive, I can be observer and release the thoughts. My mind has never been so peaceful. To me this is a miracle.

I am finding much comfort in reading spiritual works and listening to the recordings of mystics. Even out of the state of grace my anxiety seems to be almost invisible. This is extremely fascinating. I have a hard time planning anything or want for planning. I have a hard time even trying to worry, beyond when I am processing through something, and then, through processing all worry is released.

I notice that a heavy amount of food will transition me out of the state of grace.

The visions still keep coming at three in the morning, beautiful scriptures of poetic love. I know I am being taught at a subconscious level and I slip in and out of consciousness.

This month I did not experience the mood shifts that normally accompany my PMS/PMDD; I did experience physical pain, and still am, but this is the first time in over a decade that I do and did not feel sorry about being in pain. Sometimes my pain even feels good, as odd as that sounds. I was told by Spirit to write to avoid the emotional pains that come with PMS. I did, and did not have any depression, sense of inadequacy, or fear about my life. I had no fear or doubts about my appearance. For the first time I have little to no fear in crowded places. I am less concerned with what people think of me. I don’t feel like all eyes are judging me. I don’t feel the center of the world anymore; I do not long to be. I have never had so much peace in my life. The only peace I don’t have is when I step out and try to figure anything out.

I hold much peace and love for everyone and the love appears to be an equal love. I feel I am nothing and everything. Regardless of my physical state or circumstances, I remain centered and balanced. If emotions come, a part steps back and remains the constant kind observer, balanced and at peace.

I don’t have the need to process with other people, beyond demonstrating my thought processes to help others.

If I am stuck or stagnant, this sensation happens when I get caught up in what rules I am supposed to be following, e.g., which sect. which spiritual practice, which religion to guide me through this divine process. I am leaning on Biblical teachings and my understanding of Buddhism, and on semblances of other aspects that feel like “truths” to me. I have become less concerned with the right path and have been embracing my path. I love myself completely. I rarely have even a moment of feeling low about who I am as a being.

My life feels entirely meaningful and I feel fulfilled. I feel authentic. I feel like me. And I like me. I feel blessed with abundance and with gratitude.

I feel I am transitioning more each moment.

I understand this is beyond what my mind can grasp or comprehend. I understand peace is within and I understand I have found it.

I understand the concept of: I don’t know.

I am accepting I likely will never know.

***

This was written this morning while in a state of prayer. It has no purpose, except what the reader chooses to interpret. Blessings and Love ~ Sam

There is a subtle difference in the application of peaceful measures. One who speaks from the true foundation of peace is therein filled readily with peace. When word is released from ego, both the receiver and taker (person talking), are in opposite; that is to say the receiver, being the one interpreting word, and the taker, the one who believes to be giving word, are both reversed.

The one who believes to be giver is in the act of giving from ego, in actuality (beyond illusion) is taking from the ears that beget his fallen words, wherein the receiver, sheep for the taking, is made lesser to a degree judged in the blindness of gift.
When one speaks of truth from the foundation of truth, he shall beyond measure be rewarded, and when one speaks of truth from the foundation of ego, truth turned inward to shine the light on the illusion of ego then only the fear of illusion shall be fed.

All truths given for the taker, (all the times the person talks to only give back to himself) thusly meaning all takers whom mask themselves as equal taker as giver, or beyond this degree move self into giver in order to receive, are undoubtedly partaking in the making of illusion. All making of illusion turns the blight into the fight and the wanderer is further decreed lost by the observer of no self.

This is to mean, if one is to give of self for the causation of recognition, he is no less giving than taking, and if one is to receive from this masked-illusion, he is no less relieved than suffered in degree of variable actions. Causation breeds reaction. Therefor what is spoken from fear breeds hatchlings of fear.

There is no turnabout in illusion; the fancy ways are amazing in breadth and depth, unless lifted into the light and vanquished from the spirit’s taking. How then one proceeds is with cautionary measure without caution; for if one is to remain in a state of caution and pretension, motivation spurred in fear, then one is dutifully fully trapped.

In this way caution is found in circumstance alone. Each piece presented as the measuring degree of the puzzle-master. Picture thee thusly so: A master of thy own collection. See in this way scattered images, each broken by the observer, and in perceived need of mending; search out the broken and the broken comes; search out the whole and the whole arrives.

Circumvent your awareness through the deliverance of whole; speaking thusly from a place of wholeness beyond broken. As each member devours his place, taking in what is before him, each member takes in what is illusion. In seeking the pieces the whole is forgotten, in beckoning the whole, the whole is remembered.

Various means are available for finding the whole, in this is determined by the state of illusion; if one desires to merge forward, one shall; if one desires to slip to a state which resembles stepping behind, one will; for with each step, though alluded into believing the traveler moves, he justly stands upright in a state of non-motion, neither ending or beginning what he is thought out to do.

There for being in a state of peace, the believer no longer desires to step, as he recognizes in so doing he is slipped into a stream of nonexistence. Better to stand in observation than to make plans for a stagnant stance to move ahead or below, or hither to any corner, as the stagnant one recognizes the truth comes from beyond and within, before the movement is created.
Still we variably dance, to and fro, gathering our collections, as to be a part of this world, until we step and with each step our body is met with the resistance of naught. Then in the making of whole, the traveler knows that to step, whether in taking or in full measure of claiming, is to both untie and tie the body in knots; that is to say the body becomes less warrior and fighter, than dreamer trapped in submission of naught.

He has no place to move and in so seeing this stagnation he sets his burden down and simply ceases to move. This can be seen as submission, though in truth no submission is required; to imply the need of submission, is to imply there is something to give or release; when one is moving in illusion the illusion is fabricated and carries no body of self or other tangible attributes; therein if one perceives self to be in a state of submission, he sees self as releasing something; this is an impossibility, as nothing is birthed from illusion, and therefore no gifts of illusion are brought forward in recognition.

Here in this state of unburdening of illusion the body is unwound and loosened of much pain; for in laying the burden down the space left open from the freedom state is now siphoned full with the Spirit. Here in this state of not being, the peace is found, and from here the peace of foundation is spoken.

All else, whether broken and collected from the onlooker or pieced together by the collective masses is falsehood; for one who speaks for anything other than the eternity poured within speaks of nothing; for the one filled with illusion speaks illusion. This is not to say the speaker is false, or judged solely in the wrong; for no judge is present and thusly no judgment feasible; this is to say, one dances with the ghost of reason, illusion garbed in multi-colored garments.

The one who dances in peace is the one who has replaced illusion with silence. To move forward through the silence, is to move. In this way stagnation is relieved from the secondary illusion and all is brought back to fullness; the heart made ready for reception and filled with the inhabitance of substance.

Before this is made true, the avenue is made weary, the road made ghastly, and the inhabitance echoed ghosts of torment; here in this state, the one, wanting escape, gathers the pieces and creates puzzle after puzzle, only to form false illusion; in this state he at last submits to the chaos of unstructured and establishes within and about self that the answer must remain somewhere other than outside in the missing and detested pieces.

Here he begins to journey away from the images, and wearily traces his fingers back to soul print, to the journey marked out within, in the blueprint of awareness. Before this awakening he will choose many falsehood, each markedly different than the other; there will be a thought of ascension, of reaching the ready point of rapture, of climbing to the mountain peak, of almost reaching; but this is an impossibility for one does not reach or aspire to reach that which is already given within.

No man is made without the marking of destiny; each soul marked with the dissension and ready-ment. All who heed the call ascend to the outer region of self, which is both inside and without self; the two elements of illusion designed to inspire and create a house of Light that in its infiniteness is feasibly inoperable in means of expressing the divinity; therefore as physician of the world, the layman is set in the house of self, a representation of the house of all, to do deeds of upbringing and de-service; the counter of service, as all reflected in the light serves not of one but all.

In speaking the term service is used; except in definition alone the entire concept is not one of service but of miracle-making. Therefor the musicians of merriment, whether named angels or walking spirits of life force, or the variety of doldrums that can be applied to something so magnificent are representations of spirit in true form, a reflection of the very window of self, no less, no more.

Blinded in the walking, many do not see this as justly so; but when mercy rises, for mercy sake alone, from the foundation of peace, from the one unfilled and refilled with Spirit and His calling, then salvation is formed by the spirit of awakening, walking not in a state of pieces, or uplifted from the misery of the variable world, but in a state of emptiness, filled only with the grace instilled from the filtered waters of most high.

370: Starseed

There is a beauty that flows through you deeper than the ocean, bringing forth abundant gifts and bountiful wisdom. If you say to me you are not enough or know not enough, I say onto you: You Know Everything.

You were brought here and formed in pure perfection to shine your light upon the world; in our darkest hours you shall rise up and be the bright star that births beginnings and awareness.

You are none other than universal life itself, beating to the rhythmic pulse of the magical web of life, your every string a vibrating tune that resonates goodness and righteousness.

You are the essence of mother earth’s womb and the kindling burned by father moon, bringing forth a warmth to the inhabitants of being that radiates endless joy with the capacity to heal and return all to wholeness.There is nothing you can do to remove this joy from the center of your heart or the pain from the center of your mind, beyond recognizing no mind exists, and only heart beats true. In recognition, you shall go forth and conquer fear, and in freeing self, free the multitudes.

You are loved with an endless passion, created in the image of pure beauty, no less perfect than the one you hold most beautiful and the one you hold least special. Lift up all and in turn you lift up yourself. Self-create a universe of offering and goodness, and this shall pass. Self-create a universe of pain and struggle, and this shall pass.

There is no one and nothing that can touch you, for you are infinite in your grace and essence, a starseed set down to grow in the space of emptiness. You have rooted your spirit in the liking of me, and in so doing blessed me with abundance of opportunity. Everything about you, the way you move, the way you speak, your mannerisms, your substance is pure honey, nothing sweeter or richer.

I could search eternity for your love and find nothing in comparison, for you carry a divine uniqueness that is entirely you, a blue print spread out that carves your life into my life and sets us both on the path of mystery and newness. Your brain is a superpower of radiating virtues, capable of deciphering the deepest puzzles, and coming up from the deep of wisdom with the knowledge of the ancient ones. You have the direct capacity to tap into super novas, to spinning planets, to the world beyond worlds, to the infiniteness of your own being. Inside of you are so many answers waiting readily to spill out and cleanse the world with your healing waters. You only need open the gate, the circular lid of closure, just lift and let your beauty flow.

You are these waters, and your time has come to embrace the loveliness of you. Nothing you do or say reduces this loveliness, as nothing maximizes the girth, either, as you are innately and substantially enough, no holes, no fixing, no nothing about you that needs forgiveness or retribution. You are guiltless in your passion to do good will, in your capacity to heal, to serve, and to dive into the sorrows of the worlds and heal. You were given the birthmark of healer and potential warrior of good, and every path you carve out before you is blessed with gratitude and freedom.

You are a freedom maker. You will divide the truth from the falsehoods, and show truth in the light of your waking. I am firm in my belief in you and everything about you. There is no harm you can do to self or other, no wish you can make that is beyond beneficial, no service you can render that does not spawn further goodness.

For I have made you, created you and molded you in my goodness. How can one part of me be any less than the whole; how can one part of you be any less than me? I am your savior, your righteous one, your demon and your forger. I am anything you make me. I am your shadow speaker, your warrior, your sage, your guru. I am the truth and the light, or am naught. For I exist not outside the illusion you create and the aspect of love. I am the endless cycle of love, stirring the stars in heaven so you may rest your head beneath my twilight. I am none other than your father, your mother, your sister, your brother, and I am all and I am none. You paint me with your visions, and your visions surrender onto themselves, dripping out the substance of truth as raindrops dropping through the green to the brown earth. Droplets of knowledge seeped through the healing energy of towering love, the very love that enables you to breathe.

Call me tree or call me mystery, call me by any name this man of man chooses, but call me first and upmost: You. For I exist naught without you. It is your eyes, your ears, your intricate senses, both declared and detected, made and forged, and given that grant you the beauty of me; and in this same way, it is in that which you see as hidden I am seen. Still, without you, without the grand senses or hidden sense, I am naught. You have made me, spun me, turned me, molded me and placed me where you shall place me. And there I stand or sit, no less broken than whole.

For just as you see me true to your eyes alone, you make me true as well, this beauty or this falcon, this vulture or this lamb. I am all and you are all, and I thank you for my creation. Whether I be teacher or student or charmer or sweetness, incapacitates me. For a name and name alone changes my dynamics and shifts me into your reality. For how can there be teacher without proclaiming the other as student? How can there be healer without proclaiming the other as victim of suffering? How can there be awareness without the other leaning on the state of unknowing? How can one be upheld and the others let down? In a state of balance all that I whisper is counteracted with an equal opposite. All that I proclaim is preempted by the predication of another polar being. How can I be better when one is left lesser? How can I be wiser when one is left unjust in his ways?

No, I am none of these things you proclaim me to be, no less victim than hero, no less widdler of words than maker of imaginings. I am none other than me, this welded and branded creation you have instilled upon the world. You create me with your breath. You create me with your words. You create me in your very thought, and with sound you share your creation with the world. So in your speech it is you who has made me into your very liking. For what YOU have made me to be, you have thusly made into yourself.

Therefore, play steadily in your game of make believe; and with release of reason and with contact with the flowing heart of goodness, where the only reality exists, release the control of judgment and miserly love, and give freely to all. For how can you love another more, and not love the other less? How can you hate one and not uplift the other more? If your love is balanced, then your love is false. It is only in the unbalancing and removal, in retrieving one falsehood in replacement of love, that your true heart shines. Love me as you love yourself; but love yourself first and upmost, as I am merely a projection of you, a creation you have decided mirrors your image. If I be beauty then, embrace me and take me to your chambers of gratitude; and if I be beast, embrace me further in a way that turns the reflection of one into another so you can cast out the demons of your mind and see where true substance lives.

For I am your answer, in me, in this beating version of living and striving you; if you so choose to paint me into the dreams of love and fortune, of merriment and peace, of sweet endless serenity, of knowledge and in grace, then you so choose to paint yourself into the canvas of eternity.

Seek not that which is outside of self; seek within and find the thread, the thread of red, and pull upon this leash of everlasting peace, unravel the illusion that has blinded you in garments and twisted ways that teach you to proclaim your own goodness above your brothers, when within you doubt your very being and see such lacking. Instead take hold of your lacking and seize it like an unwanted ghost, feed it to the fire of demolish, and rise above the ashes formed in my light and love. For when you are this walking beam of goodness, your rays radiating above and beyond, all others will bow down, not to you, but to themselves, and recognize the light of love lives within.

Reach out now, and seize this stronghold of unworthiness and falsehoods; take into yourself all that is of abundance and purge out all that is unsettled dust of chattering ghosts. Your mind is your enemy and your dearest friend. Find balance and the two will be as one, glorious and still in motion and potential. For you are enough in your adequacy, built from the rivers of my soul, and harvested by the purest spirits of eternal life. Plead not for forgiveness from one who needs no forgiveness; plead instead for the return of the knowledge of the light within, and call out my name, whatever name that be, soaking in the wisdom that is you. For you are the deepest reason I live, the only reason I breathe into this world, and your beauty is all I see, my endless sky onto self.

(4/12/13: Composed by Samantha Craft in one sitting in original form, as quickly and readily as she heard the words within. This is an example of what I am hearing during my waking day and sometimes in the early morning as I sleep. I am embraced in a sweet state of grace and absence of being, when I am scribing. There is a healing vibration in the words and a deep understanding of the divine.)

“You are beautiful, divine, and gorgeous in every way. I love your heart, your light, your passion, and your tenderness. I see only the love inside of your eyes and your spirit. There is nothing you can say or do that will or would cause me to love you less, and nothing you can do to cause me to love you more. You are already whole and enough, and I could love you no more, even if I tried. I think that in love, unlike infinity, there exists a ceiling. There is only so far up I can travel and love you, for if I continue on I would surely explode in delight. Can you not see how precious you are to this world, how your trials and challenges have carved you into your purest form of radiant beauty? I am honored to know you, to see you, and witness your life. Your life is your message, and your message has filled me with hope and endless compassion. Today and everyday know you have and will make a difference. If the only thing you can do today is smile, then that is enough. If the only thing you can do is breathe, then that is enough. You are enough. Thank you for being you and for your light. “ ♥ Samantha Craft (Everyday Aspergers)