465: Unconditional Love

I love you.
When you are lost, when you are alone, when you are driven away from me by some unknown force.
I love you.
When you are forsaken by your own self and thoughts. When you twist reality into a fantasy that is dark and bleeds of isolation.
I love you.
When you go, I will watch and wait until the nightmares subside and the light beckons. I will wait at the end of the tunnel, at the entrance, at the exit, at the only place you will eventually arrive.
I am here for you; not because you beckoned, not because you desire, not because I expect a single thing.
I am here because I love you.
I love you in a thousand upon a thousand ways.
I love you for your beauty, your deep etched soul, the sunlight that slips through your fingers and glistens on your skin, of happiness to come.
I love the hope that is you; for whenever you falter and fall, you return. You retrace your steps and return.
I watch you without fear of abandonment. Your actions do not make me. Your ways do not change me.
I am you and you are me; yet, we are separate in our choices and visions.
I know who I am, where my seams connect, making me whole, my parts intermingled to form true divinity. And I view you the same. Ever so splendidly made.
In your presence I become more real than I imagined possible; all of me expands and implodes, building contrasting caverns of existence.
When you do not have faith in yourself, I will have faith in you. When you do not have faith in us, I will have faith in our togetherness.
If ever I grow frustrated or worried, know it is the burden I hold, the lasting longing I carry to behold your sorrow erased and your joy sprung anew.
I shall wait outside your threshold through the depths of time.
I shall remain full in my attempt to exist as a stronghold onto myself.
And in this way, I will have done my best.
I will not stand between you and your dreams, you and your freedom, you and your happiness.
I will always abide by your wishes, whatever they be, as I trust your decisions and the makings of your mind. I trust that you have the answers.
I kneel for you, as you kneel for me, both as suitor and servant.
I stand beside you, cheerfully enchanted, cheerfully grateful for your victorious days.
If ever I take you for granted, it is merely my shadow resurfaced, feeding off the illusion of fear. If ever I fail you, it is merely a part of myself forgetting the beauty we are.
Know, if I had to live this life again, and start anew, my hope would be to have you the same. Just as you are. In your gleaming perfection.
I love. I love you. And whatever you choose to do, or be, or say. Whatever you choose to represent as your own existence and truth.
I love you.

~ Samantha Craft, December 2013

love R

443: My Harbored Truths

pin it heart minded

Sometimes….well oftentimes, my filtering system for cognitive reasoning is so magnificently huge that I dissect everything I take in and compartmentalize how the input affects me spiritually, physically, and emotionally.

I do this innately, with words and the energy behind words.

I don’t know how, but more often than not, I can feel the intention behind words and actions, too.

I can feel lies and ulterior motives.

I have decided to modify my filtering system when it comes to what I share.

Mostly, I accept everything everyone shares, knowing we all come from limited experience and perception, and knowing we each choose what is good and what is bad, based on our life and intellectual scaffolding off of prior knowledge. So being, I often find it easy to accept and not judge most of what I take in, without counter or dismay, unless the statement or message is something (that feels to me) to be expressing hatred, purposeful perpetuation of pain, and/or is fluid with ego-based attention seeking. But even then, I generally remain quiet, and reflect on what is in me that still can grow in acceptance and love.

What I have done to myself, in regards to filtering, is quite different. I have filtered what I share based on the amount of conflict I think I might cause–the waves, the countering, the ‘angry’ comments.

Today, and from now on, I WILL SHARE what I want to share, that which resonates with where I am now in this moment.

I will be ME.

I spent a long time tip toeing and people-pleasing in the past, and refuse to be that person any longer.

I am kind. I am just. I am good-hearted, and I am done thinking I must prove that to the world.

I currently don’t embrace debate, arguing, defensive speech, reactive emotions, etc. So, if what I share offends someone, and he/she doesn’t have the means to be kind, and feels motivated to counter me, I will kindly remove the person from this space.

I think it is important that we each honor our sacred spaces, and invite into our world people who nourish and brighten our own light.

While I know I can learn from people who still carry much anger and resentment within, I know equally well it is damaging to my spirit.

(Adapted from my social network update this morning.)

My other

Above is my newest painting. I use only a cup of water, paper towels, and water color (tubes). I use one brush for the eyes only. I wait to see what comes out of the canvas, as I splatter paint and smudge and rub. It is akin to finger painting. I must feel the canvas. The paintings are always a combination of male and female energy. They often have both qualities. In this one there is a definite female energy on the right and masculine energy on the left. I made it imperfect on purpose. The face is in transition, as my face always is, as are those faces I see in real life. Nothing stays the same. Each time I look in the mirror, I appear different to self. In every photo, depending on the time and day, I look and do not find myself. It is rare that I think a photo is me. I am always changing.

The lips, in this painting, are multiple…the last set sealed…signifying the limitation of words and the misspoken truths, the judging based on words and facial expression. It is a refusal to be ( to live in this world ) as the world dictates. The eyes are the soul: pain, depth, wisdom, love. I move the paper towels to match the energy I feel, splattering paint, smearing and rubbing, until the image represents what my spirit feels.

I like that my paintings are unique. I have no choice, in the matter. As hard as I try, I will never be able to conform to rigidness in art and never be able to show the world as something stagnant and visually in proportion. To me this painting is balance—balanced with truth, authenticity, and my heart-mind connection. I find what the viewer feels from my art is often a reflection of their own harbored truths…

And that is what my art is: My harbored truths brought to life.

My other artist’s blog that has a poem to go with the painting.

me little

396: The Hand

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In painting this, I waited to see what would come to me from the canvas. The hand was instrumental and feels healing to me. Both faces switched gender—the one on the left from woman to man–the one on the right from man to woman. The man on the left has a heart-shaped face, and his eyes call to me. I can see how I still see the world a bit differently than some. Most of my paintings have two people joined or entirely connected. I love how he flows right into her; her hair feasibly a part of him. Also there is the elements of dark and light, a balance that is sublime to me, as his eyes are not painted, only outlined and hers are filled. The blue is balanced as well, with his atop and hers below. I love how the hand can be from his hand, her hand, or God: Support from self, from love, from Source. It seems to me the hand is supporting the entire feel of the art. I only asked to be guided in making this. I had no expectations. I listened to instructions. The watercolors were blended with water and a cloth. This is my first attempt at painting realistic faces.

Last night I meditated on the painting for some time, and when I woke up, again, I looked at the hand and the eyes. It seems my paintings look entirely more richer when photographed and shared. The first thing my friend sent me this morning was this quote from a hymn:

“All I have needed
Thy Hand hath Provided,
Great is Thy Faithfulness
Lord unto me.”

She did not know of the painting or that I had been meditating on the hand. I found the words fitting.

Last night I studied John of the Cross and now I am rereading one of my favorite Buddhist books. I feel very centered, balanced, and at peace. Much love to you, Dear one. Have a blessed day.

364: The Shift

Today I painted for six hours straight without pause. I was able to process and purge some of my emotions. I prayed and connected to spirit. This is my first attempt at a realistic watercolor. I am pleased with the outcome. I feel my energy and love in this piece. It is called “The Shift.” I am still feeling a great passion and surge of connection to source; thusly, I quickly scribed a poem to match the painting. With my recent emotional and spiritual healings, I have an intense drive to bring to life the beating love within me.

The Shift

The Shift

I walked alone, a stranger on an island to herself. The atmosphere thick and strangling, my emotions bottled inside the opaque glass of reason. I did not know myself, my name, my passion. All was nothing and nothing was all. I longed for companionship; and as desert soul left open, would climb the cliffs in search of you.

Call out, I did, until you came, at least the whispered ghost of you; your phantom corridor offering me respite, if only in imaginings. I ached so devastatingly deep that the richest cave could not harbor the very start of my emptiness. A lion’s roar was my enemy and friend; this triumphant beating trembling purge of beast that drifted and wept across the sea.

I died onto myself, missing you as the window misses the onlooker; left rigid, cold, and clear with no view and no observer. I was less than invisible. I was abstract, set out beneath the world, yet none could be my witness; none could hear my tears.

Falling, I fell. Calling, I called. And yet you heard me not, except the tiniest splinter of thought. In daylight I formed you with clay; the milkiness of you seeping through my entangled fingers. Bled out to the ground, I molded my dignity, my fortitude, my every want into the making of your heart.

And you beat, this moistened part of you, beneath where I rested; my lathered palms dripping muddy-sweet into the blades of greenest grass. I ate you, then, ground your essence between my teeth, and turned my mouth a brown of dreams. Played you between my tongue and cheeks; something tangy, no less sweeter than my own buds.

I nibbled and caressed, taking in the fantasy I created; the one I longed to paint across the seabreeze, to make your real, like the toy that comes alive to the child still innocent. To dance with you, your floppy legs turned limber and lean; the muscles flexing underneath the all of you.

I could climb you like a tree, harboring your very branches between my thighs, and ride you into the sunset as a damsel on her knight obedient.

Atop, in the blue haze, far beyond the robin’s nest, where the eagle soars still, I would witness the end, and sit with you hand—in-hand, like butter between my flesh and soul. Spread out like no other, my head upon thy breast, my heart within your very dove-winged embrace. My mystery revealed, a treasure onto you. In so much that my kingdom becomes your destiny; a place of rapture, delight, and dancing laughter.

Spin me there, now, kind prince. Swing me through the evergreen forest and champion your maiden ripe. For the time has come for children to rise and face the light of happiness.

334: I Am The River

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I am not sure where my head space is. Or where my head is for that matter. I tend to ascribe to the Buddhist teachings that we don’t exist, as we can’t see ourselves in totality… Ever! And so, like the rest of me, my head has mysteriously disappeared.

Lately, some part of “Me” has been noticing I am much more aware of my environment. It seems that for decades, until now, I have skid past life and missed much of what happens around me on a day-to-day basis. Kind of like a first time ice-skater skidding on her butt so fast and so far that when she stands she doesn’t reckon she notices anything, except the full-heated rush of blood to the face, the cold butt, bruises, and torn pants.

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Life seems like that for me, right now. Like I spent some four-decades plus skidding on my butt on the cold ice, only to just now discover that there are bleachers, chairs, and waiting areas, and even snack bars!

Today, everything is more clearer, as if, finally and at last, somehow I figured out I could step off of the ice, and even remove my ice skates. I cannot explain it any better.

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Just recently, I am beginning to notice things I never ever did before. Patterns for starters, like the patterns in puddles, and patterns found in the streaks on the road after it rains, and the patterns in the shapes leaves make after falling. I am starting to notice patterns everywhere. I somehow managed to spend years not recognizing things that are right in front of my face.

I am going through many ah!ha!, look-at-that!-moments; It is similar to how I never understood about how a flower only lasts so long and then dies, even if it is in a pot of soil. I used to think a flower would last forever. It wasn’t until my twenties that I made the connection. While all around me flowers were blooming and dying. I just couldn’t see it or comprehend the process.

I have discovered, that at like faces, I cannot remember scenery. I cannot grasp the completeness of my surroundings. I am in a way in some type of visible matrix, in the center of an ever-changing energetic playing arena.

I cannot remember the order of houses when I drive down streets, the order of streets, the order of trees; I can’t remember where I saw the fire hydrant or where that one street was I once turned down. I just can’t. I have this incredible mind, but it cannot grasp the simple things, or at least not hold onto them.

I am finding great comfort in painting. Well, truthfully comfort isn’t the appropriate word, as the painting process itself is excruciatingly emotionally. So much energy and purging comes up. I go through cycle upon cycle of feeling, and have sensations of intense energy, both beneficial and exhausting. And no matter how hard I concentrate, I do not know what the painting will look like until it, the painting itself, is done.

As I have said early, when I paint, I am waiting for what is inside of the canvas to emerge. I feel this presence there just waiting to be uncovered and discovered.

And that is how I am seeing life now: That behind everything and everyone is this universal light and love waiting to be recognized and recovered, waiting to be held for its beauty alone.

I am much like a young child in so many ways, in so many “good” ways, able to see the same street again and again with new eyes.

Everything is shifting. Like the image of me in the mirror, my world is not stagnant.

Life to me is a river of sorts, and I am carried daily.

Instead of thinking I have fallen and am endlessly sliding on the cold ice, I can see I am very much alive, awake, and full of newness, the same newness that exists everywhere.

Interestingly enough, when I first delved into painting a few months ago, my angels (Holy Spirit) spoke to me and said with a camera I would be able to see images (spirits and souls) in my paintings.

This is truly amazing for me, as I am finding more and more “messages” and “signs” in my paintings. On this post I have shared one of my most recent paintings. It went through hours of transitions.

I love this painting. I see this as a spiritual being, me, in which essence and energy attaches. I am able to look at this and find peace. This painting is how I see the world. What I take in shifts and changes depending on the angle, my mood, the people and events around me, and the energy of the moment.

There is a beautiful energy here.

Gratitude is immeasurable. I am gratitude.

I exist as joy and thankfulness. And I embrace all parts of me, however imperfect or fabulous they are deemed.

I know, that like the images I am creating, in my painting, and through the limited scope of my mind and eyes and senses, that everything is always changing and shifting. There is no need to pitch down a tent upon myself and force, or, better yet, try to force myself to be this way or that way for this purpose or for that purpose; because soon, none of what is now will exist.

I am a river. My life is a river. Silly to try to capture a river.

Blessings and Light,
Sam

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333: Long overdue…It’s “Official”

How cool is it that this is number 333 post? I loveeeeee the number three! Always have, always will. He is cute and springy and sweet and funny. Number three rocks. And there are three number threes!

It’s like the threes are celebrating the fact that I received my “official” diagnosis!

Yes, indeed…. Who would have guessed, but a psychologist has concurred (very kind man) that it is true, I am Aspergerian.

So it’s official; whatever that means.

Oddly enough, the whole validation of my “condition” was anti-climatic, as I was in a very serene and calm mood during my last appointment.

I kept waiting for the jolt of “Yeah, Baby” to hit me. But alas it never came.

I analyzed this lack of Wow-Factor for quite sometime, and concluded this balance of emotions was a positive and beneficial thing.

My freedom of self is expressed quite clearly in this recent painting called Surrender.

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More recently, three hours last night, and two hours this morning, I worked on this piece. It is filled with emotion and energy for me. This one is called Home.

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Interestingly, when I paint, I am mostly using a paper-towel as my tool. I start of with drawing free-formed designs with a pencil, letting spirit move me. Then I add some paint in globs. Then I rub off the paint and see what starts to pop out. I follow no rules and use odd techniques.

Mostly, I feel like a genius-sculpture waiting for the canvas to speak to me.

I have a unique perspective on images. I see things in my paintings and strongly, to the point of distraction and physical sensations, feel the energy.

I didn’t like this image in my original painting. The shape seemed dark to me, almost evil. It looks like a dead animal or beast. I had to remove this by erasing with water and adding more paint.

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This image really bothered me, too.

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Often parts of my works feel heavy and unfinished, and I have to erase, reapply, and step back. If I see an image I don’t like in a painting, like this one above, of a succubus hooked on to the teddy bear’s head, I have to restart and free the energy. I have to remove the energy vampire, so to speak.

I feel this energy intensely, and feel it is either attached to me, a loved one, or both. So I rework and rework the piece until the energy is released.

I can recognize so much healing during the process, and I become almost hypnotic and lost in my creation.

The painting experience is similar to writing, wherein I cannot use certain colors, brush strokes, angles, shapes, etc. (with writing it is words, sentence structure, rhythm, etc.) without feeling a blockage that I must remove.

For me, everything in life is alive with energy: words, colors, shapes, feelings.

All in all, the art of painting is becoming a soothing mechanism for me both energetically and emotionally.

I am pleased with this new Painter aspect of me: the breaking through of self and displaying of self on canvas. It is another form in which I feel someone might be able to see me beyond the facade of my human flesh/costume.

I still find the creation of faces doubly-daunting, as I cannot grasp faces, not others’ and not even my own. So I am struggling with the releasing of “face.” A concept I find mimics my own personal trials: That of releasing the image of self.

I have a great sense of peace, as of late; partially because I stopped taking this hormone pill that was making me have complex, rapid thoughts (can you imagine!! as my thoughts are already so complex!)…induced hyper-thyroid. But mostly because I have started to listen to my own self. I have started to believe in the magic of the world again. I have started to see that inside of me is so much beckoning to get out. And I have chosen the magic over the misery. Something that is long overdue.

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290: Torn Open

wiped clean
Torn Open

Torn Open

If I were a painter, I’d paint you as the river flowing through my heart, my arms outstretched in acceptance and need and want, my body limber and bleeding, the blood the very essence of my unquenchable desire.

The water, being you, would be the clearest and the sweetest, and the very richest, pouring through the canvas of me as melted butter across warm sugar-cakes.

I’d take you into me, soak in your yellow-sunshine, and swell into a catapult of expectation fulfilled. The rest of me, the part I’d left behind, outside the door that shelters our space, I’d call forth then, one by one and piece by piece, each part carrying in another puzzle of my completion.

And there, gathered on the floor, I’d rest, my every angle dismembered, broken, and waiting to be reassembled by you. In doing so the echoes of my desperate longing would be answered, and silence would ensue, if not forever, then for a moment, long enough for the splinters of my callings to rest and form shape.

There, in the silence, in the peace, I would wait, no longer afraid or without, no longer in pain.

Though broken and scattered, I would be whole. Though taken and left out, I would be home. Though ripped apart and tangled, the very heart of me missing his place, I would beat with a life so full my dreams would sing.

Like soldiers I would take flight; winged butterflies, a spectacle of starlit ghosts twirling and rising all at once to the trumpeting of our destiny.

You would whisper then, to me, this sugar-spiced dumpling of one form or another, in all my mystery, in all my guise; you would whisper sweetness so pure that my spine would tingle and take his place, amongst the pieces lost.

Here you would draw, your finger thick and calm, your voice trembling through the vibration of your flesh; and I, as ink, would appear, my design clear and precise, my meaning known and wanted.

I would not whisper, for the voice of the room would be yours, and yours alone. Your silhouette dancing in the shadows like a raven whom pecks the ripest seedlings from the foreground, a painter himself merging and forging to create substance for this soul.

Red would drip new, droplets of amulets and silver-tipped gold. My paint yours. A keeper of chance you be, diving into the gentleness and hope of tomorrow with the tip of your brush, a quail’s feather topped in delight.

Scribbled across white, I be.

Designed in the fashion you forbade and forbid, both ruptured and raptured at once.

I would burst for you, and you alone. My hungry voice rising to be heard above the quiet you created. Until, as serpent uncoiled and ram diving thick, I would come forth, rebirthed and complete in the making of you.

For where you dipped and twirled the horsehair and blanketed warmth, the artists stick and brush, I too dipped. For where you danced, I too danced, like a stallion in the moonlight free, my mane flowing beyond and touching the edges of your silhouette.

For in creating me, you both created self and dream, mister and misses. My sacrifice, though felt eternal, well worth the storm.

My endless searching, my endless calling, my escape into nothingness and a gentle calm, all part of the canvas you set forth. For if not for you and me, for my pain and your finding, then still I would pierce myself atop the mountain top, one knife after the other, alive but dead, awake but asleep.

For it was not until you called, until you came, until you saw me and claimed my existence that I truly was. Not until your coming destroyed me and brought me back again that I was truly born.

For in the existence that I know, you are my maker, my shaker, my taker, my master, my everything beyond the sun. In knowing you, or the part of you that held me, I have at last held myself.

And though the tears have etched and molded, created someone I know not, someone beyond my very self, alas I remain in awe of my beauty, inspired by creator you.

So please, as you whisper farewell, as you close the door, my fallen pieces reassembled and transpired, know I weep not so much for the loss of what was you, and what I thought I knew, but for the finding of myself.

~~~ Samantha Craft, December 31, 2012

Happy New Year….may you above all, having found the beauty of you, spread your light upon the waiting world. Blessings ~ Sam

285: Angel Heart

angel heart

Angel Heart by Samantha Craft

~~~~~~

Angel Heart

Meet me at the causeway

The hallway to knowing

And there

Call upon the light

And I shall come

To the feathered bed

Of your sleeping ocean

Soft, whispering wings

Stirring waters blue

Trembling joy

In ministry true

In undistinguishable form

In rays flittering gold

Immerse

Precious spectrum of eternal

Hope

Enter cleansed

The house of glory

Storm windows flung open

To the wind

Of anointment

Sealed upon

My precious child

~ by Samantha Craft

 Awakened Angels

Awakened Angels by Samantha Craft