416: How I would free my spectrum daughter

Charcoal finalCharcoal final
Sophia

How I would free my daughter with Aspergers

1. I would learn everything I could about the spectrum conditions through reputable, well-honored sources; and then readily forget everything I knew and recognize my daughter is a unique individual with exact perfection and a glorious light.

2. I would acknowledge each and every way my daughter’s actions reflect a behavior that in some way makes me believe that I am affected. What is it that she is doing that is causing discomfort to me, would be a question I would demolish, and whole-heartedly embrace the conclusion that I am the only one choosing to be in a state of discomfort based on someone else’s reactions and actions. And in truth my reactions have a direct effect on everyone about me. My ‘job’ as a parent, if I were to assign an exact ‘role’ and ‘duty,’ would be to reflect back to my daughter her beauty and nothing more.

3. I would concentrate on the definitions of imperfection, flawed, wrong, and normal. I’d understand all words are manmade and invented, that even the deepest of spiritual beliefs and psychology have been spoon-fed from man to man, and thusly infected and created into something man-based. With man comes fear. I would readily announce the fear in me, and the fear related to my daughter’s ‘condition.’ I would see that all my discomfort is based primarily on two things: Fear and not living in the present.

4. In seeing I am nothing but the present moment, and that my daughter is thusly only in the present, I would establish a way in which I could practice moment-by-moment being there in a state of grace for my daughter and the rest of family, friends, and society. I would grow, as a role model for my daughter, a person of inner-security, unconditional love and acceptance. I would discard robes of non-authenticity, fear-based projection of self onto others, the selfish feeding that society dictates from mass media, big business, politics, and dogma-based religion. I would embrace the light of my child as my divine teacher and establisher of the breaking of norms to set my own soul free.

5. I would ask her to teach me what she knows, and try to experience the world through her eyes and senses, while recognizing her way is not right or wrong, and just is. I would understand she needs no fixing or alterations, and that in healing my own spirit and aches and longings, and by being in a state of centeredness and balance, she, as I to her, can grow into a reflection of me.

6. I would stop taking her to professionals who are not heart-mind centered and well-established in their own inner-awareness, growth, love and beauty. I would expose her to people that resonate at a high-vibration of acceptance. I would break up with all relations that fed off of her energy, ‘goodness,’ innocence and purity. Recognizing, she, like me, is born in beauty in perfection, I would establish an environment in which she could be the best of who she is: authentic in all ways and degrees.

7. If I ever felt embarrassed or ashamed, I would recognize I have bought into the illusion of normalcy and the ‘right’ way to be. I would declare there is no ‘right’ way to myself and to my child, and celebrate not what is good in her—for to do so would be to automatically judge and establish bad. Instead I would celebrate her in completion, for the gift of her in my life, for the way she has helped me to transition and grow as a person.

8. I would immerse her in her pleasures and passions; knowing her interest are the only means of escaping the chaos of a delusional world that breeds off of profit, greed, lies, and game-playing. I would understand that she sees through the veil of illusion, and is entirely awoken to the process transpiring before her. That to her the world is scary because the people are scary in their attempts to be loved through fear and imaginings. I would recognize until I see the world as safe, she will perceive the world as danger. In order to heal my own wounds, I would dive deep within and embrace my authentic being, risking like I never have and dying a thousand upon a thousand deaths. And through my own dark night of the soul, reestablished in my own profound light and knowing of All, I would return the light upon my daughter. Her established and well-pruned light of goodness. I would return not what was taken, but smothered by my own misjudgment and yearnings. I would thank her repeatedly for her gift of self.

9. I would expose her to life. I would teach her all is okay. But I would not take her where she chose not to go. If she was demolished in spirit in a social environment, I would not expose her over and over again. She is not lacking in her ability to associate with others and be in ‘public’ places. She knows the rules, she knows the game. What she is ‘lacking’ is the blindfold to pretend she is someone she is not in order to be falsely accepted by others pretending to be someone they are not. She recognizes the soul-eyes of the ones weeping and the bleeding pierced hearts. The sorrow is everywhere, and the heart-songs are locked away in over-burdened spirits, so lost upon self their suffering seizes the very encasement of my seeing daughter. And here she is rocked in so much confusion and pain, she longs for escape and safety. Returning her again and again to a place of non-awareness and imaginary games does nothing to lift her or gather her from one skill-level to another; it only reminds her, the over-exposure to the ways of the world, how very different, lost and alone she feels.

10. I would connect her to all awakened souls, so deemed awakened by her, more so than me. Whether this be the towering trees, the preacher on the street, the homeless man, the priest, or the Buddhist on the corner, or the birds in the garden, I would take her there. I would take her into the deep philosophical teachings of ancient scriptures of all denominations and let her find the interwoven connections. I would teach her through example to love all unconditionally, to accept all unconditionally, to erase dogma and the illusion of how things have to be. I would teach her through my very being that she is such a joy and gift to the world and that to let her fly through the removal of my own blinders is to me my own greatest gift to all. I would recognize I can never accept my daughter until I accept the completeness of my self, and in turn, accept the completion in her. Once accepted, my own perception of the world shall grant my daughter the freedom she brought upon me. The release of the self-afflicted self to the service of all. Here I would teach her, through my own being, that her gift shall serve the world, and in so serving the world, she shall be eternally free.

257: Thankful for Naked People

Surprise:

This was  a wonderful, wonderful surprise.  (Click to find out) After a heavy week of processing and feeling less than desirable, and looping and having little sleep, I found this link on my statistical page of my blog. Sigh. The words are truly divine timing for me. I am ever so thankful for this kind woman’s heart and honesty. Thank you!

Yesterday’s post had some interesting photos. A couple of people commented, including my husband. I am curious if any super highly intuitive people got what I was trying to convey artistically. If you didn’t, you can pretend you did, because I’m about to tell you.

For me, the emotion conveyed and pouring through my blood, in both the poem and in the letter to my Lord, was the extreme pressure I feel in being human, particularly in the way people judge one another based on a variety of reasons, including conclusions drawn by collective perceptions and experience. My photos, to me, were conveying a false me. An illusion, you could say, of a person who would be mistook as perhaps mean, shallow, conceded, lustful, angry, or desperate and needy. I was attempting to convey a photo that did not represent my light side, but my shadow side.  I personally love the photos, as they are gutsy, real, and a part of me I haven’t let out of the bag until now. Meow! Scratch! Scratch!

With that said, I was going to pose naked for this post….but thought that might be stretching the limit.

I was at my masseuse today, processing and processing, and talking poor little Sue Happy’s ears off. That’s what I call my masseuse, because her name is Sue and she is perpetually happy. I was so into my heavy talk and deep thoughts…super deep, like the…. (now that sounds provocative!) As I was saying, I was into some deep stuff, like the potentiality to change the view I have of a relative based on the truth that we each create in our minds a perception of a person; so that if each person were looking at one person, say a woman, then each perception of said woman would be different based on who was viewing her. In other words, there would be several versions of the same woman existing simultaneously based on the observer, with not one single version being the right perception . And if I could thoroughly grasp this concept, and the illusion of perception, then I could feasibly adapt the perception of many of the other people looking at the woman, and merge that adapted perception into my current perception, minus the non-beneficial thoughts, in order to recreate a more positive and healthy version of said-woman.

Yes, I said all that at super high-speed, in one huge sentence.

Patient, loving Sue Happy.

Sue Happy did say my feet were the most balanced she’d ever seen them. That’s saying something. I immediately thought of the gut-wrenching, desperate-kneeling, and wailing I did in the shower yesterday; and thought perhaps that my virtual throwing up of said self was the secret to balanced feet.

I didn’t say that to Sue; nor did I say I was talking fast as a result of the Mocha Coffee.

Anyhow, my point was, I was being super, super deep and serious, and quite complex for most bipeds. And that is when I decided I needed to shift the energy. Luckily, I know how to crack myself up, and I know how to think quickly. I had this great idea come at me all at once for a Thanksgiving post. Something off the wall. I would post a short story of the nude beach and make the title: Thankful for Clothes.

After some consideration, I withdrew that initial thought.

It was Thanksgiving after all. I then came to the conclusion that a more enticing title for the holiday would include the word naked. Of course the following song immediately popped in my head.

Only they were naked. And that really made me laugh. I envisioned all the naked people dancing to this song on the nude beach. And I was instantly healed from all the trauma of the nude beaches! No…not really. But I did have a good laugh. Naked jiggly-parts, and all.

Here is the short story. For the sake of honoring my mother, I did take out several descriptions I had of her breasts. This did affect the overall artistic touch of this story. But even I know when to draw the line: NO description of your mother’s boobies on Thanksgiving! I assumed boyfriend’s butt-crack was okay. Hope I didn’t ruin your pumpkin pie!

Thankful for Clothes

Ben turned back. “Good day, Pretty Ladies.”

Ever cautious, I replied, “Thank you.”

Ben winked and then turned around and snapped the cap of a beer bottle off with his teeth.

“We look like one of those families on television, with our car piled up with blankets and food, and our smiling faces,” said Mother.  “Like the Brady Bunch.  Or what’s that other show?”

“The Partridge Family,” I muttered.

“Yeah.  More like them.”

I rubbed my bare feet between my dog’s tight curls and pulled a string from the seat cover.  Ben’s daughter, Shara, giggled and kicked her legs up and down.  Her round little belly protruded out from her top, exposing what looked to be the tie of a latex balloon.

Ben cleared his throat. “You know we went out of our way to get ready.  It probably took us a good hour just to pack up the car, not to mention the time we had to wait for you to finish going to the bathroom and find Justice’s leash.  I hope you appreciate all your mother does.” Ben finished, flashed a half-smirk, turned away, and patted Mother on her bare knee.  They exchanged a knowing smile.  I grabbed my stomach and threw up.

 

The rest of the story has been removed, because I wanted to keep it private. 🙂

 

Post 252: Dear Father

I am processing so much, so fast; it is quite overwhelming. Please understand this post is healing for me. I am not reaching out for support or love. In writing this and sharing this truth, I am healing my own self. Your presence and eyes are enough. I do not need or expect words of comfort. I do not need anyone to tell me that I am enough. Innately, I know I am enough, that I am beauty, that I am good. But this little girl needed to be heard, so I could heal further. I am okay. I am better than okay. I am facing my demons head on and surviving. Not only surviving, but smiling through tears. So please know I am okay. I am okay in me and with me. I like me. I love me enough to be who God intended me to be. And I love you enough to trust in your love. ~ Sam

 

Dear Father,

You don’t love me, and you never have. If you do, it’s limiting and conditional. I am made into a person who is judged and evaluated, or worse not seen or spoken to. You have been my everything since I was born. My superman. My rescuer. My hope. The man created to love and hold me, to cherish and lift. And yet you have done none of this.

I am left hollowed from the inside out, a forgotten child, who has had to find her own way, whilst left alone without you. You came out of obligation, if you ever came at all, out of guilt or need. Never out of connection or thought for my betterment. Life has been about you from the start, and continues to be about you: your hobbies, your interests, your wives.

You have said to me once I am beautiful. Only once. On my wedding day, and I hold on to that word as if it were the last sound of my life. How I have longed to be held and told I am lovely and worthy; how I have missed the embrace of a father, and thusly sought out the embrace wherever I could.

Through torment I wept for you. Through miserable relationships and false dreams. I created fantasies and idols with men, in hopes of finding you again.

Yet, still I weep and walk alone. No one is you. No one is my father. Not even you.

You live but you are dead; in the sense of being and not existing. You choose each day to reject or worse forget. Your silence and aloofness my hellfire.

Some child in me still believes I can find you in someone else, find the love and approval. I imagine them as you. I place your face on them. I replay the words over and over, with your voice and your heart. But, still I know this is not you.

I hunt down people in hopes of them being you. Have from the start—a small child searching for her father in playmates and strangers. I have exposed myself to countless hurts, hoping to appease and please a someone who was not you, but that I believed to be you. Every time I am rejected, again by you.

Why? Why can you not see my beauty and love? Why is your view of me not what the world sees? Why do many love me, when the one I need the most to love me, does not? What have I done wrong? What is innately wrong with me that you would refuse the gift I am? Why am I left unopened, still on this shelf of pain waiting to be taken? To be taken and held. To feel a father’s arms around me. A hug. An embrace. To see your eyes. To look in your eyes and see adoration. What is that like? What does it feel like to be held by a father? To be loved by a father? What does it feel like! I need to know. I need to know. Just once, before I die, I need you to hold me.

I have wept for you since my hands were tiny and fragile. I have wept for you endlessly. I walk in silence but the tears cut through my soul. They eat at me and destroy my truth. They huddle me into a corner and persecute me. I cannot be in this world when I know my own creator detests his creation. My own God I set into your mold. And I am left shattered, broken, while still untouched and waiting.

Please love me, so I can stop my search. I am so tired. So weary. So alone without you.

Please see me. Please see my beauty. Please release me from my torment.

I beg for your love. I cry out for your love. Across the universe I reach for you. This child I am.

Post 251: Holy Water

This story is dedicated to a dear blogging friend Kindred Spirit, who made me giggle at mention of my experiences being ordinary. Here’s one for you Bro!

Holy Water  

by Samantha Craft (based on real life events; some events altered.)

My dog Justice curled up beneath our coffee table gurgling and gnawing at his backside.  I sat cracking open smiling pistachios.  A few paces away, Mother faced our antique German cabinet, her look overcome with concern.  “You know what?” Mother asked.

My eyes sought out the angles of her body, falling on her slight hips and then her tense shoulders.  I responded softly while setting a pistachio between my teeth, “What, Mom?”  Mother turned.  I met her eyes with a curious stare, recognizing at once the nervous thickness in her thoughts, and then swept a cluster of pistachio shells across the table into a small concise circle. I waited.

Mother faced me with the full of her body, the ends of her tangled hair resting against her bulging collarbone.  “I think there is something wrong with the cabinet.”

From the corner of our living room the massive mahogany cabinet stood stoically surrounded by a hodgepodge of second-hand furniture, appearing like a polished soldier amongst a gathering of dusty-faced peasants.  The cabinet’s aged glass reflected an opaque wave of Mother, as she made her way to the couch near Justice and me.  “There’s something not right about it; that’s all,” she said.

I stretched my legs beneath the coffee table and rubbed my toes through the fibers of the carpet, trying to brush the topic away.  Nearby Mother tapped her newly-polished fingernails on the dusty coffee table. Looking down at Justice chewing away at his backside, I remembered the story of how Mother had crashed through the ancient glass front of the cabinet when she was a teenager, after tilting her dining room chair back too far.  I preoccupied myself by calculating the age of the present day pane of glass, and then thought about my mother’s father, denture-wearing, fiddle playing Grandpa Willy, wondering what he looked like now, figuring how many hours it would take to drive for a visit.

Lighting up a cigarette, Mother inhaled deeply, and then blew out.  “I think the cabinet is possessed,” she offered casually.

I bit down hard on pistachio shell and gave out a nervous little laugh.

Mother grinned.  Two fingers embraced her cigarette and pressed against her lips.  I thought about Buddy One, my imaginary ghost friend; he hadn’t moved downstairs with us to the bottom duplex.  Mother picked up a stack of green-backed tarot cards and set them on a table to her side.  “With all your dreams that come true and the noises and voices you hear, even that ghost friend of yours, I can’t help but think something is causing all of this.  And when you think about it, that cabinet has faced your bedroom in the last four places we’ve lived.”

I took in a deep breath, grabbed a day old glass of lemonade and drank, taking the bitter with the sweet, not knowing if I should laugh or cry.  Scenes from Casper the Friendly Ghost and The Exorcist flashed before me.  How I longed for a brother or sister to elbow me in the side and say, “Don’t worry.  It’s all pretend.”

Before supper, Mother appeared at my side with her orange-flowered overnight bag and tossed a grocery sack my direction.  I peeked inside the bag to find a yellow onion skin stuck to the bottom.  “Fill this up,” Mother said. “We’re going.”

The sun was low on the horizon when a woman with wispy-white hair and a whimsical Muumuu opened her front door.  Justice lapped at my tennis shoes and cowered behind my knees, while I tugged on his leash, trying to steady his body.

Minutes later Justice and I followed Mother, as she huffed back to the car with sober steps. I knew beyond a doubt that the combination of Mother’s somber face and conspiratorial tone, blended in with the tale of the spirit in the cabinet, had led to our early departure.  Her actions were indeed strange, but not without merit.  I myself had experienced the dreams which came true; Mother’s theory was as good as the next.  Reflecting on my dead bird and hustling down the dirt walkway with Justice, I counted myself lucky to have a parent that cared.

The next path Mother led me up was a granite-crushed walkway.  This time Justice remained in the car.  After we reached the front door of an expansive ranch-style home and Mother rapped a brass knocker, the door opened to a delicate aroma of roses and a middle-aged man in a paisley tie. The man wiped his hands on the pockets of his denim apron.  “How can I help you?” he asked, his dark blue eyes sweeping the neckline of Mother’s low-cut shirt.

Mother straightened her posture and pushed me forward. I flashed a broken-tooth grin, focused downward on my lavender-starred shoelaces and began counting the stars.

“Is Barbara home?”  Mother asked.

“Sure, just a sec…. I’ll run and get her for you.”

Mother’s knuckles were whitening as she gripped my hand.

Barbara appeared wearing a dramatic aquamarine scarf and holding a wooden spoon.  She looked surprised to see us.  “Is everything all right?  Did something happen at the office?”

“Oh no, that’s all fine.”  Mother paused and gave me the evil-eye. “Keep still.”     Shrinking from Mother’s words, I stopped shuffling my feet on the woven doormat, cast my eyes sideways, and clenched my fists.

“Actually, you see, we need a favor.  We can’t stay at our house tonight,” Mother said.

“Oh?”

“We need a place to stay.”

A frown creased Barbara’s brow.  “I don’t understand. Is everything all right?  Is there something wrong?”

Mother leaned towards Barbara. “Well, you see.  I know this sounds extreme, but I have some evidence that…” Mother stopped to clear her throat.  “Actually, you see there is something in our cabinet.”

Barbara stepped onto the porch.  “What are you talking about?”

I stepped backwards and hid behind my mother’s back.

Mother put her hands on her hips.  “What I’ve been trying to tell you, is there is a spirit in our cabinet.  And you see we need a place to stay; but only for tonight, that is—just until the exorcism.”  Mother looked down as if she were embarrassed by her own words.

Giving an odd glance and shifting back, Barbara moved through the entryway into her house.  She closed the door until only her face showed.  “This isn’t a good time.  I’ve got dinner on the stove and we’re expecting company.  I’m sorry.”  With that the door shut completely and a cool wind swept across the porch.

Sometime after sunset, sitting in the backseat of the car, listening to the song Don’t Cry Out Loud, I stroked Justice’s hairy chin and thought by all fairytale accounts Mother should have already made some headway—made a step past someone’s threshold.  After all even the Big Bad Wolf blows down two houses before failing and two of the three Billy Goats pass over the bridge without consequence.

After a quick stop at a gas station for cigarettes and nine dimes into the pay telephone later, Mother eyed the rearview mirror as if some entity might be on our tail and weaved ahead through the darkening night at a frightful speed.  The car jolted and bounced, climbing over a scattering of rocks, until we landed on a wide gulf where a blur of an ash-colored tomcat disappeared behind the porch swing.

Inside the house, Mother sucked an extended puff from a cigarette. “Every time I try to get my life in order something happens.”  Her lower lip jutted upwards and she let out an exaggerated exhale.  The smoke reached my eyes, my nostrils, my lungs, and I let out a sequence of coughs.  I sneezed into my hands.  Justice’s ears perked up from under the coffee table.  Mother’s dark-haired friend nodded and the conversation continued, meandering from relationships to work, and back again to the haunted cabinet.  I curled on top of a lumpy couch and closed my eyes.

In the late morning mother and I arrived at our duplex and sat on the small patio near the front entry. A priest, donned in a traditional high-white collar and long black robe, emerged from around the corner carrying a weathered briefcase across our dew-wet grass. Looking like she hadn’t slept in days, Mother rose from our front porch and extended her hand.  After a few pleasantries, Mother unlocked the front door and led the priest inside our dark living room.  After following them inside, I sat in the far corner watching them both: my gaunt mother and the stately-looking priest, with Justice’s breath hot on my face.

The priest, wasting no time, took out a miniature glass bottle from his leather case. He unscrewed the bottle, recited a few biblical verses and sprinkled water on and around the base of the cabinet.  After reciting a prayer, he twisted the lid back on, opened his case, placed the bottle inside, snapped the case closed, and looked at the two of us.  “I hope that helps,” he said.

Mother reached into her jean pocket, pulled out a folded bill, and handed it to the priest. “Thank you so much, Father. You’ve really helped us. I don’t know what we would have done without you.”

The priest nodded his head and tucked his briefcase under his arm. “You and your daughter are welcome to our church anytime.  We are just around the corner.”

I rose up off of the carpet and calmed Justice with a brush to his head, nodding politely at the priest.  The priest smiled, waved, and rang out a pleasing God Bless You and then showed himself out the door.

With the priest gone and the evil spirit banished, Mother disappeared into her bedroom, while I remained in the dark staring out at the cabinet.

The story had not ended like I’d expected.  No green-faced monster had popped his ferocious spinning head out from the depths of the cabinet.  No lightening bolts had appeared.  In fact, there wasn’t any evidence of anything out of the ordinary at all.  There were no answers or explanations.  It was as if I was stuck in the middle of some long storybook, unable to flip back to the beginning and start over and equally incapable of proceeding forward to the end. After all the running away and hype, all the embarrassment and fear, there was nothing to show in the end.  Only Mother’s deep snores trumpeting from the backroom and Justice licking up the trickling drops of holy water.

Day 130: The Two Cups

I recognize this as a very odd post. This second chakra awakening, passion, or transition—whatever words are chosen to attempt to decipher what is occurring for me at a soul and cellular level, is directly related to reclaiming the spirit in me that was lost in my youth. My sensitive nature, depth of soul, and ability to take in extreme amounts, coupled with the circumstances of my childhood, led me to lock a large portion of my self away.

This portion locked away, was largely the part which knew I was beautifull, knew I was worthy, and knew I was desirable. When very young, I learned how not to live, how not to show joy, how to in effect dislike myself and my body in order to survive.

In knowing this now, with a profound awakening on multiple levels, I am holding a cup in either hand. To the right of me is the hope of this now found passion. To the left, balancing my position, are the memories. I am seeing how each feeds the other. The erupting passion on one side, the imploding self on the other. The flame and the joust.

Here I place the cups before you. Experience as you’d like. For we each stand with two cups. All equally balanced in beauty.

Embracing Me

One of the reasons I am taking photos of myself lately is to embrace the beauty that is me. I never have seen me before. Seen how very lovely inside and out I am. This is part of my growth process. My hair is usually unbrushed and I wear no makeup, say lip gloss. It’s raw, it’s real, and it’s fresh. I love it. 

Breaking Free
Maui 2012

Flame

Naked

He beckons

The depths of me

Fingers dripped in sweet

Honey-suckle nectar

Lips moist

Dew upon the fields of sunrise

Strawberry mist

Pours through

A damp fire of longing

Reclaims pleasure

Lighting the avenue of discontent

With fierce flames of gentle dragon

Until

Devoured by desire

I taste

The phantom of celestial union

Kissing ghosts

Where we once breathed

Beauty
Maui 2012

Switching the MOOD back to LOVE here. One of my FAVORITES…. This video WILL make you smile. I promise…and this is where I am today…in this state of mind. 🙂

Day 129: How to Love

Me and my nano

How to Love

There wasn’t any reason to hide, at least not at first.  But I crawled inside my tiny closet anyhow, me and my red plastic piggybank.  Inside the squared-space that was layered in frilly dresses and the smell of cedar sticks, I would hold tight to my piggy and pretend.

At first I could imagine Father was back; and not just once or twice, but all the time.  In my thoughts he’d hold me tight, bounce me up and down on his knee; and  then he’d stand up, grab hold of my hands, and twirl me so fast I’d fly up off my feet.  And we’d laugh, giggle so hard the tears would pearl at the corner of our matching oval eyes, his with the amber light, mine with the deep ebony.

Inside the dark of the cramped space, I’d travel back to my silver-haired nana’s adobe-style house, the one with the red-clay roof tiles and the white stucco face, that sat on a steep hill on Washington Street, a one mile hike up from the barking sea lions basking on the rocks at Fisherman’s Warf in Monterey.  I’d breathe in and remember a time before, a time before I understood how homes, and heads, and hearts could break.

There in my memories, my petite nana scooped me up effortlessly and dotted me in tangerine-orange kisses, while my smiling Aunt Rose Marie squished and rearranged my cheeks.  And stout Nano, after leaning over and flashing his bald spot, winked and pulled on my earlobe, offering out a kindly, “We love you, Little Sam.”

Father was there, too, moving in his own cautious way, inching forward and offering everyone his one-arm embrace.  I’d tried to make him different in pretending, make him hug me tight and kiss my cheeks, but the truth always had a way of winning out.

I’d see us all napkin-bibbed at our seafood feast, so that it seemed with the salty air we were all fisherman sailing the ocean waves.  As we cracked open crab legs and peeled tiger-shrimp, Nano stitched together grand fisherman tales in an Italian accent as thick and refreshing as homespun ice-cream. Afterwards, with bellies filled, we all helped with the dishes, me with my very own floral dishtowel, and my wide smile still swathed in pizza sauce.

Nano took his leave soon, snuck out to the back porch with a big platter of scraps.  Two minutes later, when Nano reentered the house with a lick-cleaned plate, looking more satisfied than he let on, he muttered, “Damn cats.  I hate cats,” and then held onto his belly, gave me a wink, and chuckled.

Sometime after seven, when all the plates were stacked neatly back in cupboards, the plastic tablecloth wiped clean, and the eight-track tape of Italian music drifting through the room, we gathered round the table for a game of penny poker.  Holding the cards proved somewhat cumbersome, but somehow I managed to win every single hand, and in doing so compiled a stack of pennies:  ten-high and ten-long.

“One hundred pennies; look how great you did,” Aunt Rose Marie would laugh.

I smiled with eyes of pride, and then reached down and yanked at my stockings. It was possible, I found out, to stack the pennies the height of my mug of hot chocolate before they tumbled down.  Nana leaned over and braced herself against the edge of the table, saying softly to my father, “You need to bring her more often.  We miss her.  And we miss you.”  Then she looked over at me.  “We have a surprise.”

My dark-haired aunt came forward carrying a plastic piggybank loaded with coins.  Though it was only a smidgen bigger than the palm of my little hand, I was amazed.  For the next several minutes everyone watched, as I cradled the plastic piggy.

“Now you save that.  It’s not to open.  Put it in a special spot.”  Nana turned from me, pulled down her silver-framed glasses, and eyed her son.  “You’ll bring her again soon, won’t you?”

Father nodded and stood up to retrieve my small wool coat from the back of my chair. “Yes,  I’ll bring her soon,” he answered, as I slid into my coat, holding my piggy tighter.

Mother would arrive long after supper, all done up—the fair Audrey Hepburn—her curves hugged by a linen suit of strawberry-milkshake. “Hello, Beautiful,” she would say, fussing over my blue-silk hair ribbons.  I would gaze up at Mother, then, with my deep brown eyes and tug on my braid.  I savored the word beautiful much like I did Nana’s hard taffy candies which left my tongue all purple and sweet.

 

Nana and Nano

Day 107: The Union of Word

I am sensitive to others’ journeys. The word Mother creates different experiences for each individual.  This is for everyone who has a mother. For all of us. As we are each joined through one word.

The Union of Word

Mother

The sacred word

The echoed sound

Varied in frequency

Same in source

Vibrates through the universe

Each pronouncement distinct and filled

Each carrying a singular story

Shared by all

The connecting link

The threshold to breath

Travelers though the same land

Of hills and valleys

Of unquenched thirst

Stories wrapped

In colors of blue

Opened in turn

With sound exact

All equal, all one

Seen through eyes of the heart

Shared through lips and tongue

Everything balanced

No key to unlock the reason or why

The hand that was held

Or missing or lost

Engraved you

Etched perfect beauty

Children of song

All gathered

With whispers sweet

Or silent empty

Hand in hand

We are together

The tears

Same as smile

In union loved

In union embraced

In union of the one

Echoed sound

Adored

 

Sam Craft

Mother’s Day 2012

 

Happy Mother’s Day to my mother who birthed and etched me into the beauty I am today.

 

Hundredth Day: Behind the Door

I’m crying, listening to the song This Time by August Rain, (below), over and over.

Since I was a little girl, in answer to prayer, I was told I was going to be experiencing a lot of trials in life but this would be in preparation to assist others. In February this angelic promise became reality. And I knew that all the pains I held were for a reason. There is no way to put this into words, only tears. If you could see my face, you would know. My eyes would tell you. Today is day 100 of my journey blogging. I have made friends and contacts around the world. Everyone has been supportive and kind. Everyone so beautiful. You have no idea what your presence means to me. I am healing with every set of eyes that hears my truth. Healing knowing, I’m at last walking in my calling. Walking in unity. I am no longer watching life from the sidelines.

This morning, as I wept, I spent some time in reflection, examining Your words. (Traits, 10 Traits, and 116 Reasons) I am gifting myself with feeling happy and celebrating…I am embracing my gift of my words and embracing the gift of your words. Here is a selection of what I am celebrating:

Your website is a huge comfort to me.

Can relate to most of it so well. It’s as if you had been spying on me from inside my mind!

Thank you for expressing words that I have not been able to and for helping me put words to things I have experienced, but didn’t know how to say.

I can’t get over how dead-on each aspect of this is. I feel printing it and handing out to every person in my life.

(Crying harder now!)

Wow. You have totally nailed this as far as my teenage aspie daughter..This was wonderful! I just laughed and laughed in self-recognition.

Oh my goodness. I can relate to so many of these, it’s as if everything is finally slotting into place…I’m just seeing the world through completely new eyes now.

This is amazing! You have written the most precise description of female aspies I have ever read (and I have read quite a lot about this!

I can find myself in all of your points, especially points 5,6 and 7. It’s almost scary how close your description fits me!

So many years spent lost and alone.

Oh. My. Goodness. When I read this it feels like you have had a secret camera filming me since the moment of my birth. Scary.

Thank you so much for this post. I’m going to use to help my partner and family get a better idea of “me”..I knew of a lot of them threw my daughters way of looking at the world,brought a big smile to my face,cant wait to show her

I thought I was alone in not being able to relate to what I look like!!!

Reading your post today was a confirmation for me that once again “I am not crazy” and neither are the rest of us.

So true…. Every damn word…. Beautifully written, thank you for this. I will share this with everyone who just doesn’t understand me.

This did help me understand more about my 27 year old daughter with aspergers.

This is pure brilliance…my daughters world makes so much more sense after reading this.

What you wrote was insightful. I always knew I was different.

I wanted you to know that finding and reading your blog and sharing the information with my husband has made my transition from misdiagnosed, hard to deal with, “crazy” person to a person who is actually like other people with explainable quirks and issues much, much easier!! And even though you are practically telling my life story her, I’m starting my own blog to shout out!

Wow, this describes my 11 yr old Aspie daughter perfectly, and I am grateful I can print this to show her.OMG!! I could almost go yea, uh huh, that’s me too! to every one of your items! Scary! I’m glad I’m not completely alone in this world!

All I can say is…. * * * * * wow * * * * * I feel sure that I’ve found the missing component of so much of who I am, who I’ve been, and what has greatly affected the at times harrowing journey I’ve taken…Today I don’t feel alone at all. Today I feel embraced.

Anyway the piece you wrote is brilliant I love it and so identify, I often feel isolated and alone and not accepted and I’m always looking for people I can connect with and who understand.

All of the moments when I felt as if only me and the person in my head understood life, became so much clearer.

I was crying by the time I got to number 4…This blog is the most spot on description of life as I know it that I have read so far.

There isn’t one single thing, not one, that you wrote that i can say “no, that’s not me”. It is ALL me, all of it. and it’s terrifying and a huge relief at the same time.

(Crying: Think Diane Keaton’s Crying scene  without the French Music)

After reading your blog, I became totally obsessed with the possibility that I may be Asperger. I spent the entire day reading your posts, comments from readers, and googled other blogs on this subject. Then I chewed my husband’s ears off asking “so do you think?”

And when I finished reading your post above, it felt like finding a key I’ve looked 33 years for. Your post is almost verbatim my experience…I’m astonished.

And when I finished reading your post above, it felt like finding a key I’ve looked 33 years for. Your post is almost verbatim my experience.

This is me me me me me all over! Spooky how you seem to know my head inside out.

I think because of you I have finally discovered what has been so different about me my whole life. Thank you so much for giving me what might be my answer, I have no words to express the gratitude I have in my heart!

This article so closely describes my life that it made me cry – somebody out there really understands what it is like to be me, and I am not the only one of my kind.

Finding you is the first day of my life.

We are as one.

source unknown

Behind The Door

There was a time of many tears

Encompassing a thousand years

To even glimpse a sense of joy

Seemed to me an endless void

Where emptiness entrenched a whole

Leaving still this shallow mold

Of whom I was supposed to be

Of all the hopes drained out of me

I searched for answers day and night

I prayed, I cried, I begged for light

Still nothing ticked that I could hear

And all I am near disappeared

What did remain, I did not know

But I continued, even so

I stood and watched from way down low

That part of soul that yearned to grow

Broken, shattered, touched inside

Broken, shattered, no place to hide

Decades passed, and still I tried

To cease the pain that bled me dry

No place to go, no one to ask

No way to understand my past

I lived it all, the shadows gray

Returning to the yesterdays

Every smell, the sound, the face

Could bring me back, to fearful place

And there was more, than one or two

Like the years, a thousand grew

The spots they shadowed up the sun

Siphoning away the fun

From pain to pain, I hopped my path

Never learning how to laugh

Swirls of black and blue and red

Stories that could not be said

Time he came, he watched, he left

Taking with him all the best

And where I looked, through windowpane

Spinning world passed by again

The rise, the fall, the nothingness

The dreaming more to not exist

Until in faith one seed appeared

And sprouted strong within the tears

To something more than I could see

From something bright and bold and free

This surfaced strong, a light to shine

A part no longer left behind

Seed rose with each and every word

I shared and screamed, I scratched and blurred

And in this way, the mirror I shook

So I could take another look

Of what was done, and what was not

Of what was lost, and what was sought

Of all the little treasures blind

Of all the nothings left behind

I walked, I trekked, I even flew

Passing by the girl I knew

The way in which she smiled deep

The way in which she made me weep

The precious one, heart pure as dew

I held her hand and one made two

And thus in words I found a trail

To wave one last goodbye to fail

The steps she made were never wrong

Her heart was always ever strong

Her wishes still she carried true

And in this way I grew anew

In strength the mourning broke and quaked

And love was lastly made awake

To forgive what was, to nod and rise

To finally claim the golden prize

Of seeing where I’d been and gone

Remembering the soft with strong

And now when chance I cross and glance

Another bled by circumstance

In truth, I choose to sit and be

To hold the hand and place the key

To understand that all that came

The hurt, the loss, engulfing shame

Is nothing more than moving brook

A song, a dance, a storybook

For what we are is so much more

Than what is locked behind the door

Samantha Craft 2012

Artist Unknown

T

Day 83: Blister Sister (Part Two)

 

Blister Sister (Part Two)

Ben stood up straight, his ears crimson, his voice hoarse. “Damn it! How dare you say that in front of a child! What are you thinking?  Are you an idiot? What the hell is wrong with you?”

Now, although I was completely mortified and feeling the strong urge, despite my stomach cramping, to crawl under the hospital bed and never come out, I have to say, Ben impressed me.  Not in the way a parent impresses you by throwing you a birthday party and inviting all of your friends over to stay the night, nor in the way a child feels proud when a parent attends the school’s career day and knocks the socks or your classmates.  No, it wasn’t the type of impressive behavior that summons thoughts of coolness and grandiosity.  Ben’s behavior more so brought images of a fearsome bear standing on her hind legs with claws erected to protect her cub.  It was a scary image, quite terrifying actually—though none could deny that somewhere deep inside the man who was set upon a blind-rampage, huffing and puffing away at every hospital staff member within his path, that there was at least somewhere hidden a jewel of compassion.

It didn’t take long for Ben to pack up my things, usher Mother and me out of the building, and drive thirty miles across the state to another hospital.  Sadly for Ben, by then hospital visiting hours had past and the nurses insisted Ben and Mother leave.  And thus I was made to stay in a strange place, miles from home, without a soul I knew, replaying in my head all the horrific ways my death might play out…

This story can be found in the book Everyday Aspergers

 

© Everyday Aspergers, 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. https://aspergersgirls.wordpress.com