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)

369: Yesterday I thought…

Yesterday was a day of mourning. A part of me thought— some fish swimming in the shallow realm at the edge of the pond, un-catchable but entirely in view—that I would sprout wings and fly, become unattainable, invincible, and in a continuous state of profound awe.

Yesterday was a day of woe. A part of me thought—the missing part, the piece that floats above me just out of reach, the balloon with extended string that keeps pulling itself in jest higher and higher from the receiver— if I was to be filled with complete healing, I would, with necessity, have to shed the robe of Aspergers, the label that haunts me like the welcoming fun house complete with imaginary ghosts whom both tickle with delight and injects the approaching traveler with astonishment.

Yesterday was a day of limbo. A part of me thought—this dangling piece of thread, still attached, yet, unmoved, dragging on the ground with each footstep that cometh—in order to be successful, a miraculous door to the divine would open, and there I would linger indefinitely in a state of welcomed grace, my feet firmly planted in the place of no place, my roots free and heart aglow.

Yesterday was a day of contemplation. A part of me thought—less butterfly than cocooned fragility, inching herself into self, shielding out the prospect of metamorphosis and sleeping in the familiar dark—if I had reached as far as I could reach, and that in doing so, if I have only found myself back where I started, questioning all that is about me with an unfamiliar readiness of discovery and adventure.

Yesterday was a day of breath. A part of me thought—clutching like a creature to the womb, circumventing the prospect of action in hopes of merrily clinging to the underbelly of structure, earth, and rebirth. Narrowing my own self back into a place of molding, where I was fit and was made to bed in the shell of me—I can no longer divide myself here, amongst the broken beautiful remains of home before.

Yesterday was a day of calling. A part of me thought—isolated in my awareness, lost as the sunset without horizon or sea without moon, moving in a fashion without stage, setting, or instruction, flowing with barricade, blocked, binging on false hope, fastened to a part of self that no longer existed—where are the answers, where is the roadmap, where is my refuge?

Yesterday was a day of mirrors. A part of me thought—a villager looking past the village into the valley of where the crops grow, wanting to do nothing but harvest the bounty, and then layer myself in benefit and reprieve, wishing to stop the nonsense of happenings, the transformation of soul into soul, the victorious wings sprouting and splintering out of my back—who is this lost woman, with the eyes that drift back into a thousand hallways, the corners bent open to eternity?

Yesterday was a day of writing. A part of me thought—this damsel in distress still longing for her knight to miss her, to acknowledge his longing, to run to her rescue, to swoop her up in his strong arms and keep her at his side forever and a day. The ache in me growing for the companionship of the unreachable and untouchable one, who recognizes me as equally unwillingly as I recognize self—I still am empty, I still need, I still desire, and how does one stop this unquenchable quest?

Yesterday was a day of surrender. A part of me thought—a drifting feather of white floating through the subconscious realm, collecting up pieces of self and no self, and rebuilding what was invisible into something of form, someone substantial and worthy, yet humble and sweet. Someone more vessel than person, incapable of being nothing but human soaring through the potentiality of heaven—I am free or I am prison. I am love or I am fear. I am or I am not. All is up to me. To my very form, to my very thought, to what I chose to do not in yesterday but at this moment of everlasting hope.

And then, dove angel, I flew, far beyond the harboring of thoughts, the desert sand spilled out of me like hour-glass made still. Emptied I soared above the illusion of clouds and endless sky, into the place above and below space, into the nova of existence, into my heart and about my heart, dancing as bird rejoicing in the comfort of the abiding love of all.

368: Dream a Dream

Photo on 4-11-13 at 9.24 AM

I sometimes dream of the maroon Mazda GLC (Great Little Car) compact car I drove when I had just graduated high school—the very first vehicle I owned. Last night the car appeared, all dressed in his muted reddish-tones, still working, and still pulling me through my subconscious. We arrived in a mall parking lot, him looking auspicious, but me thinking he was running on empty, or at the very least stripped, undesirable, old, and worn out. He took no note of my emotions; like an unattached vessel he was used to getting me from here to there. I found a spot in the crowded parking lot at the side of the mall. It was mid-afternoon, with the sun in the air, but a sense of evening setting soon. I don’t remember saying goodbye to the car, or even where I parked; only that suddenly I was entering through the tall glass doors of the shopping center. I hadn’t given a second thought to the car or where’d I left it, or how long it would be there; I was too focused on my destination and some purpose that led me on like a star dancing just out of reach.

Inside the mall, I walked a short distance before turning left. My gait was at ease, my mind relaxed. There wasn’t need to rush or plan, or even focus. I approached a room and found myself inside a banquet hall full of graduates, mostly, perhaps fresh out of college or graduate school. I was part of the celebration, but entirely separate, not really seen or noticed, but included nonetheless. People were smiling, chatting, even planning. I was more of the observer: both invisible but present.

I left the gathering with a sensation inside of me that indicated I period of completion; I had attended the celebration not because I had to or had wanted to, but because I was drawn to. I hadn’t remembered being invited or previously being aware there was such a banquet. The crowd dissipated and I was neither left alone or isolated—I just was.

I walked on, inside this gigantic mall, the ceilings quite high and filled with shops and the airport above on the second-level. There was noise, people moving about, a few handsome men I can recall, and me thinking: If I bump into him on accident we can connect. Why didn’t I ever think to bump into people before? Why do I still feel the need to be noticed?

I continued on the main floor and glanced down at a watch, which was somewhere and nowhere, existing without existing; it was a little past four in the afternoon, and on reflecting on the time, I thought: Good, just enough time to get upstairs to the airport to fly to New York. And then, as soon as I’d thought that, an inner voice chimed in: Wow, that was cutting it close, maybe you should have allowed for more time, with your flight being at 4:45 and all.

I smiled and headed toward the airport terminal; until, after a few steps later, I realized I’d come empty-handed—I’d forgotten my suitcase. I turned then, searching the mall for the exit and walked swiftly towards the doors. My mind began to race, but I reassured myself, while calculating the time, that even with a quick stop outside to retrieve my luggage, I would make the flight.

Once outside I scanned the parking lot. I saw the line of trees that appeared to be the same line of trees near where I had originally parked. I scanned the rows, some five or six thick, with multiple rows in far-reaching directions leading out parallel and perpendicular. I knew my car was parked in a similar place, something like this at least, but I had no indication of where to walk. I knew to the right was too far, the place beyond the trees sparse, with the lot partially empty. I knew the place to my left to be too far the other direction, as I’d not walked that far to the mall door. I moved briskly down the five or six rows, not yet nervous, but with a burning gnawing sensation building up inside. Soon, the first element of doubt was born and my mind began the race, as if on seeing my own self lost the first shot had been fired. I worried now, the tension building, and the time seemingly building itself as a pressure upon my shoulders. How would I make my flight, if I couldn’t remember where I left my vehicle and retrieve my luggage?

Down the end of one row, on the left, was a car that matched mine almost exactly, only it shined more and appeared newer; I was almost certain I’d left my car facing the opposite direction. I approached, peered inside, and noted the interior was different, some papers, almost like a map sprawled out on one of the chairs, the inside cleaner and crisper. I opened the front passenger-side door anyway, hoping by some chance this car was my car, even though I knew this to be an impossibility. Upon swinging the door out, a bell chimed and a masculine computer voice spoke. The words indicated I didn’t belong to this car and to proceed onward. The voice made no indication of judgment, but even so there seemed to be an underlying, unspoken echo of laughter. Perhaps a chuckle of forbidden-knowing, like a parent watching a toddler open yet again the drawer he ought not touch.

I realized then, as I walked away from the car that I was in the wrong place. That I had no idea where my car was, and that it was a strong possibility I would miss my flight. I panicked some, and searched frantically for the place I’d last seen my car, and with no luck in finding what I was seeking, I hunched my shoulders and pattered back toward the mall, feeling both sorry for myself and angry at myself, and very much alone. A few older ladies, white-haired and plump, were entering their own car; as I approached the end of the aisle, most of the cars behind me, they asked: Why are you so upset? And I tried to explain. They instantly expressed no concern, and found my dilemma rather ridiculous. For here I was planning a trip and they had their own worries that were much more pertinent and important than some destination of flight. Why did my silly trip matter when so much was happening in their own lives?

I shrugged and carried myself onward, feeling heavy and burdened in thought. Entering the mall I approached a man and asked where to go to find the banquet room. I figured if I could find the banquet room where the mall journey first began, I could find the original exist I entered through, which would lead me back to the parking lot and my car. The gentleman pointed to the left, and so I turned, finding only more stores and no banquet room. I returned to the main part of the mall, knowing there was a good chance I would never make my flight, calculating the time, the cost, the potential outcomes of missing the trip. Another person gave me directions. This time I was told to: Turn right and then turn left and go down to the first floor. I looked at him bewildered: But this is the first floor, I thought. He took no notice of my concern and just guided me with his eyes and pointing hand. It’s to the right and then down to your left, I am certain, he offered. I followed his instructions and sure enough there was a room, but I knew instantly it was the wrong room. The space was marked “Theater”—it was a stage for performers, a place I had left long ago and had no desire to return to. I couldn’t see the stairs leading down, and so I assumed the stage itself must descend.

I thought to myself: how silly to have even parked in the mall parking lot, and to leave my vehicle unattended for so long. Would it not be abandoned and alone when the night came to pass and the rest drove home. Would it not just stick out then to be found by robbers and thieves?

I mourned over the loss of my car, as thoughts of failure and further isolation submerged, most of the iceberg of wounded self now surging upward through the icy-cold waters of forsaken.

I left now, completely beside myself, close to hysteria, and found myself sobbing on an outside stairwell. Someone approached and handed me a phone. On the other end of the line there was a guiding voice—albeit an unattached, very much removed guiding voice. I explained my predicament, my fear of missing my flight, my incapacity to find my luggage, the consequences of my circumstance. The voice on the other end listened. And he answered without much pretense or concern: Why not take the flight and purchase new garments when you arrive?

*********************************************

In reviewing this dream, I know the car was the “old” me, the way I chose to move through the world. I recognize I mourn this part of me; even though the vehicle was older and perhaps sluggish, and lacking luster, it was still my mode of transportation. The car holds the luggage I carried with me, the necessities I think I need—my cloaks/costumes, my way of being, what is familiar and known. In searching for the car, I have lost the car, primarily because the car no longer exists and really never existed. I am worried of what will become of myself.

The gathering in the banquet room and the people in the mall are all symbolic of the other travelers in life that I see around me but feel disconnected with. I love them, I admire them, I even want to bump into them, if not for connection than for direction. I am searching for myself in others, searching for guidance, and understanding. And although no one shuns me or judges me, I am in essence invisible, there but not, moving through the world unnoticed.

The only moments I do connect are when I am in my state of sorrow and panic; here in my sadness about taking flight and finding my way out of being lost strangers will listen, but they will not understand or take interest. They are focused on their own life. No one feels what I am feeling, and whether outside the mall or inside the mall, I am lost. I am surrounded by everyone and no one. The stage is symbolic of where I used to be. The place I acted and performed. This is no longer my destination; neither is the banquet room of celebration. I have moved beyond celebration and pretending, and I am ready to journey onward. However, I think I must find the old me and follow the old ways to move forward. I am lost both inside the mall and outside the mall, in a place of limbo, searching everywhere and ending up nowhere; by entering a stairwell, I am at my last stop, not in the parking lot and not in the mall. Here in a place that doesn’t belong to either world, I realize that the answers are not found in the ways of the old or the ways of the new.

The only answers are to be found in letting go of my past ways and letting go of my search. By risking flight without the answers, I shall find the answers.

367: Touched By Grace

touched by grace two

touched by grace

(Touched by Grace ~ Watercolor by Samantha Craft)

Last night I asked Spirit how I could possibly display in creation how I am feeling.

I heard, “You will paint tomorrow to show grace.” I said, “No, I don’t want to paint,” the stubborn child I be.

But, as it happened, I could do nothing else but paint for two hours straight this morning.

I have this rush of passion that is filling up my entire being, and sometimes for most of the daylight hours I find myself in a state of pure serenity and peace.

When I am not in this ‘state,’ I feel isolated and alone, wanting to find comfort and peace in the simple things in life and nothing more.

Whatever this be, I have never felt moments of such complete love and acceptance of all.

The problem arises, if problem it be, when I am seemingly brought back to earth, left in this inadequate shell.

I am processing through this, as observer, stepping back and watching myself move through the motions.

In trying to make sense of my world, as I always have, I have been losing myself in research centering around various religions, spiritual belief systems, mysticism, gurus, and holy people. I am searching for answers, even as I hear my angels whisper I need not do so. I just feel so lost in this feeling, wondering where to go, where to turn, and where the person is, beyond self, with the answers.

I travel in waves, it seems, now, either in a state of pure grace, unmoved and lacking all suffering, or in a state of confusion about the state I had previously experienced. I am praying and holding tight, and knowing all will be for my higher good. But there is a part of me who wishes deeply for a teacher to be guidinging me and comforting in an audible “real” voice.

For my whole life I have sought out the “teacher,” the “seer,” “the sage,” and my whole life I have not found him (her). (Yes, I believe everyone in my life is a teacher to an extent, but by teacher in this instance I mean a guide for me through this spiritual journey.) During this period of spiritual transformation, I am left missing a knowing companion, more than ever.

I wrestled all day about whether or not I would share these current thoughts and experiences, and came to the conclusion that to stop now, when the healing in my life is truly taking shape, (emotionally, physically, and spiritually), would be symbolic of me running in fear of my truth. Though I still struggle with not wanting to share anymore, ever. To just keep everything to myself now—as that is what society dictates. But I know what happens when I do that. I know too well my silencing of self leads to sickness in all forms.

Touched By Grace

I am lost in the confusion of my mind, torn between your beckoning and my illusions of soul desire. How I want to embrace you, my being wrapped within your rapture, pulsating with disbelief and grandeur. My angles merged with yours, two made one in form and thought.

When you come, joined, my spirit, hung upon the highest line, sails in the wind of fantasy lifted and lingers momentarily at the shell emptied below.

Up above, we spin; the opportunity poured out of me, the chance for future cleansed, the past forgotten, with only the sound of fluttering light filling my chambers.

Here, I am the infinite, empowered by divine, a vessel for your making, poured through with your sweet honey, bitterness removed, heart grown as the ancient oak of worship.

I tower, my insignificant vessel a mere shadow of existence peering out in silenced awe. My spine in flight, tingling with sensation, the entire body pulsating with universal rhythm.

I am enough and not enough. Found and left. Forgotten and seen. The two of me split, while one dances and gleams and the other watches quiet in her observation.

Here I choose, and dive deeper into the sky, your queen, your princess, your moment, moving on the cascading groves of your robe, splashing in the wave of glory. In and out you move, bringing forth the bounty of the sea, in whispered words unspoken, in desert sunsets drippings –artist’s paints through my soul.

I am made, torn through with lucid-colors, spun and turned upright, eyes set to the highest peak.

I bend, I break, I beg, and taste your glory, lifted to a place beyond reason and given the taste of peace, merged and at long last unbroken.

And here the trembling comes, the seeing of the times, the movement of your making, the expectation of betterment surging through my veins. For how can I be anything? How can I, this shadow creature living in falsehood be worthy of your wanting? Yet, all about you beckon me, filtering me with your pureness, taking my very edges apart and sewing me in completion in your golden bounty. Threaded, I am mended, brought through to the start of me, when all was whole, and whole was all.

366: The Stream

Photo on 4-8-13 at 4.33 PM

Yesterday a dear woman called me. She is a well-known healer in our community. She called to let me know that the (first and only) email I sent her resonated with healing energy; that my words were at a healing, soothing vibration. I have been told by others who are viewing my words that various experiences are induced. For me this is cause for celebration, not because of my ability or outcome, as I do not believe this is from this ‘me;’ this is cause for celebration because I was told through various seers and through repeated visions that indeed the words I scribe would carry a healing vibration, that in actuality the energy attached and resonated by the words was the pure substance of healing.

Though the words are not empty, they were not meant and created to be digested and deduced; they exist more as the carrier of the underlying message which is infinite and currently unattainable through the deciphering of symbolic letters alone. Underlying the words is a resource of rivers and streams, and outmost pouring of diverse and integrated messages, less tangled and superimposed than drawn out of deep souls and splattered across canvas of other.

The seeker will see this, and the rest will feel this, I am told.

And so in hearing from this adored healer, whom called me yesterday, I was somewhat validated in my journey and in the promises of my angels. As the more people that come forward and recognize the healing energy in the words I scribe, the more I am recognizing and able to acknowledge the truth of my angels’ promise.

It is not that I doubted them in a deep sense, but that I am human in form, and being so readily told messages since my youth, I had reason to doubt, if only to be able to function and exist in this world that I have been told is non-functioning in the domain of angels.

Though I believe in my angels and listen to my angels, I still carry the measure of doubt equivalent to the splintered-paw that keeps whispering in nonsensical demise: Your angels are not real.

And here is where I falter and fall, tumble down the path of piety and self-serving, and become miserable onto myself, lost, isolated and alone. For when I dismiss the divine within and without, the pain comes in all forms.

For awhile I walked the path of reason I’d been told, and continually haulted the sensations from divine, whether this be the dreams, the visions, the constant knowings, or the vibrations moving throughout and within my very being. However, when I gave pause to the illusion of creation, and attempted to grasp on to this false belief that I (am) was nothing more than the flesh and beating heart of man, then I was made victim to my own imaging, an imaging far worse than the persecution inflamed upon me by my fellow man. The deleting of the world beyond self and welcoming of the one and the only one I be, in essence wiped out the all of me.

In accepting, or more so struggling to accept I was but one, and none other existed, I stifled and suffocated my very soul. In so doing I became the fire of confusion, isolation and woe, and the pains surfaced on all levels, from dynamic psychological consequences to physical manifestations of torture.

I understand now that to allow the spirt to flow through me is to allow for the ultimate of healings of whole; in other words, healing what is already healed and returning to the wholeness granted to me by eternity and thoughts there of, even beyond thought.

In recognizing this “un-self,” I chose much courage in the start, or first step, whenever that be, as each step led to another, and multiple paths were driven forward at once. In journeying, I forged through self and illusion of self, to accept what was once perceived illusion of spirit. In accepting spirit instantaneously and without purposeful intention, I was to delete self. This in truth was never a scary process but often confusing and mixed with the absence of seeing the outcome, which will not and does not exist.

In stepping out, I was made to, by no choice of self or another, but by circumstance and perception of onlooker alone, to be someone that will not be recognized to some. This is a variable odd place to be, without this self and living somewhat as observer of a walking vessel that reflects the personality of the onlooker outside of self, whilst taking bites of visions, trascribing them thusly, and watching from a place beneath and beyond and above vessel all at once, and accepting the potential silliness of said actions, while knowing the truth heals not one but many.

Invariably I waver to speak, if to speak at all, to breathe, if to breathe at all, as so much moves through me, I become fisherman wondering which species to net, and which to bring up to the light of day from the depths below. For the only sediment of worry now exists in releasing thought into word and wondering if word enough be. For what of the rest left shifting and drifting merrily in the stream of consciousness?

Here is my dilemma, in having moved beyond the pretense of intention of what another thinks of me and views my actions readily with, this self they so frequently perceive as one, then thusly what do I bring forward that is fish enough? How can I the climber of no mountain, the fisher of no game, in seeing this endless cycle of illusion bring forth anything beyond the building blocks beyond pure form. How can I bring up the fish I see that stretch out as rainbows to eternity, when once out of water the breathing stops? How can I as fool made aware, preach as man made whole?

I am stuck here in the flowing rivers of no-time breathing in wonderment in the waters of goodness and envisioning a thousand upon a thousand streams, yet know not where I stand or whom views. And it is in this unknowing I am divided between you and me, longing without longing, recognizing without recognizing, that where we stand is one in the same, sister upon sister, brother upon brother, moving forth to a destination non-existing, in a stream of imaginings.

And so I write, not to form the words of illusion upon illusion, but to bring up the streams itself, the first stream, the second, and the endless circle of more, pouring the waters through. And the fish remain behind in the waters abundant, as the fish cannot breathe here. For invisible cannot breathe in the substance of illusional form.

~ Sam

Below is what I scribed in the winter of 2011. I received this in vision, a combination of images, and what feels like whispers, just as I received most of the prose above on this page.

Balance
Balance is foremost a way of perceiving. Each person will perceive a balanced life differently than the other. In examining the aspects of “balance,” it is important to keep in mind that we are not in the position to judge or evaluate who is balanced and who is not balanced. Every one is balanced to the degree necessary to fulfill their life’s intention. Each person will continually rebalance and reacquaint him or herself with what they deem necessary and required in their lives.

Balance is perceived by the society one lives in. The timeline affects balance, as does environmental climate and universal climate. In looking at balance for an individual, first and foremost determine where there is a hole, or missing piece. They, the person, will seem heavy and hearty, literally “heart-filled” in many areas surrounding them; however, with close examination, and focused attention, there will be apparent gaps or holes. This is where the person is “off balance.”

Before pointing out a discrepancy in balance, the person must grant permission to be evaluated, and question or ask for assistance. To simply approach someone and say: “You are off balance” or the like, is dutifully shameful, and will harm more than do good. There must first be a period of comfort and trust built, and the seeker must be seeking. This is worth noting.

The holes can be felt in many different ways by many different people. There is no right or wrong way in detecting what we will call “weakness” in the balance of a person. For we are truly discussing the person and not the person’s life—there is no life without the person.

In seeing the holes, there will be an obvious lack. A person can turn him or herself in enough to see this lacking. It will resemble a pain in the body, a pain in the mind, a pain in emotion, or pain elsewhere. This hole will be evident in relationships especially, and is most easily detected out in the open in interacting with others. Often, individuals “lacking” much balance will spend less and less time out in the open or develop a way of masking their authentic or true self.

In order to determine these holes, time in the open, out of isolation is necessary. Here they will be noticeable. With the exception of very few humans, each person that walks the earth plane has holes and is “lacking.” The word “lacking” is not to say there is something wrong or incorrect. There isn’t even something missing. The hole of lacking is what is waiting to be filled. This can be perceived as a crystal bowl, clean, unbreakable, and eternally new—the hole created by the crystal bowl is this “lacking” or space to be filled. To say that something is missing would be incorrect. This would be like saying the wooden hole that waits for the peg is missing something, or that the baby bird in the nest with its beak open for food is missing something. True, the baby is hungry, but nothing was lost, misplaced, forgotten, or overlooked—the bird is waiting to be filled. In this way you can see the “lacking” or the need for complete balance, as an innocent being waiting to be filled. What good would it do to point to the bird and say: “Birdie, you are missing food?” This would prove nothing. This would help nothing. Better to look at the bird and say: “Birdie you look as if you are hungry. Would you like some food?” If we point, the bird doesn’t understand and only becomes more hungry. This is how the process works for people. We are each lacking; thus, we are each missing. We have holes to be filled, and we point to the holes and say: “Your hole is this; your hole is that.” Instead we must see the lacking and ask to fill the lacking.

A person with no friends—become his friend. A person with no healthy food—give him healthy food. A person with no time for movement of body—walk beside him. A person with no time for prayer and meditation—meditate beside him. In this way, in the seeing the lacking and then feeding the lacking we will grow. In this way of pointing to the lacking, perceiving it as missing, and then doing nothing—in this way we remain stagnant. Many, many words have been written about humans’ deficits, behavioral wrongs, intellectual debates, defeatism, work ethic, and more. Little, little words have been written about feeding one another. Yet, if you look at all the great works of the world, each considered Holy by the masses, the theme of “giving” remains steadfast. This is what must be done. This is what will be done.

So little one, when you ask: “How do I balance the life?” I say to you that first you must ask another question: “How do I feed the world?” In feeding the world, in feeding the lacking, you consequently balance your life. Two for one. One for two. So say to me next time that when you are lacking, when you are less centered, look not down into your holes, into your perceived lacking, look unto others, and feed them. In this you will remain balanced.