angels

387: Pop Goes the Angel

| Aspergers Girls

authentic

seattle Chorus
This is ME (the little one) so happy and in a state of pure grace, surrounded by some of the many excellent talent of the Seattle’s Men Chorus

While taking a shower, something came over me like a wave. No, not the water.

The shower seems to be one of my places of deepest intuition; a place where we all intermingle in our thoughts and knowings; a place where I am somehow singled-out as the one to share the knowings to the world. Did someone say: scapegoat?

I think somewhere, if you allow me to get all imaginary-Catholic on you for a moment, there is an angel team of spirits, and I am standing there in line for selection and not being picked for the softball team, again, and I am the last little angel. And some recruiter guy, who likely looks like a cross between Cary Grant and George Clooney, with beckoning eyes like my childhood dog, Justice, well he saunters by and seeing me in my meekness says: Do I have a job for you. Let me beam you down to earth and you can play for that team! A whole world!

I was not the brightest of angels, indeed.

Nonetheless, hearing the voice of angels, or not, I still ghastly despise the whole entire process of showering. Just seems a waste of time and requires a lot of effort. I like when I am all warm and cozy back in my clothes though, and the fact I can no longer locate the lingering stench. My dog is a built in shower-time-for-mom monitor because she begins to really like to be around me, like I am radiating with Eau de Parfum Pooch.

I am thankful for my shower moments with Spirit. Not that they are very much different from my typical minute now. Naked or not, pretty much wherever I am, I am bombarded with intense revelations. Bombarded isn’t truly how it feels. But I am having some issues regarding the whole recruitment process before I was beamed down.

If I am not an angel reject then I want a quantum-phantom-super-hero cape that is baby-sky-blue and sea-foam-green with tints of royal-purple around the edges.

I should have known I was different when in Kindergarten after it was my turn to share my favorite color, everyone squished up their face and said: Magenta? WTF…. Last part added for effect; they didn’t text back then.

When the revelations come, (aka: when the dust mites scream as they are drowning in the shower and I mistake them as angels), a little sweet girl part of me springs out and squeals in delight. She literally jumps up and down in glee. “Oh, thank you. Oh, thank you,” she says.

(I don’t jump up and down, just this invisible little-girl-me does. My earthly vehicle (body) has been a victim to the illusion of gravity. Jump = unsightly risk.)

Isn’t that grand, a semi-saint who is in touch with her human frailties! My angels are applauding… Oh no, that’s not my angels… that’s EGO. Hello, EGO. Everyone wave; that’s what he wants, but when we are super obvious about his clingy-neediness, he kind of freaks and disappears for a bit. So wave super big, like you are at a sports event and part of the crowd. Go! EGO!

Phew, that was a close one!

You totally want me for your Guru, don’t you? (Oh, crap, he’s back…)

As I was saying, I had this kind of powerful revelation in the shower. My little girl me was super happy and then panicked. The sense of urgency rushed in and I was quickly reminded by observer-of-self that urgency = fear. And so I embraced the little girl, and she whispered. Well actually who am I kidding? She is an aspie little girl, therefor she shouted her fear in great amorous jubilee! She couldn’t even sit still, for goodness sake. With her face all in a knot, and her cute cheeks all a-puffed, she fretted, “What if I can’t remember this? I wish I wasn’t in the shower… and EWwwwwww so naked, old and wrinkly!”

Okay, so she didn’t really say that last part; luckily she is blind.

Having a team in my head is quite remarkable. This team is with me when I am not in my complete state of grace. I can hear my angels, and they like to join in, whenever my ears are open. I have lids on them, I suppose, my ears, not my angels. But that is a funny, funny thought: little angels in tin canisters. I could pop them up when I needed them like Jack-in-the-Box. My angels have a grand sense of humor, but I can imagine them now debating about this one, and thinking I have perhaps crossed some imaginary line. Let me check….. dialing… dialing… (WE don’t text.)

Oh, we’re good. They are taking turns hiding in different blue tin canisters. When they pop up, it’s hysterical, like a great combination meal of spirit: A little bit of angel and a little bit of popup ghost. Boooooooooooo. Pop goes the angel.

When my little girl comes out with her urgency, and my observer holds her manifested fear, and then the angels enter, Spirit says, “There is nothing to fear, and you will remember what you will remember.” And then little girls is calmed and I am returned to a semi-state of grace.

This happens a lot. The whole cyclic process. Message of revelation downloaded, little girl excited, little girl fears, observer pops out, fear is embraced, fear speaks, Spirit enters, fear released, and presto I am back. I am like a drop in the ocean being collected for rain, then poured down on the flowers, then dribbled down a ditch, and then released into a stream, then evaporated back into the big sky; it’s kind of super cool, and super easy, and so much FASTER than it used to be. Sometimes so fast I don’t recognize it has even happened. And I don’t much care for the ditch.

This gets me back to the vision I saw, or heard, or felt, or something or another. It was simple, but if I tap into my angels they shall go on and on and on in complicated verse, as the main speaker of the lot OBVIOUSLY doesn’t realize what century we are all living in.

Suffice to say, the main message, that I could feasibly scribe two to three pages about, (angels are laughing), was…. WAIT!
Actually, I don’t want to be bothered with it; some things are best unspoken.

Secret space created away from angels. Shhhhh:
(I am going to share. But don’t tell. I am sharing now, because each and every day I am approaching a greater and greater state of peace, and I sooooo know I am not supposed to teach or preach, and just be, and let the miracles happen; so before I get to that next place in my evolution, I need to regurgitate and spill, before I get caught by the angel patrol, and they stuff me in a tin can. Whose great BIG idea was it to awaken an Aspie anyhow? Seriously… blahhhhhhh)

This is kind of what they were saying to me… but without judgment, ego, self-righteousness or accusation… theirs is always la-de-da-loviliness… which makes me feel like a miserable earthling… which is kind of my point. I already have my angels up above as the God-appointed-Holy-knowing-spread-love-beings, I don’t need humans here doing the same. It actually doesn’t bother me though, anymore. I just understand it more, as the angels poured the knowledge in my head while I was attempting to wash away the Eau de Pooch.

When someone comes from a place of preaching about being “positive” or “grateful;” you know the type; you likely have been one yourself at some time or another. Me, I was voted MOST SPIRITED in high school. I was a cheerleader. I played the Positive game… follow me to the land of la-la-la… even though deep inside I am miserable. (past me) Present me = HAPPY.

First off ( < ego-phrase), if a person is entirely Mrs. Happy Pants, free of negative thoughts and such, then she’d be a guru, and she’d know better than to spill her knowledge out and share stuff, because no one hears anyhow and it’s not her place to share.

That is why I shall never be a guru or a complete Buddhist. That is why I attach semi to my name. (Too bad I wasn’t named Truck.) I am half-baked, incomplete, almost finished, and I always will be. Because once I think I’m not, I am so back to square one. Plus who doesn’t like cookies when they are almost done, but not quite. I’m gooey! The good stuffs in the goo!

Plus I lack the ability to close my mouth. That is why there needs to be a new spiritual practice for Aspies. The Aspergerian Path to Enlightenment written by a half-backed Aspie. I elect YOU! Someone suggested The Church of Sam; I am good with that; it’s not my real name to begin with.

Oh…. Quick side story, that is entirely unrelated to the main point:

A few days ago I talked about the church gathering (smathering <<<smothered and lathered in the ickiness so I shall never go back). And during the small group time someone asked me about the pen-name Samantha Craft. Well, conveniently, as it was a church and such, I was in a state of grace; I was able to speak from a depth of great love. I explained “Craft” was a last name that belonged to a woman who was like a mother to me and who was a strong woman of faith and took me under her wing and that she had died of a brain tumor at the age of 50 and I had chosen her name to honor her and because of her spirit. (I like all the ands and I am keeping them.) Everyone, the eight or nine women sitting in a circle watching me, were very solemn and calm as I said this. And then I heard, “And what about the name Samantha?” Oh…..well then the little girl in me, she popped up and said, giddily, “From Bewitched!”

This sums up why I confuse people. This half-cooked, combo-me. That is why I shall forever be a semi-saint and never earn my wings. I am much like the angel in It’s a Wonderful Life (best movie on earth), except I haven’t found my George Bailey. I confuse people, because I have this deep prophetic spirit filled with catacombs of endless love and I have this little girl who totally wants to be a witch from a sitcom. (Who has always wanted to have a nose that wiggles and does magic.) People can’t figure out who or what I am, and can’t place me; so they try to judge me to ease their own mind of discomfort. And then I watch, just sit back and watch as their faces get all disfigured and wacko, and watch as their bodies turn away. And I smile bigger thinking: You have NO Fricken idea who you are, do you?

Before I go, I recognize I don’t think I really completed a point. Isn’t that refreshing? I mean who wants to be preached upon by a self-righteous know it all. (<< ego, the observer of self says.) I am the first to admit: I KNOW NOTHING.

If I could say something to you…oh wait my angels are back at their game of tin-can hide-and-seek; quick, listen up:

Dig up your stuff. Spread it out to the world, and in this way you are the TRUTH. You are already the LIGHT and LOVE, and really you are already the TRUTH. But most of us, according to Spirit, don’t know this, so we spend a bunch of time in the illusion thinking if we just talk the walk or walk the talk or whatever, we shall magically transform. Won’t happen. There is nothing to transform.

Keep spreading LOVE and the Light shall come. But don’t spread through preaching. (Like I am right now; unless you spend two pages first humbling yourself.) We are love. We spread love by doing absolutely nothing but being. (And we aren’t even really being either).

What happens is someone attempts to spread their “BE-Happy” thoughts (or other jargon, advice, help, fixing stuff) and then the person who is already not happy feels worse. (sad face) And the person who is already happy, doesn’t really care, because she or he is already happy, and momentarily thinks she knows it all. NEVER SHARE when you are super confident and think you know it all. Undoubtedly, you will wake up and will have made a fool of yourself! Promise. You know nothing. Absolutely nothing. I guarantee. You are a reflection of me. If you doubt your lack of knowing, just reread what you just wrote.

Ohhhh, Pop-Goes-the-Angel…. I better go. Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!
Semi-Saint out!

seattle chrous 2

Be Authentic. Be Free. Be Who You WERE made to be! xo

"10 Ways to Love Yourself": Numbers 1 through 10: Stop making lists about how to do what you already are! ♥ xo ~ Sam the half-baked semi-saint.

* For clarification, when my angels speak it is always positive and I don’t feel anything but good. And I never really played softball in heaven.<3

In the Finding

| Aspergers Girls

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*****

In this prose “righteous indignation” is a spiritual gift

349: My Humaness

| Aspergers Girls

three women

I am not told what to do by my angels or given exact directions. I have free will. There are no guidelines, specifics, or deadlines given. No pressure at all. No time at all, really, as time seems to stand still with them, as if they could pour a thousand memories into me with the touch of a raindrop.

They show me coincidences all the time, too. Simple easy things, that don’t rock my world, as their intention is not to jolt or hurt or alarm. There is a gentle easiness to them, an ever-lasting presence that wraps me up in the comforting current of eternal and unconditional love.

I hear them, yes, but not in an out-of-this-world way; there isn’t thunder or chiming bells, or even the air of wings fluttering, only this gentle nudge of images and knowing. If I had to choose a word that connects the most, I would use the word telepathic. But even this found word leaves out so much of what actually transpires. There is healing warmth without heat. There is music without instrument. There is knowing without understanding. It is an injection of memories without memories.

I cannot describe the experience, and that is okay.

There is nothing I can attach to the connections that could be labeled “negative.” Nothing comes from what they “whisper” that doesn’t become truth. Just as nothing comes from them that doesn’t heal. I can’t create any aspect of the experience into anxiety or fear. And even when I speak of them, I am guided and bathed in healing light.

I have been told that the only way for me to heal is to continually connect to them. But this message hasn’t been given to me by force or in threat. I have been gently molded into this truth and made aware of this truth in my own time and reasoning, a path of connection, they have ever so softly allowed me to find on my own.
Though guided, they guide me not. Though reminded, they remind me not. As there is no attachment, no release. Perhaps it is union. No less, no more than me, and as one we walk. Yes, union seems fitting. But not “right.” As there is no right or wrong.

I am perfectly divine and perfectly okay in their eyes. They lift me to the beauty of me and hold me when I weep. Over and over they hold me as I weep. Their signs are everywhere, continually. They give me hints of what my day will be through my dreams and through my waking hours. I see symbols and lock onto images. Distinct words come to mind that will then materialize in form later in the day.

This all seems so natural now, that I forget sometimes that my world is not everyone’s world. However, where there used to be confusion and clutter in experience, there is not. This just is. This is the way I sense what is not beyond but what is. My eyes beyond eyes witness, and I am accepting that when they are closed, I suffer.

With each thought and choice, I am learning to question is this for the service of Holy Spirit, with each word I am beginning to see the extreme potential and power of the words themselves. I am understanding all of this rapidly. I know not why, and I am releasing this needing to know, this needing to do anything but be.

I struggle. I struggle internally and externally with pain at all levels. I struggle with the knowledge that somewhere a part of me knows essentially how to release this pain, yet it still lingers. And then I forgive myself for not being “there” yet, as there is no “there,” and there is no time. I get this. I see this.

Walking in this world, while seeing so much, is daunting. Even as I know fear as the invisible nothing, that doesn’t even qualify as nothing, I still feel this illusion. And even as I know the key is in unconditional love of others, and in turn the love of illusion of self, I still feel what would seem the opposite of unconditional. I still am human.

And this is my deepest struggle: my humaness.

As I am somehow connected to this universal light, whether this be the collective unconscious or Holy Spirit, or combination, but I remain this broken, frail, doubting spirit. Yet, they soothe me still, with even these thoughts, reminding me that I am as I am for reason. And they show me in a flash the way. And I am understood in completion.

Even so, to be this self is difficult—to hold this pain and not know where to find release. But yet at the same time to willingly and whole-heartedly want this pain. To sacrifice for the light they have and see in me. To sacrifice self and happiness to be what they see in me. Such beauty. And with this beauty I am able to see to the core of you, to the core of another; so simply and purely all shine.

I don’t know what the future holds, but am certain I am already there in completion smiling at this self I think I am now. I harbor these truths, and I carry them openly, not for me, and not for you, but for all. For I am not, and you are not without the other.

And still I weep. I weep inside exceedingly doubtful and scared. A frightened child wondering if all is a dream I invented. And if so, where to find escape, how to wake up, how to wake you up, too, so we both may breathe in the new day that is yet to come, but still exists.

The Box
I am
an unopened box
I sit sealed
I am also
Outside of the box
When the box is opened
And I emerge
I am nothing
I am
Indeed the box itself
And in opening the box
I see again
Another self
Staring at another box
Unopened
But who is it that sees
Who is it that opens
And who will be the last
To find nothing

~ In Peace and Love
Sam

286: Magical Thinking vs. Angels

| Aspergers Girls

King of Kings 2

I have had precognition, a profound sense of knowing, the ability to sense emotions in others, and similar experiences since I was very small. The first experience I can recall was when I was about the age of three, when I dreamt our house was on fire. A few days later, my mother woke me up in the middle of my sleep, and brought me outside, as the neighbor’s fence was aflame.

My nightmares came early, about the age of three. Terrible night terrors involving giant insects; the one I remember the most was a grotesque caterpillar that wanted to devour me. When I reached the age of eleven, terrible spirits, that seemed like demons, would come and torture me in my sleep. It was at this time I started having out-of-body experiences, finding myself awake outside of my body, able to see and sense everything in the room (and beyond) but unable to get back into my body.

During my many years of nightmares, once demons placed me over an open fire and spun me on a stick to burn my flesh. Another time, I was out of my body (astral projecting) and a demon was dragging me by my feet down my bed.

I was visited by spirits in the daytime, too, and for a good stretch of a year slept with a rosary around my neck and the bedroom light and television on.

For years after my dog, Justice, died, I would feel him upon my bed next to me and hear him suckling at his backside.

I began to dream of my pets’ deaths, when I was about the age of eight, and would wake up terrified and screaming. My mother always, always without fail, believed in me. She would listen to my nightmares, or what I deemed nightmares, and we’d watch together in the next seven days, as my dreams would manifest into real life.

I’ve had profound experiences in my adult years, including a time I predicted the coming of a large-scale spiritual event in a small town I’d never heard of before. Angel and Mary https://aspergersgirls.wordpress.com/?s=angel+and+mary

I’ve dreamt of car crashes that came true. I’ve had friends visit me in dreams and tell me about their lives.

Lately, I’ve had physical symptoms connected to a dear friend. She has gotten to the point now that she calls me to tell me how she is feeling, as I pick up on her health (before she informs me of an ailment), and then I am temporarily overcome with anxiety. The last time was the visualization of a lancing of a cyst near my upper left side. Something my friend later confirmed.

When my husband and I were hoping to move to the Northwest of America, I called upon my angels. I asked: If we are going to move there. If my husband is going to get the job, give me a sign in the next song. The next song on the radio mentioned the exact town my husband’s future job would be, the exact place he was interviewing that day out-of-state. No other songs have the name of this not-so-famous town in their lyrics. And it just so happened, that same day as my husband’s interview, my son’s school went to a minor-league baseball game, and I tagged along. The team the Sacramento River Cats was playing was from, like the song lyrics, the exact town my husband was interviewing in that day.

I believe. I believe in knowings. I believe in what I choose to call my angels.

When I tried to explain these types of events, in limitation, and without too much information, to my psychologist years ago, he quickly scribbled on his notepad some words, and then said, in a classic-Freudian-manner: “Hmmmm. I see. You have what is called: Magical Thinking.”

It was then, I began to think something was wrong with my world, in the way I saw things, and felt things. It was then, I tried to block some of these “magical thinking” experiences out. It would take me several years to realize that when I did not accept what I consider my gifts that I would endure suffering in multiple forms, including physical and mental anguish.

It’s not that I believe I was being punished for trying to stop my natural nature; I think these non-beneficial sensations occurred because I was not being true to myself, and blocking my life potential and calling. When I started to accept my self in completion and follow my inner calling, I began to heal.

I find it very odd that the way I experience aspects of my life is termed: Magical Thinking by mental health professionals. After all, there is proof that the events I experience beforehand come true, and there is evidence that I have accurately picked up on others’ emotions. I find it odd because in other cultures throughout the world, people believe in all types of what would be termed magic, such as shamans’ mystical powers.

It is interesting to me that trained psychologists draw a fine line between magical thinking and spirituality based on core religious beliefs. In other words, the fact that I believe in a higher power and pray to this invisible source, and take refuge in a person dying and coming back to life, is totally acceptable to a person in the mental health field, as these thoughts fall under the pretense of an accepted religious sect. However, if I went into a psychologist office and claimed to be talking to the trees and the spirits of the trees, this would be deemed “magical thinking,” or likely something more derogatory in nature. Only becasuse  a psychologist has accepted a spiritual belief as normal based on the consensus and behavior of a majority of people, and in contrast not accepted the spiritual consensus of a minority of people. This seems like a form of prejudice to me. I truthfully don’t understand how mental health professionals can draw a line.

I’m saying all of this because my so-called “magical thinking” has been stronger than ever. I am called to write, and lately to paint. The painting, during the last few days has blossomed for me. I am using mixed media, including paper towels, toothpicks, and today vanilla liquid, and the vanilla bottle cap, to paint with.

As I am creating, I am in prayer and with spirit. Sometimes the process takes more than two hours. I start with my logical mind and a paintbrush in hand, painting symbolic images that are significant to me and reflect angels, love, and peace. Sometimes I first write positive words in pencil on the canvas. Something generally clicks in after an hour, and I begin to disconnect from the logical part of my brain, and spirit takes over, guiding me. I do not know what the end product of my paintings will ever look like. I don’t even know parts of what I am painting, when the second hour sets in.

At the start of my painting, a week or two ago, my angels revealed to me that I would be able to see spirits and love in the end product. I have been pleased and amazed by my last few paintings. The original three were dark and gloomy, as I was processing through much mourning. But the last three have been brilliant in regards to the energy I feel from the images.

As I was painting recently, I felt multiple sensations and saw multiple avenues of energy and energy blockages. I am able to use the paintbrush to open up and free these blockages through wide and free strokes, guided less by me than by another source.

Whether one chooses to call this my creative side, the collective unconscious, my higher-self, my angels, or a helping spirit, makes no difference to me. I am not attached to definitions. But I know for me that this process of painting seems to include a positive force from the light.

Through this process of painting, I have been able to release much angst and worry, and to forget where I am momentarily. Like many artists at work, I am able to escape this reality and fall into my very creation.

The only part I find a bit difficult is pulling out of the rhythm to do manual tasks, such as the act of retrieving a paper towel or cleaning a brush. The rest is a smooth process of freedom.

My angels typically present themselves as one, and speak to me as my own inner voice. I am always filled with intense peace when they are about. They never criticize or judge. There is never harmful intention or ill will. All is perfect and glorious in their world.

A while back, some two years ago, my spirit that guides me presented himself as Stewart of the Light. He instructed me to consider looking up the name Stewart in a book of names; when I did, I discovered the name Stewart means “Helping Spirit.” He giggled at me, as angels have a marvelous sense of humor, when I announced: Helping Spirit of the Light.

Today’s painting, King of Kings, reinforced for me what I can produce (with help) when I listen to my angels. I can see now, as they have told me, that this is a picture of Jesus, both the King of Angels and the King of Kings. His robe is made of vanilla, to represent his sweetness. He has feathers to represent his wings. His “royal” robe is opened to those in need. To his left, the right side of the painting, is a woman. She is both comforting Jesus, praying to Jesus, and weeping at his side.

I do not label myself “religious” or “Christian,” as during the times we live in now the energy behind these specific words can often frighten and harm people. Not intentionally, in many cases, but the words, nonetheless, often still have non-beneficial energy. I do pray there comes a day when these words reflect the wholeness and goodness of Christ’s unconditional love.

I can’t say I am angered by those who try to push their belief system upon others, because I have had a difficult time experiencing anger towards anyone anymore, other than during fleeting moments. But I can say that it saddens me that those that are supposed to represent Christ’s love (by calling themselves Christians) are often times presenting themselves in a way that seems to me to be closed-minded, judgmental, and harmful.

I’m not sure while all of these thoughts are presenting themselves at this moment. Perhaps this is my angels way of wishing you all a Merry Christmas. Perhaps not. Perhaps this is indeed just all magical thinking. In the end, I don’t think any definition applied to my experience and perception truly matters, as long as I am loving myself and others.

Merry Christmas Lovely Souls.

~~~

When I began to paint, my angels told me that when I took photos of my paintings I would see helping spirits and angels. I do!

Images of Spirits

angel heart spirit

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Angel Heart Spirt above

~

King of Kings Spirit

Matthew 7:15-20

New King James Version (NKJV)

You Will Know Them by Their Fruits

“Beware of false prophets, who come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ravenous wolves.  16 You will know them by their fruits. Do men gather grapes from thornbushes or figs from thistles? 17 Even so, every good tree bears good fruit, but a bad tree bears bad fruit. 18 A good tree cannot bear bad fruit, nor can a bad tree bear good fruit. 19 Every tree that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire. 20 Therefore by their fruits you will know them.”

Several interpretations of this passage found here

The other night I had a dream. In the dream a man approached me. He was not of any form I recognized. As hard as I tried, I could not visualize him. Eventually he took the shape of a human, in an appearance he believed I would be comfortable seeing. I knew this because he communicated with me without speaking. He instructed me, without words, to stand there and to shut my eyes. I knew innately, in the whole of me, I had nothing to fear. He faced me, standing close, and stretched out his arm very straight and with much intention. He then placed the whole of his palm upon my forehead, in a form of a blessing or anointment. I understood I was being healed. I saw a brilliant vision of blue, a color I cannot place or recreate. The blue remained until he pulled his hand away. He spoke again without use of his mouth and then placed his palm back upon my forehead. I don’t remember what happened next.

Since this experience, I have had a new-found peace, clarity, and reawakening. I am still me, no doubt, with the complexities of my mind, and the emotions that play out based on other people and my own physical body, but there is a distinct difference inside of me, where in more and more fear and attachment is being released.

Another story you might find interesting. My vision to write

I would like to thank AlienHippy and the author of Thoughts from the Outdoors  for their dear friendship and on going support. I consider them both my earth angels. ❤

285: Angel Heart

| Aspergers Girls

angel heart

Angel Heart by Samantha Craft

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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