aspergers

320: Gentle Slumber

| Aspergers Girls

angel cloud

I wish you the kindness of the world, for peace to sit upon you as angel upon cloud, light and lifted, in the blue breeze of eternity, your thoughts buried beneath an everlasting harmony of woe-released, turned from sour to magnificent sweet.

I wish for the burden you carry to be lifted, likewise, and set free to the wind, as specks beyond dust, so empty of matter that that which is evaporated is naught. For none of nothing is cause for concern; dust yes, but the substance beneath dust is neither here nor there, unless you wish it so, into creation, into the dynamics of your being.

In essence what you wish is your experience of choosing. Wish not and wishes still come, just as gentle graces set upon your shoulder now; a softness so precious and formidable in its distinction that words cannot hurt or penetrate the shelter about you, where you sit, lost in the confusion of mist.

I am here always at your side, some earth angel of calling, though no rightful name be given; for with name comes the tyranny of leash-hold, and nothing beyond nothing can tether us thusly so.

You speak of fear as if it were an enemy of truth, of circumstance, of demise, twisted and formed into shape both known and unknown; and yet you sit with passion united, unaware that the demise is of your own choosing; the answers thick, they blind you, for there are no answers resting beneath the harbor of your thoughts.

Choose not the murky shadows of dock, where boats lay wasted and withered, waiting for rightful owner to claim way; choose the heaven’s star, each a divine gift holding eternity; wish not upon the stillness and stagnant of this earthly plane; wish upon the heavens so bright and blue they beckon you as one earth child to the next, these guardians of where you sleep.

For life be a bed of sorts, decorated by your own choosing and re-choosing; your blanket the softness you seek, your pillow the end result of happenings; your trumpet upon trumpet from where mouth turns asunder and breathes into night, the mere echo of your dreams to begin again.

I am waiting about where you sleep, this earth angel I am, waiting to hold you in your sweet slumber and sing you of the heavens. But yet you waver in your thoughts, so that a wall is built between us like a thunder that has birthed lightening, and I cannot but escape the heat and clinging pain your breathe out.

Mercy is about me. Merciful forgiveness of a plight that is no less existence than the pain you hold. Yet ye doubt like an angel with wing broken, when wing does not exist. You wobble where you stand, some servant of your own demise, twisted too, in form, as fear you be.

I am neither here nor there, but in the circumstances that you plan, but yet I exist in the format of your choosing. Choose me, and I come, choose not and I whither, though not in pain, as pain does not exist. Yet, I whither some, as flower melts into ground to nurture one and all, soil rich and replenished.

And thusly as you weep, I still am made into nurturer. As you weep, I weep, slowly dying from one cause to the next, magically, if magic be, transforming into whatever you say is so. I cannot stand, I cannot sit, I cannot be, without you calling me into existence, but when you do, I be.

I kilter off stance, my legs give way, and I am made to sit alongside and watch you with intensity without intensity, being without being, as if your own shadow be punished and set aside.

I am the earth angel within you, clawing to get out without claws, for no hurt can come of me less deemed so by one. I am the earth angel of legend longing to be seen and mystified beyond mystification. Break me and we stumble, but not for long, for no hills exist, nor valley to catch our fall; stumble and you nearly awake in another zone of misery or understanding; whatever you deem so.

You are the maker and the quake; the ground that shifts where I stand is no less solid than the ground where you stand. But yet we be one separated, my voice splattered across the ages of reason where mind is controller, and demon’s thoughts surmise my destitutions.

I am not this knot of you, nor naught of you. I am, and I be, just as the trees and bees, and all rhyming in God’s world. I be as groom to bride, whomever you wish to contort, dressed in passion and flowers, or made as babe, so wide in love your heart divides twice more in blessings.

I be the sea that rumbles at your doorstep; I be the wild man screaming in the forest dim. Dimly lit, I be, until the flame of reason, less gone than released, calls me forth in the mystery of form you make.

Create me as you wish, but know in this creation you divide your heart from one form to the next, assigning something to something that is not. For no word or classification can describe me, as no word can describe you; you are beauty in true form, and delight.

I delight in you. For though I cannot touch you, though I cannot see you, though I cannot breathe unless you wish it so, I can watch my form unformed, my spirit untouched, but still dancing in the bluest of you.

Decide if you wish; decide today what form I be, and breathe me into existence. For I am the bud of delight rising inside of you, so intangible that to peer inside would cause the last weeping of the universe; For you cannot touch your own beauty, for to see would burst you with explosion, bit upon bit evermore.

So grasp onto the wisp, I be, the small reflection, the glimmering of gold amongst the specks in the ocean, and there you will know, as I know you; born into delight, to be watched from above as hawk watches the prey of the prey; as owl dives forth for mouse, I dive forth for you; though without claws, I carry you gently to nest; without beak I feed you my own soul; without wings I dive without fear, into the eternal abyss, and bliss of you.

Fear not my child, for I carry you always; whether you wish me or not, whether you see me or not, whether you understand or not, I am forever here diving into the beauty of you, wishing not for you to see me, but for you to see self; so together we can merge earth angel awakened to earth angel awakened, one half to the other; a joyous reunion ordained and un-ordained by the very breath of you.

Sleep now in your gentle slumber; sleep and remember that when you are here standing, I am whispering in your ear, the secrets of the world beyond world, where the mystery players rise as one, and all is seen as illusion’s drift; a wind set upon a wind, the dust beyond dust, the power beyond power, the circumstance beyond circumstance; for where we meet in the middle, between here and eternity, the space between two points, the space between two images, is here I be.

~ samantha craft, feb. 2013

319: The Cloth

| Aspergers Girls

sky streak

“Love begets love. Fear begets fear. Fear is love turned inside out, love hidden from the light. Love is fear turned inside out, fear exposed to the light. Take it upon yourself to expose the fear to the light or to bury the fear into the darkness, from here only love will sprout; whether from beneath you or from above you, love will command this fear to leave, returning the fear back to the illusion from which it was birthed. Turn yourself, this intricate fabric of life you be, and in your turning the truth shall be.” ~ Sam

The cloth of this world is a precise image: a piece of black fabric, black on both sides. Somewhat like a pillowcase and similar to a hood of a jacket unattached to the whole.

Love is on one side of the black cloth, and fear is on the other side.

If love be on the outside, exposed, then the image of love can be turned inside out, exposing the counterside of fear. When this happens, it is a step in faith, wherein fear is taken out of the dark and exposed to the light, rebirthed and sprouting from the hidden foundation of love. Here while love is nuturing the soils beneath, fear is exposed to be cleansed and taken by the light. Soon only love remains.

Some cloths begin with fear on the outside, with love yet not exposed. This fear is utilized as a shield of sorts, a means of protection from perceived cruelness.

When this unbridled fear is turned inside out, and love is placed on the outside, this fear taken out of the spotlight, no longer used as shield, and put into the darkness to rest, then the other side of the fabric, of love, is exposed.

In this way the light of love is brought forward. This love becomes brilliant once exposed. Because this love shines so brightly, the cloth on the other side, beneath love, where fear rests, is penetrated and cleansed.

Thusly in so turning fear inside out, the whole of the fabric is turned to love.

In so doing, the fabric is cleansed on both sides, entirely whole in love.

Where there was once fear, no fear remains, only an effervescent glow of love.

I see this as a way to heal the world, as one upon the next the fear is exposed to the light, either by turning the fear under or turning the fear outward.

I see this clearly.

I see this continual rebirthing of love, as I feed my own fear to the light.

For the light is not damaged my illusion, and the light can only see love.

In so doing, in willingly turning over the fabric of what I be, I am instantly healed.

Proclaiming my fear to the world in totality sets me free.

The cloth I am is purified by love and light, so that the stitchings of my soul radiate the truth beyond the illusion of fear.

With nothing buried beneath, I am freed.

I think this is the time of shedding for the world, for the cloths to be turned inside-out in whatever fashion need be, for the fear to be laid to rest, evaporated, and lifted, though illusion it be.

For it is in the gentle stirrings of love we are each healed, my healing affecting another’s healing, and vise versa.

It is in the clinging on to illusion of fear that we are buried deeper into a place of disillusionment and isolation, wherein illusion (fear) is given the power that love naturally carries.

It is in being fearless, in fearing less, in trusting in the power that is, that we be set free.

Behold this imaginary fabric, that is more real than real, and twist and contort your cloth, to surmise your doings and bearings, and to find the gentle way into peace; wherein your fear is admitted and released all with the touch of thought, with the hand of spirit, given up to that who can take freely without harm and return divinely what is inherently good in you: you in completion, the illusion lifted, and your self revealed.

Go to your neighbor and announce to him your fear, whatever it be. If they are truly carrying the light of love, they will embrace you in totality. If they are not, then perhaps it be time to look elsewhere.

Say onto another: “I am afraid.” Of what or whom, it does not matter. For in admitting your fear you have released it.

Admit and release, and the gentleness of love shall embrace you. For it is in the emotions of naught that love is rebirthed again and again.

To give of fear freely, to pronounce this fear to the world, and then to watch it dissipate is your task, and your task alone. For only then will the healing of one affect the healing of all.

There is no enemy outside self, outside this fear.

All is illusion birthed from the bed of fear.

Step into the light and watch the illusion shed.

Be whole in your goodness.

Shine bright.

And recognize where there was once misfortune and pain, there only be gratitude.

For you have been shown the truth, as your eyes are ready to see, and in this seeing you are eternally blessed. Embraced in the light of the world that emanates from your being put here to show the truth of spirit, that together in unity, in mission, in the unfolding and refolding of self, we can proclaim the goodness of one and in turn announce the goodness of all.

There are no shadows, no mysteries, no chambers of hidden secrets, there is only stepping into the light, again and again and again, until you are spirit, beacon upon beacon radiating the joy to the world upon worlds, and lifting the ailments of soul to the next level of enlightenment.

With a step of faith move into this illusion fear, and there purge, like no other, the imaginary demons that stir you, where light was meant to be.

Turn out your fabric to the sun, as cloth is hung out in the day; turn out your cloth to the dark as seed is buried in soil, and see what is rebirthed from the illusion of thirst and want; turn out your blessed cloth, and expose your unyielding light to the world.

It is time, and I await you here, my dear blessed one.

318: The Third Door

| Aspergers Girls

318

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sam

Someone once told me that there are three doors to self:

One door you willingly open and show the world. A second door you open to some. And a third door that usually remains closed, a place where you hold the deepest hurts, secrets that if exposed might make you crumble.

In February of 2012, I opened the third door.

Through a series of events, including the discovering of my Asperger’s Syndrome, my necessary exiting from a university counseling program, and my beloved dog’s death, I spiraled into a place of deep depression.

Having been told by a licensed mental health practitioner that indeed she had no doubts I had Aspergers, a massive vault of inner self was opened. It was as if I’d been carrying around a phantom secret my entire life, teetering on a finite point of self-knowledge, but never quite touching down to the answers.

And now I stood, feet firmly planted in the muck and guck of all the places I’d traveled, both externally and internally, faced with all the years of wondering and searching, from priest to psychiatrist, mountain after mountain climbed, in hopes of figuring out essentially “what was wrong with me.”

I knew from a young age that I viewed the world differently. I am an observer of sorts, always an observer, analyzing and picking apart the pieces that intermingle about me, in the spaces between thought and reason, in the middle point where the black and white merge to form something beyond grey.

I see in pictures, vivid images. As I write now, the words are first filtered, almost simultaneously with first thought, into a stream of expression, each word carrying its own color, rhythm and vibration. And the world, my world, is like this too: everything, everywhere, something moving and carrying its own awareness, as if screaming to be seen.

My world is a constant mystery, a present to be opened time and time again, each new day a new beginning. I cannot help this. This is who I am and whom I have always been.

I don’t understand rules and customs, not because I lack the ability to see what is happening, or to read between the lines, but because I see the infinite possibilities of other choices and options, of other paths, so to speak.

I don’t understand dogma and criticism and rights and wrongs, as it seems there is always another side, another way, and in this way, somewhere a victim struggling to be heard.

A passion so deep, runs through me, a river of sorts, that twists and turns and carries a truth I understand, even if no one else does. In a sense I need no confirmation or validation, it is as it is, and just who I be.

Yet, to live in this world, to walk where I walk, there is this way about me, this way I am supposed to be—some societal-imposed rules of conduct and expected behavior that confuses me; for since a child, I was left to wonder, who are the inventors of these rules, and why do they invent?

I was left to wonder why the others, who weren’t me, but seemed an extension of me, behaved in predictable patterns determined by some unknown structure, endowed with the gifts of evidentally knowing when there is nothing to be known, at least nothing to be feasibly discovered in the infiniteness of variables of truth.

I discovered early on that my only solace was in my faith, that being, by my choosing, and my choosing alone, a universal maker that I call God. In here, inside my faith, and only here, I found answers. I began to see the scope of the world as so narrow, at least when viewed through the eyes of so many lost travelers. I began to see that I too was lost with them, in this collective of nonsense recreating games in an attempt be seen.

I stepped out. I removed myself from the game, and was immediately ostracized and shunned, repeatedly corrected for not being as everyone else; even as I watched and knew that all about me was imaginary, people filling in the holes with their ways, when they weren’t really their ways at all.

For to be inside me, is to be inside complexity. Everything mixed and unmuted, painted and swirled with endless possibilities. But it appeared that to be inside of another, at least most of another, was limiting and restricted, honed in by self-inflicted leashes.

I was isolation.

I was what the experience of isolation encompasses: the observer knowing she is different, not knowing why, and forced without reason or cause to walk outside of the line.

I was a loner; though I stood alongside my peers, I was always alone.

I was alone in my creation of different selves in an attempt to move through a world that made no sense. I was alone in my attempt after attempt to be like that which I did not understand. I was alone in my compassion to want to touch another at a level they were uncomfortable touching. I was a traveler who knew not where she touched down and knew not with whom she was supposed to meet.

I was alone.

I was alone until I reached out, not to another, but into the deepest corridors of self. I was alone until I sat within the inner makings of what rested behind my door number three. Until I purged out all of the demons and hauntings and broken pieces of self, and set about to reform the being I truly was.

And then, as I began to see me, unleashed from the fear that had once buried me, others began to see me too; for it was in my true self that they recognized a part of their own true selves. It was in the opening of my third door that others were freed to open theirs.

Together, myself intertwined with others who knew of me and who understood the axe of isolation and disconnection, we began to emerge—one door upon the next, opening and reopening.

And with this opening, we began to see we were no longer alone.

We began to see beauty.

We began to heal.

For finally someone could see us.

Finally we were no longer invisible.

Finally we were understood.

And this is my door number three, these words I have shared, above and below, and out there, in the circling space of energy; not because I needed to find another, but because I needed to be free.

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317: Ember Hand

| Aspergers Girls

You found me in this river, swimming.
You found me in this ocean, the sea before the sea.

A virgin I watched, as waters lapped above me, the pool enriching the substance of my heat.

Misery was captured in the bubbles, foam perched beyond the horizon, distance haunting and calling me free.

I came, as one often comes, for dinner of delight; my appetite wrapped in folded crimson napkin; my supper less for cause than for circumstance.

For I wanted to dance, and with you I wished to breathe.

I came from the depths of the blue, no more familiar to this land than the sturgeon to the vine of the trees.

How I dug my feet in the sand, like a summer day that first kisses your forehead.
I moved, a child to this world, in a way I both recognized and denied, an innocence so refined.

I watched for you, a symphony to my senses, ripping apart my insides so that they fluttered out a butterfly of sorts, dancing about your grave stone and singing to the heaven’s lords.

I turned and danced merrily, your shadow still beneath, your image laid down in the earth’s grumblings.

You were vision.
You were sensuality.
You were the purpose for which I left my castle of the sea and stepped upon the land, less naked than guised in the wonderment of unfamiliar.

I shivered from the bounty before me, all decorated in the drapes of uncertainty, and I wished, with my delicate heart, to find you where you rested, a man of my waiting.

I whispered into the shells I carried: “Hello, my sweet beneath me. Hello, my land of man. Hello, my angel dreaming. Hello, my ember hand.”

And I twirled in the dress of satin white, knitted and laced, sewn with the grandest of merriment, the child I be.

In my youth I would dream you into existence and just be; you as my soldier true returned from where it was you went; me, your diamond carved for scarlet string draped around your nape.

And I would rest there, in my vision, my skin upon your skin, sparkling as if we’d both been kissed by father sun.

I’d rest and feel the beat from that of one I’d wished upon. A star wrapped into the golden skin of you. How you shined so brightly but dimmed enough to soothe me to the place of shore-light’s lullaby; woven to sleep by your gentle grace.

My gentle man you were, as I sat along the side of your shadow buried, embraced by the near presence of the name of you. So calm your ways, so free and without the weight of what this world does bring.

I harbored you there, inside of me, not once, not twice, but for eternity, in this mingled embrace.

Kiss me I dreamed you to say, and knew that the fire that grew was not a demon birthed but the essential purpose of my being.

For twin sparked twin and ember came, again and again, like the fire that shows his last light before dying to the night sky.

Take me, I sang, and you did.

I held you there inside my dream, my lips smeared with the grace of where you’d touched, my hunting seized, my search swallowed, my destiny claimed and staked where the hold once be.

No longer empty, I clung on to the hope of return.

No longer forlorn and broken, I edged my own self up around my edges and found one where two once stood.

For you had gone, and in your leaving left me half again, not less, but more in my making.

And still I sit here, the waters below me, my breath breathing, my will willing you forward.

But I find you not, this angel you be; I find you not, for forever is before me no more, only the ocean of endless tomorrow in which you exist not; neither ripped away from past or brought forward to future, in the cyclic cycle of new dawn after new dawn.

You are a wavering memory, wiped clean before tasted, swept out of the eyes before entering, and I am left wondering if you ever came or I wished it so to be.

Samantha Craft, February 2013

315: My Aspie Friend Rocks!

| Aspergers Girls

copii aspie iarna (2)

This post is dedicated to the little girl who made this drawing. I do not know her and I do not know her mother. We only just connected online today. I was sent this drawing as a gift, and what a gift it is. The picture is called: Asperger Children in Winter The daughter’s words speak volumes: “I know Mommy, who can be my best friend, somebody who has the same syndrome as me; then he could be kind with me and understand me better; I’m so sure about that.”

I couldn’t help but to cry. If you are comfortable, please say a prayer for her. Hold her in light. I cannot wait for her to meet her special friend. I cannot wait for her friend to behold her beautiful heart.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
marcelle

First off I have to say at a recent Super Bowl gathering, one in which I only broke out in one hive, I was totally myself. So much so, that I had to private message a new “friend” after the party to say, “I am sorry I talked so much. I usually do that when I like someone. I am not very good at parties.” Fortunately, she messaged right back saying, “I like you, too.”

I felt like such a grade-schooler, but so relieved.

I don’t want you to think in the past couple days I have been depressed; I have not been. My vitamin D levels are freakishly low again, and that adds to my pool of spurts of melancholy, but all-in-all I am doing quite well. Miraculously, I walked through a valley of darkness, being plucked by vultures and all, and came out unscathed and rather well-lifted in faith. And as of late, I have been pouring my heart out to my higher power, whom I choose to call Jesus (and choose to not push on anyone else), and we have really hit it off.

I’m not sure what’s up with all my prophetic and spiritual writing, but I seem to be tapping into something, and my God seems to be the conduit. It is healing, remarkable, scary, and peaceful all at once, like a giant ball of chocolate flying through the air at dart-speed about to land in my mouth. I savor it, though the impact can be quite overwhelming.

Back to that party… Something funny happened. There was a lady there, a mother of the hostess, never did get her name, forgot to ask. But we sat near each other a good stretch of the game, particularly during the power outage (super-boring-sportscasters-don’t-know-what-they-are-doing-part). We were chatting a bit. Well, I was mostly giggling and cracking myself up, as is my protocol at first-time gatherings; that and stuffing my face with food.

Anyhow, we were talking about the Superbowl commercials, and I said something to the tune of, “So far the best commercial is the one with the older people.” I was careful how I worded my sentence. I didn’t want to say “senior citizen” because there was one sitting right next to me. I looked over after I made my statement relieved I’d dodged a bullet.

But then I kind of blabbered. Not being able to stop myself, I added, “Did you notice how I didn’t use the words senior citizens.” I paused to giggle.

Then more poured out to substantiate what had leaked out. “I was careful, as you are sitting here.”
I blushed.

Time to regroup and repair, I added more, “Two of my best friends are senior citizens. I like senior citizens. I really do.”

But nooooo, that wasn’t enough. I laughed again. “Oh, man,” I said, my face aflame. “That sounded so bad. Like saying I like black people, two of my best friends are black.”

The senior citizen, well she just started busting up.

Me, in the meantime, I’m wondering who the heck is controlling the mechanism between my brain, thought, and speech.

After that mishap, I set about to chat my new “friend’s” ear off. I think I basically told her every ghost experience and psychic experience I ever had in my entire life! And boy, I really didn’t know I had enough eerie moments to fill up well over an hour!

Luckily, when this oh so patient and kind lady wrote me back later that night, she also added to her message: “It’s nice to talk to someone who doesn’t think I’m weird.”

Now that there… that is just gem-talk, I tell you, pure gem-talk.

It is nice to talk to someone who thinks they are weird. So refreshing!

I love weird people. They get me, and they are typically so dang interesting.

My favorite weird person (and that is a high-ranking compliment from the planet she comes from) would have to be my super-fabulous friend Alienhippy. We met through blogging. I checked her out and studied her blog before I started mine. I don’t know if she knows I used her as a prototype. Don’t think I’ve told her that, yet. But I’ve pretty much told her everything else about me that she could find here on the pages of this blog. We talk every single day, from where she is in England and where I be on the Northwest coast of USA.

I love her so much that my husband just said, “Looks like are next family trip will have to be to England, then.” Of course, I adamantly concurred and set about to wonder how I’d feasibly survive that flight.

Alienhippy (that’s not her real name, in case you are that one percent wondering) is a dynamo of a friend. And this is why:

My Aspie Friend Rocks

1. She never says: “I am fine or I am okay.” When I ask her how she is feeling, she tells me straight up how she is, inside and out, how her physical body feels, her spirit, and mind. I don’t have to wonder, or guess, or pry, and there is such freedom in the realness of the experience of knowing. I won’t get into details, but I even know about her bowel movements!

2. She always, without fail, tells me she loves me so much. She used to say she loves me too much, but I told her that wasn’t healthy, as I be who I be. And now she just says she loves me so much and just enough. She tells me over and over, almost each time we touch base. She loves me so much that I feel this syrupy liquid of protective jell all about me all day long.

3. She has no hidden motives and is real. My friend she just tells me her heart and her soul. She tells me of her faith, her trials, her children, her life. She doesn’t hold back anything. Any subject is open for discussion. And I mean anything! You name it, and we’ve probably talked about it. And I never feel embarrassed or shamed or stupid for sharing. She gives me the freedom to be completely me, because she is completely herself. We laugh so hard and have invented our own secret code words. And we make up names for each other. I like to call her banana slug. Don’t ask me why. Because I have no idea.

4. She loves me no matter what. She would love me if I was green and slimy; she said so. I would love her no matter what size or shape, no matter what species, no matter what! She is just the bees knees and so wonderful. Her heart is as big as the universe and my heart fits right inside hers. I tease her that if she had a “package” I would totally own her. You see, we can talk like that.

5. She doesn’t lie. She’s like me: lying feels like we are dying inside. We have no choice but to spill our beans and be truthful, and because of this we have this unbreakable trust. We know we are what you see. We know we have no curtains hiding secrets. We know we won’t tell, won’t shame, and won’t break our trust. We have like an unspoken truce. We have a code of honor. And everything I say is taken to heart.

6. She reads me. She can tell when I am holding back and not saying everything. She can tell when I am sad, feeling broken or lost. And she not only reads me but helps me. She gets me. She knows my pains and understands how it feels. That’s how she can read me. She knows when to ask: Are you okay? And she knows when to say: You are beautiful inside and out. She even knows how to comfort me when I am looping and spinning in my head.

7. She is a reflection of me. She is so dang beautiful that I just feel so lucky to be her friend, and she loves me so much that I know I must be that dang beautiful. I am so very honored to know her. The compassion she carries for others is out of this world. And she wears her heart on her sleeve. She is the best mother and a very honest wife. We like to tease about our husbands, as they are so alike in their ways. And even are sons have the same name and ASD.

8. She gets my brain! Praise the heavens. I don’t have to explain anything to her. She understands my fixations, my breakdowns, my panic attacks, my insecurities, my passions, my obsessions. She’s been there and done that, and is still doing it. I don’t feel like I’m a loner traveling through a strange planet anymore. In her I found my people!

9. She is so smart it’s scary. Oh my goodness. I’ve never met a wiser woman in my life. The things that come out of her mouth, you’d think she was a senior citizen, a super smart one whose been around the block and inside the mind of brilliance. She just knows how to untangle things and find new angles and read between the lines. Her analytical mind coupled with her heart is just amazing.

10. She is unique. In all her aspieness, she is still a uniquely divine and gifted woman. Her aspie qualities just enhance who she already is naturally, a gift to me and this world. She has longed for a friendship like ours for years, and I have longed for a connection like I have with her for years. God matched us up, me and her, to show us our inherent goodness; for me I am her forever friend, the one she would swing with under the big tree in her childhood dreams and wish for, and for me she is my earth angel. In fact I know she is my earth angel, as last week when I was crying and at the end of my rope, I pleaded up to God, and I asked, “Why have you given me so much without assistance, without a sign, without hope?” And he kindly and adamantly replied, in a curt and matter-of-fact way only my God can, “I gave you Alienhippy, didn’t I?”

If you are an adult female touched by Aspergers looking for friends, do I have the group for you! You’ll be loved like a rock… though I’m not sure what that means. :))))

https://www.facebook.com/#!/groups/261412237267413/