Day 119: Whispering Graves

Above: Southern Coast of Maui, La Perouse Bay

Below: Small Japanese Family Cemetery found off residential road in Maui

Whispering Graves

The graves of every lowly dale

The graves of every crowning peak

The graves of ancient burial

The graves of generations past

They all speak the same

They all whisper:  Live now

They all whisper: Love now

They all whisper: Don’t wait

They all whisper: Hurry

They all whisper and whisper again

Through winds of evermore

We only need listen

We only need follow

Until we too are but whispering graves

Day 113: Goodbye Dead Man’s Beach

Goodbye Dead Man’s Beach

In the late spring of a bitter windy day, I wiped the grits of sand from my face and stared down below to the foggy beach. This would be the first time I’d see flaccid bodies all lined up in a row, bloated and an almost-blue.  I hadn’t wanted to watch or even glance a little.  I’d wished to run away or at least close my eyes, but I had to see.  This was another coming of a dream.  Some seven days had passed, seven long days of waiting and wondering who would drown.  I knew enough from my past and the way my dreams played out to realize death would be arriving on a Saturday—on a cold, cold Saturday.

I wondered as the workers desperately pressed and pumped on the already dying flesh, why life, or God, or whatever essence gave me these glimpses of future events, wouldn’t also go one step further and allow me to serve some purpose and exist as more than a detached helpless onlooker.   Had I had a magic button to stop the dreams, I thought at the time I would have.  But then I thought I would have missed the dreams in the way I would have missed my arm, or leg, or eye; the dreams were so much a part of me, a needed part, something I’d been born with which had served me in some sense; even though I couldn’t comprehend the reason, even though I cursed the visions and the following reality, I knew enough, innately or perhaps spiritually, to know the dreams were necessary.

The dreams would serve a higher purpose someday, I was told.  Not directly, but in whispers, gentle reminders to be patient, to be watchful, and to wait.  I would cry then, in my teens, in the same way I cry now, when the weight of the world is so heavy upon my shoulders that I wish for nothing but silence and the unknowing, to be like the mother across the street satisfied with her scrapbooking and classroom volunteering, and yearning for nothing more than the simple.

That’s what I longed for:  the sweet simple.

Those dead bodies below on the beach had been a family, the emptied vessels now covered in black bags on the sands below had been minutes before living tourists who hadn’t heeded the warnings posted at Dead Man’s Beach about the dangers of the ocean currents and under-tow.  One boy had fallen in off the rocks, and in response, each family member had leapt to their own death.

I have been terrified of the ocean, ever since the tragedy at Dead Man’s Beach. Add this to the horrific flesh-eating fish dreams I’ve had since I was three, and the time my mother’s boyfriend saw a shark take a chunk out of his best friend. (His friend died.) And I’ve been able to justify not going in the ocean for about twenty-five years.

Yesterday, I overcame my great fear of the sea. As I paddled out into the ocean on my surfboard, I was terrified. I trembled. I almost cried. I almost turned back. But I paddled onward.

I wasn’t planning on surfing at all while visiting Maui. But there I was, regardless of all my fears and misgivings, flat on my belly, in a borrowed, rather-stinky surf shirt, paddling over the waves. And I got up on my surfboard, not once, but at least five times and rode the waves.

They may have looked like little waves to the observer. But to me they were the biggest darn waves of my life.

I’ve realized I have spent much of my forty-some years living on my own Dead Man’s Beach. I’ve been counting my days. Worrying about lurking dangers. Terrified to be happy.

This evening, as I sat in a local bar having yet another fruity rum drink (a new thing for me), the musician played Here Comes the Sun, and I was brought back to a summer day in Oregon, when at the age of nine I was riding in the back of a pickup truck listening to that song. I remember at that age I had an intense feeling of happiness and freedom. It was one of the last times I remember feeling so elated.

Yesterday, when I rode the waves, I returned to that sunny day in the back of the truck. I walked off of Dead Man’s Beach and I found my sun again.

A wise man once told me that he asks everyday: “How can life get any better?”

Day Twenty-Five: A Prophet in My Pocket

 

I have a prophet in my pocket.

Ever since I identified my little voice inside my head as LV, and labeled the gray squishy world-ball as my heterogeneous Brain, The Prophet in my Pocket has been speaking to me in rhyme and rhythm.

The Prophet part makes sense to me. All through my life I’ve had precognitive dreams, premonitions, and those “feelings.” I can recount the events in detail. They are numerous. Grand in scale, like the time I predicted an influx of people would be traveling to the small town of Colfax, California to see a spiritual manifestation. Or smaller in scale, but just as potent, like when I saw my mother’s friend die in a VW Bug exploding on Homan’s Highway in Carmel, California, days before my mother’s friend’s death.

I’ve had strange encounters, strange coincidences, and a plethora of people tell me that they know me from somewhere. I’ve also been sensitive to physical pain, since I can remember, starting with terrible intestinal pains and rashes.

I’m officially deemed handicapped, even have that nifty handicapped plaque, that comes in handy when my pain threshold is registering low on the scale. By all definitions, if I wasn’t such a poop-head at times, in theory I’d qualify as a Shaman in some cultures. The thing that sucks about being a Shaman, or anyone born with distinct spiritual abilities, is that the healers always seem able to help most everyone, except themselves.

I think that’s why I have a prophet in my pocket. I think he’s there to guide me through the proverbial mire of life—the sensitivities, the pains.

Looking back at my writings, sometimes I’m amazed I’m still here. I remember an intake psychologist telling me, years ago: “And you’re sure you’ve never been addicted to drugs or had any form of substance abuse? It’s hard to believe you could survive all that, and not turn to something.”

I turned to something. I turned to my faith. And fortunately the powers that be provided me with distinct mentors and supporters along my path.

Which leads me to the current problem I face, that has resulted in my current funk. Recently I’ve lost many of my supporters. Some have disappeared through the engulfment phase of a new love interest and others through moving to a new physical location—some thousands of miles away.

I’m understanding this dissipating funk more clearly. In the last ten months alone many of my supporters have disappeared, my beloved dog passed unexpectedly, a professional used callous words about Asperger’s Syndrome, my mother-in-law and my mother were diagnosed with cancer, my son had a serious reaction to medication, a homeless person ran his bike into my moving van… this on top of the everyday stresses of raising three boys, with one on the spectrum, keeping a household running while disabled, and dealing with my sensitivities, coupled with my recent diagnosis of Aspergers. Deep breath! No wonder I’m sad.

This prophet of mine, if he does indeed exist, I fancy the idea of him residing in my right pocket. I can picture him there, rather small and distinguished looking, like a little cartoon stereotypical university professor. He has the type of beard that’s good for running fingers through, and spectacles that are speckled with dust. He doesn’t brush his wiry white hair. His appearance is not even secondary. His appearance doesn’t matter to him one bit. He speaks in rhyme or rhythm, or very fast in a combination of visuals and streams of words. He uses symbols lots, and has a glorious sense of humor.

The Prophet in My Pocket is the one I pull out often in my sacred hours of writing. He whispers to me through my interior voice (LV), sometimes for the stretch on an hour, and then he gently recedes, returning from whence he came. Here’s a poem he is whispering to me now:

There’s a Prophet in My Pocket

There’s a prophet in my pocket,

And he’s always standing near,

Listening to my stories,

And then whispering in my ear,

He doesn’t long for fame,

Or simplicity of life,

He reaches for the stars,

And lends them through my strife,

His answers are so clever,

Though sometimes rather thick,

With philosophy and prose,

That pours out rather quick,

I think he’s standing near,

When I dream of what’s to be,

I think he hears me cry,

When I’m scared of what I see,

He tells me I am loved,

And that all will be all right,

He tells me to just trust,

And embrace my inner light,

I’m a beacon on a hill, he tells,

And my glow is rather bright,

And you see, he says to me,

“Because of this you fight,

The shadows that draw near,

The games they try to play,

The gifts you carry with,

They try to take away,

Be gentle with yourself,

Your challenges are grace,

Humbled in your walking,

Humbled in your pace,

Remember I stand strong,

As the shadows linger in,

Standing at the doorstep,

Readying to win,

All their twisted dealings,

All their twisted means,

They are nothing to you, Darling,

Even though it seems,

Just call on me, your prophet,

Whenever you’re in fear,

Just reach into your pocket,

And know I’m always here.”

~ Sam Craft (2012)

Much Love ~ Sam

Day Sixteen: The Bus Stop


 I pulled this out of my journals. We had to say goodbye to our beloved dog, today. And this prose reminded me of another place and time. I imagine our dog with many friends and family now, including dear Catherine.

A week before I met Catherine and was greeted by her four little ones—their faces a blush and small mouths encircled with remnants of the faded pink of popsicles—I’d dreamt of a dark-haired lady guiding me from one room to the next of a colonial-style home.  There we had walked together, with the glee-filled echoes of children’s giggles fluting down the staircase… (This is available in the book Everyday Aspergers)

Rest in everlasting peace, Sweet Scooby. Look for my friend Catherine. She’s waiting for you.

A Dog’s Poem

 

 

A Dog’s Poem (Valentines 2012)

The Reasons I Loved My Life

My luxurious golden coat of fur; everyone commented; everyone petted,

Playing keep away, and never ever giving up my fluffy toy, ball, rope, or underwear,

My handsome mug; some say I resemble the actor Richard Geer,

Deep brown bedroom eyes—for the ladies—and long lashes,

Eau de Toilette Water,

Quick leg lift, to mark my territory, even when running on empty,

The rustling sound of plastic bags and the jingling of my leash, before the spelling of W-A-L-K,

Steak,

Pawing humans on the knee to receive free all-over-body-massage,

Big, manly hugs,

Wrestling with little humans on the plush carpet,

Rubbing my butt across plush carpet,

Ignoring cat,

Reaching that itch,

Ear rubs,

Rolling in the green, green grass,

Running crazy all over the house, after a bath,

Shaking bathwater all over the humans,

The scrumptious word: Treat,

Learning the meaning of sit, wait, leave it, down, and good boy,

The one, and only time, Violet, my miniature black Labradoodle lady, was in heat, {Maybe move that one to the top of list},

Those many times I appeared sleeping, and humans would walk by, and I’d lift my one leg in the air super stiff and high, and keep it there, until someone rubbed my underbelly,

(Sigh),

Reiki,

Dog sitters,

Dog sitters leaving an entire peach pie on the kitchen counter,

Visitors,

When my hair grew back after the groomers,

When Violet had to wear those dorky purple bows in her hair because the groomer glued them to her ears; and I’ll I had to do was yank of my dorky bandana—Ha, ha,

Letting Violet eat my treats, sometimes,

Strange ladies on the road with doggy treats in their pockets,

The sand and the sea,

The tree-lined trails,

Sneaking up the steps to the trampoline,

The one time, by chance, I figured out if I reached up just right with my paw I could get the water dispenser on the fridge to squirt out,

Opening glass sliding doors with my nose,

When the humans were trapped outside because I accidently locked the sliding door with my nose,

Doggy doors,

Charging full force and knocking over the littlest human into the grass ten times in a row, everyday, for a good twelve months,

Little humans,

Blankets and pillows,

The expensive chair I adopted upon my arrival,

Grabbing a rope-toy super hard with my teeth and shaking it too death,

Rapidly torpedoing around the backyard in circles,

Dog-surfing—the van window down, wind in my fluffy face, big, teethy-smile,

That people could tell I was smiling,

Jumping over that old dog, back and forth, because it was the only way he could play with me,

My tail,

Being brave,

Slurping water from the hose,

Squirrels,

Butts,

Off-leashing at the canine park,

When I was brave enough to venture into the backyard on my very own,

Standing on my hind legs and dancing with humans,

Standing on my hind legs, reaching over the stovetop, and eating the entire pan of barbeque chicken,

Standing on my hind legs and licking the dishes in the sink,

That one chocolate Santa I found in the bedroom,

Remember?

Lounging on the first step of our swimming pool during the hot summers,

Our old backyard,

Running at the side of my male human,

Drinking out of water bottles,

Parading around the lake,

People’s smiles,

People’s love,

Steak (again),

Hearing my name,

Big spoonful of peanut butter,

Knocks at the door,

Doorbells,

Birds on the roof,

Footsteps,

Barking,

People,

The oddity of lamas and deer,

Protecting,

The last embrace felt as you kissed me goodbye,

Your faces,

Your voices,

Your touch,

Your farewell,

Your wishes,

Your promises,

Your laughter,

Your tears,

And mostly just you,

Your love,

And everything about you,

My beloved family.

Forever walking at your side,

Scoob

Our beautiful Scoob departed this world in February of 2012. I love you angel face.