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.

Day 101: The Crystal Glove

Suggestion: Play the video above while reading.

The Crystal Glove

When my physical body is nurtured through love and balanced eating, I remain in an air of light and floating love all day. It is the most wonderful natural high imaginable. When I walk on this air of light and love, I sometimes awake at three in the morning and experience a rainbow of rapid images and messages. I sense this is a download from spirit.

Last night’s lesson and vision was about LOVE.

We are coming into a time where we need not fear the spoken word love. A time where we can readily and rapidly send light and love to anyone and anything. We have the capacity within to embrace the world with love.

Today, I am overwhelmed with love. There are times I feel an automatic connection to a person. This, to me, can be confusing, and feel a bit overwhelming. Especially if I recognize inside at a very deep and profound level that I’ve known this person for what feels to be an eternity.

I want to shout out: I know you! I’ve seen you in my dreams! I’ve been waiting for you! I understand you! Let me walk at your side!

I now understand my Aspie-ness stems from LOVE and a profound desire to want to connect. I long to reach my roots down and expand through the moist soil. I want to spring my branches forth in all direction. I want to be shade and joy—the wooden swing for the child, the lookout for the soul. In having this love inside, I sometimes burst. I cannot stop this. This bubble of love is beyond me. In seeing my spirit in this light of love, I understand now why I clung to others. Regardless of their shape, size or status, I clung because I am drawn to light. I see the light in them, and I want to be there, in the light with them.

In the past, I was hurt, because I clung on in hopes of returned love. I hoped in giving love to be  filled with love. If love was not returned to me in the same way—the same capacity—I thought something was wrong with me. If people did not respond to my love like I wanted, I became confused and hurt.


Now I understand clearly the key is giving out love without expecting or longing for anything in return.

Last night I was filled with inner-love, bathed in light. Now in return I pour out love to others without expectation. I learned that in releasing the control of love, my love multiplies a thousand times more.

I learned that with society today, love is sometimes a frightening word. Something to be owned or rationed. As if love had boundaries and limitations.  Love is limitless. Because of fear, and fear alone, people carry love, but  don’t speak of love. Fear is the bars of love.

Imagine a man standing with a ball and catching glove. The ball is love in essence, in purest form. The man is clutching the ball in his glove. He does not want to give the essence away until he knows many things. He does not want to toss the ball until he questions: Where is this ball going? Who will receive it? Who will benefit? Will I benefit? Is this okay? Am I wrong? In what form is this essence? In what form will it be received? Will the essence be returned as I wish? Will the essence not be returned?  Will the essence be understood? Do I have enough to give away? Will I be left lacking? Should I throw my ball? Should I wait?

And the inner-dialogue, the clutching of essence continues. The ball is clutched so tightly into the glove that the man does not have open glove to receive. Until he throws his ball, his glove remains cave-in, shrunken, and unattainable.

This is the image I saw:

I saw a person with a glove. But there was not one glove. There were infinite gloves. The gloves were open wide and surrounding every facet of the person’s aura. This person was continually sending balls (love essence) into the universal field. The gloves were each made of clear crystal. The crystal gloves were open, so they could each receive abundance of love. Yet, because they were crystal, they only absorbed the light, everything else not of light and love was repelled off of them and dissipated into the universe. I then saw my being, my aura, my light, surrounded in thousands of crystal gloves, one after the other, shielding me.

Today I detach from fear.

Today I visualize pure love.

I send love without motive or questioning.

I keep my gloves open.

I openly receive the universal love and openly dissipate all that is not of love and light into healing form.

I shine with crystals surrounding me.

I resonate in high vibration.

I am energized.

The more I release love, the more love returns.

It is only when my glove is clutched closed that I am unable to receive.

I choose to remain open in a perpetual motion of releasing essence and accepting essence.

I need never close my glove to catch and receive.

Nothing is caught.

To catch implies to trap.

To catch in a glove implies to cut out light.

Everything is absorbed.

The essence is absorbed straight through the center of my glove.

The crystal protects me.

The love feeds me.

Yesterday, through the help of a friend, I became aware that my deep capacity to LOVE is a gift. My gift is from source. When feeling some fear yesterday over the intense love I feel for people at moments, my friend explained to me that this intensity is because I have this gift.  I recognize that my love is not something I need to hide in the darkness of a closed glove. My love is glorious.

I saw in my vision that the key to healing is mankind learning to love unconditionally. I saw that so many carry closed gloves and fear LOVE. This is a dichotomy in the greatest sense. This is confusion and the grandest of illusion. LOVE is never fear. LOVE is never wrong.

Love cannot hurt. Only the shards of broken illusions hurt.

Love is less pure when motive is attached and expectations, but even then LOVE is LOVE. Love is the only element that cannot transform. The only element that grows the more love is transmitted. Love is in everyone waiting to be transmitted. We only need open our gloves.

Part of what has been labeled and perceived as Aspergers, is largely a HUGE capacity to love. I understand there is never any fault or wrong in loving a person. I was put here at this exact moment to  love. When I share my love, I am in element. When I do not, I suffer. When my gloves are closed tightly, I cannot experience the beneficial love. Today I remain with my gloves open. Today, and in all ways.

I invite you to open your glove.

This is for those of  YOU who recognize someone in this lifetime that you KNOW you have loved for a thousand years. (AlienHippy) :  )))

Day 90: To Watch the Buffalo

Taken by Samantha Craft
Everyday Aspergers

The dreams I had last night! Slumbering images that stretched into the night. Dreams in which I floated weightlessly in delight. Dreams in which some entity telepathically painted living pictures containing the secrets of the universe before my mind’s eye.

Before you second-guess my experience, note that I did inhale a half-bar of chocolate with espresso chunks yesterday, and I am on this new pig hormone for my hypothyroid, so I can only conjecture what is occurring at a cellular-level.

Crazed by caffeine or hormone overdose, or not, the dreams were mighty spectacular. Beings of light revealed that the world as we know it is a grand illusion! We are creating our reality. They explained that through my thoughts and where I choose to travel in my thoughts, I create my experience in this world.

In my last dream I was a passenger on a large windowless tour bus at a wildlife park. I was struggling to take photos of the upcoming buffalo and my camera battery was missing. A man sat across the aisle examining my actions. I quickly pulled out a notebook and began sketching the buffalo, until the man across the way said gently, “Just be. Enough. Just be.”

by Samantha Craft

I awoke with a greater understanding that my current sense of reality is based on my perceptions and established names and labels. My mind accepts a proclaimed and/or majority-recognized truth as a fact and a reality, and continually partakes in a constant quest to organize, categorize, and understand. Having a brain with “Asperger’s” traits, I imagine my brain is working double-time to sort out fact from fiction, all the while knowing everything factual is dependent upon the observer and the collective history of the observer.

I am awakened to a new truth, whether a passing, a fleeting, or a permanent truth, I do not attempt to know. My truth lies in freedom, in an understanding that freedom is created when I allow self to be. Or more specifically, not even allow, but just be.

To obtain peace, the baffling-cycle of trying to understand my life and my self must be released.  The more I attempt to process and solve, the more confused and agitated I become. For every step forward in thought, I move backwards two steps in agitation.

At the moment, I am pondering this notion of nonexistence, the nonexistence of time and the nonexistence of months, and the nonexistence of anything and everything. I am examining the manifestation of reality: how words and symbols, and sounds, create. I’m thinking on my middle son’s recent inquiry: What if an animal exists that is a different color or form than we know, and we don’t yet have the capacity to see those specific colors or forms?  Is the animal then invisible to us because we don’t recognize those aspects? And in truth, does the animal even truly exist, if we cannot conceptualize it?

I’m wondering about society. Wondering if the act of plastering more and more warnings about illness, war, and fear in our mailings, in our media, on our shirts, on our billboards, in our books and documentaries—is by default creating a reality filled with more suffering. If words, symbols, and sounds create, then what is our society creating? Perpetuating? Bringing to life?

I’m wondering if we were saturated with positive messages, symbols of love, uplifting affirmations, and confirmation of our safety everyday of our lives, if we could create a world blossoming in calmness and peace.

I’m thinking society has had some things backwards for a very long time, now.

A corner of Buddhist philosophy explains how we can never quite see the whole of ourselves, and postulates, if we cannot see the whole of our being, then we cannot with validity claim we (as a singular being) actually exist in whole. The whole of me is impossible to capture on camera, in the mirror, or even from the viewpoint of an observer. There is always an aspect of me missing, perhaps the sole of my feet or my backside. I am never in completion. And nothing I set eyes upon is in its entirety either. As hard as I try, I cannot see the whole of you. I cannot see the whole of nature—the whole of a tree or a flower. However I search, there is always an element of the wholeness missing.

My mind, too, will always find the element of the wholeness of reality missing. Because the wholeness is not there to find. My mind attempts to construct and complete the picture of wholeness. My reality is constructed to completion only inside my mind, not outside my mind.

In reflection:

(1) I have been trying to figure me and life out like some gigantic puzzle. Only all the puzzle pieces aren’t available.

(2) I have been so seriously attached to finding solutions to life and following manmade rules that I have built a lifetime of memories of no fun.

(3) Since I have collected hardly any happy-go-lucky memories, my mind has no place to retreat to except to the wicked, sad, dismal past or the fears of the wicked, sad, dismal future.

(4) In order to find retreat in the present moment, I would benefit by establishing happy moments and releasing the analytical, fight-or-flight based existence.

(5) I honor my journey, where I have been, where I am going, and where I now stand.

(6) Everything is unfolding at the absolute beneficial time.

(7) I set myself free to be a passenger of life and not a solver of life.

(8) I don’t have old baggage; I have an overstuffed, overused backpack of notes and observations.

(9) I give myself permission to leave the backpack behind.

(10) I give myself permission to do nothing more than to watch the buffalo.




I love how the universe works. I found this quote while reading a blog I follow (Life Just Is). 

“A human being is a part of the whole called by us universe, a part limited in time and space. He experiences himself, his thoughts and feeling as something separated from the rest, a kind of optical delusion of his consciousness. This delusion is a kind of prison for us, restricting us to our personal desires and to affection for a few persons nearest to us. Our task must be to free ourselves from this prison by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty.”

–Albert Einstein

by Samantha Craft

One of the best movies of the 1970’s. Bless the Beasts and the Children

Day 78: I Sail On

I awoke with an awful anxiety. This I recognize as a pressure that cries to be released. Though there remains this fine line in what I truly want to pour out on these pages and what society expects, accepts, and wants.

In some ways I’ve turned this blog into another player in my game. This game I’ve played since I was old enough to know that if I was nice enough, funny enough, and interesting enough, people would pay attention to me. And in turn, if I exhibited too much honesty, was too revealing, or too straightforward, people would reject me, or worse, simply disappear.

A woman with Aspergers remains a constant actress. There is no escaping this. And to me this is the thorn of having Aspergers. I continually scope and evaluate. I look at others’ actions and responses, more so than many can phantom. Some of the observations breed questions, a continual whirlwind in my mind. I wonder the simplest of thoughts, such as what was the motivation behind that person’s comment to more complex thoughts of what is the motivation behind my writing.

My mind forms a tumble weed of sorts, spinning and rounding the field, pushing up dust and debris. The child in me watches in fascination, the driver, the one avoiding the tumbling of thoughts, tries best to steer away. Still in the distant, regardless of my view, the tumbleweed remains spinning.

Some might think: Write what you want. Who cares what people think.

If only I were so simple. If my mind worked in the aforementioned fashion, this blog wouldn’t be a blog about a woman with Aspergers. I guarantee that.

With Aspergers one of the biggest burdens is: Thinking about what you are thinking about me. It’s not narcissistic or selfish. It stems from wanting to be seen, be valued, be loved, and be recognized for who I am. It stems from not wanting to be misjudged, misinterpreted, misunderstood, ostracized, dejected, alienated, stabbed in the back and persecuted. It stems from a lifetime of recognizing I don’t quite fit in with the mainstream, and if I don’t learn the norms, the unspoken rules, and then pretend to a degree and assimilate, I never will fit in.

It comes down to the options of fake a little or break a little. And I’ve been broken. The little bit of faking leads to a little bit of guilt, and continued self-analysis and reasoning of how to be a better person.

In a lot of ways I am in a perpetual state of figuring out how to be a better person. I recognize I’m good enough. I recognize I’m beneficial. I love me. Those aren’t the issues. The issue at hand is trying to be seen by you in the same way I see myself. This barrier remains, this veil that divides us all, and how I long to merge with others and be entirely one.


At times, having Aspergers is a feeling liken to being an ugly duckling that transforms into the beauty of swan, only swan is wondering why ugly duckling was not good enough for the world. Why ugly duckling has to be swan to be loved.

I extrapolate there is much shame inside of me. This shame is a part of me. I don’t see shame as wrong or needing fixing. I don’t’ see any part of my life as wrong, wasted, or unnecessary, and certainly not bad.

The shame stems from wanting to be as authentic and real as humanly possible. Only in being human, I have a mind that wants to protect me.

I want to be a ship in the night that sails with all the other ships in a forging fleet across the ocean waters; I don’t want to be a lone ship. But if I am myself in total, I will likely be cast out to the rough waters, banished from the refuge of loving souls.


The fear arising today is a fear based on the future—a fear of not knowing which route to take, how to steer, where to go. I recognize this fear. I wave to it. I speak to it. And in so doing, I lessen fear. But the specks that remain speak volumes and still haunt me.

I have this spirit inside of me that both longs to share her soul and light but that also longs to retreat into a hovel where no one can penetrate my skin.

This fear rises in thought of where my writings are traveling. Who reads these words. And what is to become of these words.

My dream is to publish, whether through self-publishing or a literary agent. But this, I am certain is many writers’ dreams. I feel guilt in dreaming. A concept I don’t quite grasp.

Still I dream.

And in my dreaming I do find hope. In another reading these words, I find hope. And so I sail on; whether lone ship or in the company of masses, I sail on.