In the Finding

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

367: Touched By Grace

touched by grace two

touched by grace

(Touched by Grace ~ Watercolor by Samantha Craft)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Touched By Grace

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

366: The Stream

Photo on 4-8-13 at 4.33 PM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~ Sam

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

349: My Humaness

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

320: Gentle Slumber

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