love

325: I Miss You

| Aspergers Girls

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I miss you.
I miss you as the dancer without song, spun in a room of silence.
I miss you as the hermit without retreat, exposed and without solace.
I miss you as the captured without captive, unchained but forever haunted.
I miss you as the player without drum, hands in search of familiar substance.
I miss you as the gardener without rain, tear-filled eyes beseeching sky.
I miss you as the turnip without ground, plucked and slaughtered for the water that boils.
I miss you as the treasure without gold, disillusioned by the nakedness of finding.
I miss you as the barber without scissors, staring at an empty chair.
I miss you as the window without pane, hollowed and broken on the inside.
I miss you as the crow without mate, crying black soul in isolation.
I miss you as the plate without meal, serving nothing but streaked reflection.
I miss you as the tea without water, left in form without tangible purpose.
I miss you as the hunter without prey, circling in darkened sky for fill.
I miss you as the willow without leaf, dying without that sun that feeds.
I miss you as the words without page, thoughts lost in the swell of time.
I miss you as the climber without rock, left down in the valley of longing.
I miss you as the child without train, abandoned before journey begins.
I miss you as the woman without fingers, grasping with invisible ghosts.
I miss you as the blanket without babe, sweetness stolen.
I miss you as the knife without blade, cutting through nothing.
I miss you as the clock without hands, turning for no one.
I miss you as the star without night, shining without a holding space.
I miss you.
In all forms, in all shapes, in all ways, I miss you.
I miss you as the diary without key, locked away in secrets meant for you.
~ Samantha Craft, February 2013

324: A quiet thump of faith

| Aspergers Girls

Something very interesting is happening: Every time I share something spiritual I feel as if I need to turn around and share something more Asperger-y or logical.

I am afraid to ostracize or hurt someone based on my own spiritual beliefs.

And I am afraid to offend.

I have reached a place, as of late, (a very recent as of late), in wherein I am less and less inclined to want to explain or justify my actions; not because I am angry or righteous, or think I have all the answers, but simply because I have gained a greater acceptance of self and my path.

Still, there remains a definite part of self that wishes to compile a list of reasons why I am spiritual and why I choose to share my spirituality.

It doesn’t feel ego-based, this need to explain, but more spirit-based, like a deeper region wanting to pour out.

I quarrel inside my own mind, because I don’t want my writings here (on this blog) to turn into a means of spiritual prophecy and discussion, while at the same time I do not want to deny any parts of emerging self.

I quarrel inside my own mind, because I know there is a sector of the world that still doubts there is a source or higher-self, and that when one mentions such a truth (individualized truth as it be), that walls and barriers are immediately shot up.

My intention is not to inject religious banter or rhetoric into anyone, but to express a part of my self, or soul, as you will. My intention is not to ever push my beliefs on anyone, as I know the harm this type of action can cause, and the hypocrisy involving aspects of judgment that occurs.

I am, for the most part, not a judgmental person, and thusly, I think it is improbable I could ever be a Thumper for Jesus; but quite frankly, I think that Jesus never meant for souls to be reached through blatant and oppressive means, and that He himself would be saddened and ill-stricken by the greed and want that oozes out of those that once call themselves “ordained by God.”

Of course, when it comes to certain topics, say: religion, politics, and life-philosophy, and heck, even autism, some people become adamantly vigilant and judgmental.

I think this is where there is a definite barrier between how I think and view life, and how others think and view life. Well, at least mainstream others.

For instance, I can be watching a show where terrible abuse or violence is happening, and even though I feel empathy for the victim, I do not feel judgment towards the persecutor.

I have tried. I cannot.

And it’s not that I haven’t been a victim of others’ hands myself. If I feel anything at all towards the one deemed the “wrong doer,” whether in fictional television or my own real life, it is a strong compassion for the “wrong doer” and state of affairs in his or her life that lead to this person to do said acts.

Of course, I recognize injustice and cruelty, and will make a stand in the best way I can to protect those in harm. In fact, cruelty is the reason I don’t eat meat. However, in finding the exact place to point the finger at the wrong doer is where I stray.

Take the meat industry for instance. Do I blame the breeder, the butcher, the grocery store, the restaurant, the consumer? Who is more to blame or less to blame? And how do I draw the line or hold the scale? And whose job is it to judge and determine the degree of right or wrong? For I certainly don’t think it’s mine.

This can get me into trouble sometimes, even in my marriage. Just tonight we were watching a show that depicted a country that still treats women as subordinates. My husband voiced his opinion. I could not concur. I explained that I don’t feel judgment, at least not the adamant-I-am-right type of judgment. I see too many variables, too many strings leading to other strings of theory and plausible cause. I see all the suffering in the world, in our own community and country, and I think: How do I even begin to choose which suffering is to a greater or lesser degree

And I think: How can one be blamed for something that he is taught since birth? Or another blamed for a deficit of mind or strangling of spirit?

Again, this isn’t to say I am heartless; I feel deeply for the suffering of all, and wish to lift this pain, and take it upon myself to make a difference in a way that feels natural to me. And it isn’t to say I don’t see the necessity of some having a burning, hot passion for change, for without such temperaments, change would be slow to come, if at all. I am saying I don’t have this in me, whatever this THIS be.

Whether I am right or wrong in my making, I stake no claims. But I know I am built for passive resistance of harmful intention and built to embrace and spread love. I am not built to hate.

To me life is a question without complete answers; and I have found that piling partial answers upon partial answers buries the soul. For me it is easier to give in and give up my quest to the hands of my higher power, than to search for a semblance of justice through the inevitable persecution of some.

In regards to my spirituality, my faith is my rock.

Within my faith, I know I am divine energy.

Through my faith I have been able to remedy much of my past insecurities, and likewise render myself valuable and worthy.

I cannot help but to love myself, for I am the very vessel that love pours through.

This is not to say I love the substance of me, or to indicate a prideful relationship with ego; this is merely to say I love the vessel I be; the holder of the cup, He is someone other than self, as is the substance. So it is not that I love the whole of me, but that I love the part endowed by my maker to be held and poured through.

This has brought me great peace, this acceptance of a part of self touched by divine, for I have suffered with bouts of pride over self, and have begged repeatedly for mercy and relief of self.

Once I determined I wasn’t self-incarnate, but indeed vessel for a higher-purpose, I was able to accept a part of me with adoration, while retaining what I think to be a semblance of humility. Thusly to me, my faith is my slayer of pride, at least the part of pride I am able to release and no longer hold onto.

In addition my faith, explains to me, at least to a vast part of self, that who I am is okay and what is happening is okay.

I believe things happen as they are meant to be. This does not meant if an infant is sick and passes away that I stand and proclaim that all is meant to be, for there is still a degree of suffering that occurs that feels unjust and painfully cruel. Life can be cruel, just as life can be powerfully divine.

But I do agree with the Eastern ancient messages found in the proverbs and folk tales that explain that nothing can be deemed beneficial or bad, because with the passing of time all perceptions of events change.

I am a cup half-full kind of gal; always have been, always will be. There is no way around this. And this, too, to a lesser degree, is why I seek out a higher purpose. For there has to be a higher purpose to substantiate all the suffering in the world, or I simply could not exist one more moment.

I believe, too, in miracles.

I hold onto miracles, like I hold onto destiny, and in turn hold onto faith. I have these three as not my crutches, but my strongholds: the sails that never fade and never tear and move me through the sea of my days.

So where I would like to have my writings, at times, not describe the elements of my faith and belief systems, I think with my extreme, say “pathological,” honesty, that this absence of an aspect of me would be an impossibility.

However, I repeat, I would rather no one think I am trying to push my belief systems onto him or her, as I know the harm and drudgery that such self-serving and righteous indoctrination can hinder.

Yes, I hold Jesus in my heart, but my heart is big and there is room for a lot more company. My Jesus likes company. He likes compassionate souls of all race and creed.

It is mankind that put Jesus asunder and twisted His truth through profiteering, slander, misconduct, greed, and mistranslation of His word. I know this with every bone in my body, and often become disheartened that I live in a time where man has the means to turn the very representation and embodiment of forgiveness and sacrifice into sin, or at least the common understanding of “sin,” as even this word at root has not been accurately transcribed and translated.

And so it is, I share a piece, though a small piece it be, of my thoughts. Not so much to help the reader, but to dispel some my own whispers of mind, the old whispers from long ago, reminding me to be careful and to watch where I step, as the wolves are about. The whispers that would rather me hush than rush to share my truth.

For you see, it isn’t really that I have a choice. I have never had a choice but to be me. The only main difference now is that if and when the whispers resurface I know and recognize that I have a legion of angels at my side.

319: The Cloth

| Aspergers Girls

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“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.

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.
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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/