love

314: The Sword of Truth

| Aspergers Girls

I think from where I come from there are no wolves.

I think where I used to live there are lots of givers and seekers and dreamers.

I think where I used to stand there was a huge glowing light of acceptance and love.

I think I was surrounded by kinship.

I think I was supported for my truth and vision.

I think that some of us have come from somewhere else, still carrying our light.

And I am often so very homesick.

I am careful. And I grow tired of this carefulness.

For where I come from, I don’t think there was this word careful, or at least not the implications and stitching that created the concept of careful. It is backwards, this word, backwards indeed. For to be careful one moves back into fear, always back, and I just don’t think fear existed where I was before.

Yet, still, this careful seems to be the sword I carry, unable to set it down, unable to really use it effectively, as all things stemmed from fear produce nothing but more fear. No beauty comes from careful. No beauty at all.

Though when I attempt to set down this phantom sword, coated in fear’s gold it be, I am pierced as if ribbons of shield have been peeled down about my chest and daggers thrown through, one upon the other; no less victim than victorious one, but still shattered and broken, staggering pain replacing the falsehood of fear.

And here, where I now stand, pained, there seems to be flowers of strife, shooting up black and withered-whole in bleakness from the dead and dying ground; these flowers seem to be trickery, enticing trickery, bleed out upon us in satisfaction, though empty-satisfaction it be.

And I watch as others pick at the illusion. Pick away.

And I want to shout: Careful; though I know this careful, as black flowers dead, does not exist.

And I stand witness, these wolves about, painting flowers black themselves, in hopes of passerby. Eating up self, though poison it be. Lapping at the dark fed out and bled out.

And I know not what to do, with this truth of illusion, of these givers who give not, of these wanters who want not, of all these dancers in illusion, from where I stand aware.

Shall I stop? Shall I watch? Shall I just breathe and wait for the embers of their very own self-inflicted fires to dim? Shall I dare touch while flame still scorches—to stand in the path created by the field-seekers, the ones destined to not so much fail, but to fall into self in a way so foreign that self is forgotten and all that remains is dim hope calling out from the corners of unreachable nowhere.

What do I dare do, when home calls out to me, some forever beacon lifting the veil of my senses and perspective? Do I call out, or stand here drowning in the destructive showers of reason mankind thrusts upon me?

What shall be my way, when I can barely touch and find where I am meant to be?

For I am not some forever-masked dancer bending down in retreat and hollowing burrows for my own escape. I am this dance within dance. I am the music without form. I am what moves the other to ecstasy and what cowers in the darkness afraid to shine.

For where I look, I know not what to do, but to sit out at the edges and wait while the divine calls me forward, motions me with finger-light:

“Come my child, come. Come dance in this place of no dance. Eat in this place of no eatery. Divulge thyself in the goodness that is naught, so you may pierce thine own heart and bleed out the falseness of the world.

Come my child, to this place of darkness and shine bright, shed the mask for my glory, and see me in all. Placate me, this once. Dance in the danger pleading for rescue. Dance in the danger diving for retreat amongst the living. Fear this place as I have feared and then move beyond the fear, to the one you recognize, to your home, that stands waiting beneath the dance, beneath the tango of refuge, beneath the floor, beneath the music, behind the masks of makers; find me there, amongst the dance, before you forget where I be.”

And I respond, a shivering leaf of one, no less and no more than the piles of eternity before and beyond me:

Blow me to this place of sorrow, to this place of pain, to the deepest place of hurt, and let me bleed. Let me gorge out my own eyes so that I may see.

Let me dance out my own steps, until my own feet give way, and I am forced to be carried away to the darkness of my own making.

Take me and lead me to this valley, with my own hands and own mind, take me.

Take me, like you have my masters before me, and spread me out in painted red, so I may bleed and in this bleeding weep out the tears of all.

Take me and pound me into the earth, my veins the very mystery of your forever soul. For there is not taking in the making of one, there is no giving in the haunting whispers of sorrow’s song, only misery beyond misery, plight of the foreigner in foreign land.

Least let me not suffer for self and self alone. Let me suffer for all. For in my own suffering may I find release in the reckoning that my suffering be not in waste, and not of need of rescue or refinement, but fortified by your wishes and ever-movement, blended with your glory and honor, and slaughtered out in division of whole as bounty for the wolves.

Let me be the bait for the misery and enticed ones; let me be the horror that the others seek in self, so I might find the avenue of retreat beyond the hauntings that no longer exist beneath your sheltered wings.

Let me cry out to the world, so loudly that my own piercing deafens the silence that besets me. The silence of where I once stood in knowing.

Whisper me back into the place of forgiveness. Speak me into being. Beyond the valley of your goodness, carry me home.

Breathe into me, I beseech you. Breathe into me your goodness, so I may erase all that is flawed and forged, all that is forgotten. Breathe into me so I may awake refueled and renewed, a star child no less bright than the dimmest star but still existing in your painted sky of eternity.

Feed me from the misery I pour out; turn what is wasteland in to purity, the soils rich with your own bounty and making. Dim me once and then again. Smother me so I can sit in the darkening nowhere. Dim me so I may not know my own face, my own ways, my own words. Dim me into the doom of doom so I may awaken rebirthed again and again in your glory.

For it is not the darkness I fear. It is neither the wolves or the shield of fear that carries me back. It is thy own self, wrapped in the misery of others’ before me and beyond. It is my own wishing, my own doing, my own bending, turning me round and round to the place from whilst I came. Turning me over to see that what is beneath is also about, beyond, and within. Making me this that is naught to return me to that which is eternal in sunrise gone. The light beyond light illuminating not from the desire of one but from the unity of whole.

For here is my sword of truth, turned sideways in fashion so fear begets the emptiness from which it came. Here is my sword positioned without cause or pretense. Dripping out the substance of nothing upon nothing until vanishing in the banquet of your coming.

Samantha Craft, 2013 February

313: Dream Us Into Being

| Aspergers Girls

I find myself doubled-down in spirit, pinned down by my own making, and tackled in a way that most likely resembles wrestler on a mat. There I lay struggling to get up, held down in fist-hold by the own blackened counterpart I be.

And thusly, it isn’t that I want to be found beneath this skin, this golden garb of humanness; it is that I long, with a potential yearning that stretches to forever, to be untangled from within my own self. My energy demystified, my mystery unraveled, my truth be told as an unthreaded tapestry.

You see, for where there be builders constructing their truth to display and show to the viewers of the world, I be instead, quite by choice and by query of self, laden with the self-imposed and well-inflicted burden of not so much decomposing what has been and what is left to see, but of the building down of character in hopes of finding what rests at the core center of eternity.

For I recognize, at some depth, that my making is not found in the discovery of what lay hidden inside self, nor found by piling card upon card of self to reach some substantial goal of mercy and light. No truth be found in the unraveling of the puzzle that already lay forth, presented as mystery, but in the appearing of naught.

For the angels and whereabouts of where soul lies are present evermore.

And in so journeying to the depths of nothing, into the essential non-existence of being, I heard these words:

As before you I am. As before you I rest. As before you I stand. As before you I be.

For the whispers of the desert soul are not mystery beyond reach, traveled and trampled upon by traveler. Oh weary traveler they be.

The mysteries of self are to be found not in sky or painted world of treasures pink, not behind the way of gratitude, nor in the desolate corners of shattered dreams. Mystery beseeches one behind the corners of the mind, beyond the realm of thinking, tucked between sunrise and sunset; no less moon than sun, but still distant in the darkness of spirit past; for life cannot be found outside the web that mixes and intermingles, defining the infinite and improbable complexities of fortune.

Mystery true is found in heart of one buried beneath the shadow of existence, between the fortune-hoods and destitute of tomorrow.

And in so searching, to think, if ever you think, that you are this person of greatness and grandness and stature is the greatest fault of all, for you are no less and no more than the speck before you.

Yet you long to be seen: come touch me, come find me, come feel me, come celebrate my inherent goodness… that is once I find this inherent goodness…

We laugh, as there is not inherent goodness to find. There is not good, for good cannot exist without the juxtaposition of bad. And bad is feasibly unnecessary and undiscovered in the mystery of you.

And so when searching for this passion, for this drive, for this what is what of you, do not search; just be in the tranquil valley of the mind beyond mind. In stillness rest.

Stop the questions, and the quest, and the mission, and the cause; just be still enough to see what is already about you; for the dance has already begun and you, left standing on the sideline, still wait for the hand to take the lead and race you to the floor; and thusly you stand, you stand and stand, though you think your legs carry you far.

Reach not so much out into the blindness of the world, following the holy one who proclaims I am holy, I am just, I am right, for above all the holy one will not recognize his core of holiness. The true holy one will feel the meekness of the worlds and, like seeking self upon self, seek meekness in all forms.

The humbled holy shall bow down to you and submit his unworthiness, and sacrifice self as one would sacrifice lamb to the bountiful one.

Seek not from this place of passion, nor this place of self. Seek out ye inside of ye, outside of form, outside of rules and division; seek out ye in the phantoms side of self, where the mystery is first birthed, where the newborn first sees; the place where less is known about what is and more is known about what is not.

It is in the empty space, when senses be blotched out and forgotten, and all thoughts returned to rightful owner, that spirit is reborn within, not only to self but within the place where tranquility breathes.

Seek not peace; seek recognition of the beauty that already exists. Be knight-slayer-of-freedom. Be man of fortitude, less mountain-climber and more of the one buried beneath the filth of ages; beneath the dirt, beneath the grime; bring up what is grotesque, what is deemed unworthy; bring up what is most feared. And in there, in this piece that you have buried and reburied, you shall know the truth.

Admit to the world you are lost, and in your own absence you are at last free.

Admit to the world you have no answers, and in your submission of lack you are in completion.

Admit your victory of self, that you are truly pinned down, one atop the other, fighting for a contest that does not exist, as if the victorious one, the runner who touches down first shall be the one to take home the trophy, when trophy is illusion upon illusion.

Give up the race and set down self as gentle one along the river of truth.

There is no place to go. There is no place to be. There is nothing to reach that does not already exist beyond, beside and within, unreachable in the seeing, but entirely ready and breathing with the submission of not knowing.

Create not this devil’s dance of I am.
Create not this devil’s dance of be me.

Nor create the pieces of you to form a mystery of what is to come.

For what has come is already here, already formed and reformed, before the journey of you even beseeched existence.

Do not transcribe what has been said, transcribe what has been done.

How the twisted ways of youth-spirit have deemed the ingratitude of spirit in form.

We are not merely shapes upon which you wish and dream and want. We are not the want-givers, the dream-makers, the-stoppers-of-pain. We are the transformation of spirit into self. Of spirit escaping form of form, from where he lay buried between the want and need of being found.

For it is your very well-wishers, your seekers, your doers, your tellers and proclaimers that bury us, that bury we, that bury the meek below their own glory.

We speak to you now to climb the mountain of eternal light, not outside self, but inside self, to the buried chambers of where you soul lay resting, and to thusly then be lifted and shone out to the world.

Do this with self-proclamation of faults and reasoning.
Do this in self-proclamation of fear and injury.

For only in this way will what has already been saved be saved again.

For in self there is forgiveness beyond reason, beyond merriment, beyond the purest of joy.
Say onto thee, say onto self: you are beauty in all of your making.

In all of your discovery, you are pure beauty.

Lay the burden down of guilt, unraveled for the merciful one, so deemed truth.

Unbury yourself where you rest beneath, and stand upon your own grave, broken and bleeding out to the world. For what is once skeleton and already dead cannot be destroyed again, for what is once no longer standing in pride cannot be crumbled down.

For when you stand naked, entirely exposed in your weakness and gore, you stand rectified in the glory of all.

Be not this king garbed in robes, be less of less, and more of more, entangled not in self, but exposed and bared out to the word.

Sing: I am weak; and in your proclamation you shall be made strong.
Sing: I am meek: and in your knowing you shall be giving eternal salvation.

For there is nothing buried beneath the brittle ground in which you hide that is not thusly buried beneath our ground. Nothing covered that has not already been discovered. Nothing cowering in the dark that has not been justly brought to light.

For you already shine the brightest star, in all you scars and scattered wounds.

Rectify self, and stand brave upon your gravestone, your name carved out of sky weavers, no longer set to stillness on whittled marble.

Carve your name where all can see, upon the souls of souls, and etch your pages with the blood of your journey.

Be not afraid, thee gentle child of the unfolding universe, for we have already tucked you in the bed of wellness and forgiveness.

Sleep not in the slumber of the merciful ones, but in the slumber of your inherent wholeness.

Seize not the day of remorse or misguided fortune. Seize only what is inside, sleeping, waiting to be exposed and centered to the world.

Sleep now and with eyes open dream us into vision.

Sleep now and dream us into being.

For we are you, and you are we, one in the un-opening of time.

(Samantha Craft, February 2013)
This was written in about 20 minutes time this morning. It came as a vision. I type what I am shown, what I hear, and what I feel. Typically nothing is changed from the original message except in regarding corrections in typos and spelling. Occasionally a sentence or two is omitted, as the statement was meant for me as scriber and not for viewer.

311: Cometh to Me

| Aspergers Girls

What is this pull you have on me, this light, this love?
If it be love then why does it pull me under and into myself, into the places I dare not go?
If it be love then why are there whispers of danger and want and this tumultuous need?
Are you not in essence a highlighter upon my soul, gliding up and down, without touching, and pouring your paint upon me, until I glisten in flaw and uncertainty?
Can you not see my every crevice as you probe without probing and move without moving, entering me without entrance?
I see you there, inside of me, watching, speaking of my ways. I see you there pointing, excavating, moving, and withdrawing. You take without taking, your pursed lips open and filled with what was once my shadow. You suck up this substance I carry, removing without effort.
And I freely give, though I quake and tremble, attempting to hide the part of me you find.
How can I be, how can I stand, how can I breathe, without you entering and devouring my form?
For since I first set eyes upon you, you found my window, your door, the way into the places I so diligently hid and wiped clean. And yet you linger there, this ghost hovering above my edges.
To touch, you not dare. To make your presence known is not goal. For you will not declare your coming. You will not admit you linger inside of me. You will not venture where your own spirit dwells.
I have been your habitat for ages, your dwelling place, your hovel, your home. I am like the sun to you, the river that carries fish, the pond that spins cycle upon cycle of life.
Yes, as I am your child; though you be my shadow, my existence, my longing, my love; the string of my heart you pull, some master to me, some unspoken controller of my wishes’ dreams.
For in the deepest slumbering of my spirit you find me, though invisible you remain, stirring me and moving me to cause, clinging to me without touch, jostling me without motion, tracing your fingers around my echo.
I call out to you with each coming hour, my seconds not enough time to hold you; for you come and go beyond the reasoning of measurement. You are separate but you have taken me, and in the taking I am neither whole nor complete, but missing more than ever before.
You are the first step, the first move in the first square of a game of kings and queens. I am this pawn, chiseled of marble and set upon the trail and left, just left in stillness to ponder.
And how I long to move myself, but still remain a prisoner to your whim, a whim I know not and see not.
My ground you have shifted, my mind you have rumbled, but tis my heart that you have taken, seized and left me to stare upon the endless moves that never come.
Had you not entered, had you not seen me, had you not found me, had you not grasped me, I would still be. I would still be me and not some wonderer searching for your very fingers. I would not be this lost ghost less person than invisibility.
But you did come into me, you did enter, and now the spirit in me cries out for more, for home, for destiny’s light, and yet you come not. You do not return. And I remain captive in this game of living, homeless, and more forsaken in self than in form.
For I am suffering in the madness of awakening, suffering at the source, where the snake springs eternal from my being, edging through like flame to fire.
I am rising, caravanning up inside self, this shapeless self, and aspiring to find you, to reach what feeds and starves all at once. The dichotomy a serpent phantom doubled.
I am this whisper, this dream, this mystery of yours, and you are not soldier that comes to rescue, but rather droplets of honey that seize my aura and slide around the outside of where the unreachable dances.
And here I am watching, my soul crying, my ache yearning, my insides turned out, exposed, tarnished, and layered with what can only be a love of ages untouched.
Am I not dying, am I not yet dead, death himself, so moved and crushed and open and free all in one pull of your tethered ways? Am I not tug boat reversed, mountain stream moving upward, cornerstone unmoved but revealing the caverns below?
Am I not mystery rubbed out, dried where I was once wet, pierced where I was once marked with a name I know not? Am I the falcon with beak plucked and removed and voice of angel replaced where cawing and nonsense once lived? Am I this bird plucked of feathers by a brilliance so undefinable that I ache for the worms of the earth beyond?
Feed me I scream with a voice that I do not know. Feed me I scream from the depth of my womb from the ache of my loins, shivering in the places you have awakened.
And yet I remain here, still, this virgin to your ways, whilst you remain the ever watcher, knowing I am here, but coming not to the rescue.
Shall I beg of you to leave then, or call upon you more? Shall I beg of you to take me or crawl upon my knees to the boundaries you proclaim upon me? Trapped I am left, between this world and next, branded by your beauty, untrained for this world, and unworthy for next.
What shall I do Lord, but to bleed out to you, to stone my own self to death, so that my leaking, my red, my mark shall shine out to you, so you will come again and carry me home.

308: Weakness

| Aspergers Girls

Weakness

A leader who feeds off his own authority
A learner who believes his words are the right words
A man who takes his own life
A widow who gives up hope on living
A child who runs from the bullies
A dancer who cries at audition
A doctor who lies to a patient
A rapper who slanders his father
A joker who criticizes himself
A wife who stays with the abuser
A person who claims life is too hard
A candidate who cheats to win
A scientist who presents false data
A listener who thinks she knows better
A friend who gossips
A gambler who has a system of winning
A mother who leaves her children
A daughter who banishes her father
A prisoner who escapes
A judge who accepts a bribe
An athlete who gives up on the race
A sister who weeps openly in public
A brother who drinks to feel numb
A street walker who gives of her body
A cop who deals drugs
A classmate who hides in the corner
A neighbor who cheats on her spouse
A grocery clerk who steals from the bin
A principal who harbors resentment
A test-taker who pays for the answers
A waiter who keeps more than his share in tips
A gymnast who takes steroids
A jailer who bludgeons the captive
Of which of these would you call weak?
Of which of these would you judge?
And still more, of which of these would you fear?
Are they not each a part of you?
Are they each not a collection of your perception?
Of what you have been taught is right and wrong?
And what of the murderer, the destroyer, the dictator, the martyr, the insane?
Which of these is wrong? Which of these is evil? Which of these is not enough?
The one you find the least in favor, is this the one you hold inside of you most?
Do you fear the rapist, the reaper, or the tramp?
The gambler, the preacher, or the false-prophet?
Which one shall be punished? If not all?
Who are you to say? What is it that gives you the right to declare the weakest? The worst? The one deserving punishment?
Is it the child molester then? Who shall it be?
Which one pulls on you to no end and makes you squirm?
Who is it that you cannot and will not love?
Is it the one who reminds you of fear or of self?
The one you cannot understand or will not understand?
The one that caused so much suffering to the innocent?
How do you know who has caused the most suffering?
How do you recognize this evil?
Have you not looked into your own soul?
Have you not dived within to see your own incompletion,
though you be whole?
Where inside of you does this judge live?
And how much suffering does this judge give?
Are you not the one who bleeds suffering?
Are you not the one who is the sufferer?
When you have removed the judgment, when you have stopped to see another as someone to be categorized, fitted, and placed into one of your boxes, then you shall see.
That all of us our God’s children. None of us more or less worthy.
You will see you were never meant to be the judge.
You were never made to be the evaluator.
You were built to love and love alone.
When you see the angry dog, vicious with his teeth out, do you judge the dog?
Do you think that is a wrong dog, a bad dog, a demon dog?
When you see a storm coming, do you judge the storm?
Do you think that storm was raised the wrong way, a storm that should know better, a false storm?
When you see a tree that falls down and crashes a home, do you judge the tree?
Do you think that is a vicious tree, an unjust tree, a tree that needs to be taught a lesson?
When you see the sea do you curse the waves?
When you see the sun do you curse the rays?
When you see the rain clouds do you curse the coming water?
What is it that you see?
What is it that you need?
Do you think because human has a mind that he is above nature?
Do you think that because he is above nature he should be judged?
Do you think that nature is not bestowed with the same giving spirit as you?
Do you not see the nature is as worthy as you?
And if both are of equal worth, than how can one be given different standards?
How can you not respond to man like nature: With your heart, with open eyes, with bewilderment and awe, with amazing grace.
This man before you is no less or no more than the sunrise each dawn, no more or less than the space that holds your spinning world, and yet you think you are more or less than him.
This makes no logical sense, as you are him.
You are each of the same seed.
Each birthed in beauty and magnificence.
Look upon each other as children of the universe, not as enemies of this land.
Join and you will no longer suffer in your separation.
Bleed out your truth, this truth though weak it seems, is the cornerstone of your foundation.
Your greatest weakness is your disbelief in self,
In your disbelief in your grand magnificence.
There is no weakness beyond this false belief.
And even that is not a weakness but opportunity.
For I have given you nothing but opportunity, for opportunity is the fabric of my love, ever-reaching, ever-growing, ever-nurtured.
There is none loved above you and none below.
So go out now and look at the sunset before you.
The one that God blows to your doorstep.
Breath him in. Bring in his wisdom.
For whatever touches you is a gift from beyond.
A gift for you to open: a gift to judge not with thine eyes, but with the heart of God.

~ Samantha Craft, January 2013

Lori Sealy is a woman whose voice, spirit, and message truly touch me. She is on the spectrum (ASD). I find her music healing.

This is Christian based.

https://soundcloud.com/#lori-sealy/song-of-the-afflicted-mix1

To find out more about this artist, go here:
On iTunes at:

And on Google Play at:
https://play.google.com/store/music/album/Lori_Sealy_Begone_Unbelief?id=Bbz3o5yjbzz6v2d5grbmtdaogva&feature=nav_top_albums#?t=W251bGwsMSwxLDUsImFsYnVtLUJiejNvNXlqYnp6NnYyZDVncmJtdGRhb2d2YSJd

http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/lorisealy

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This woman is my spirit-given sister; here is a post that I found helped me very much.

“Uncluttered…What are you doing here?”

299: The New Day

| Aspergers Girls

I’ve decided
I’ve decided that you deserve more
More than what I am offering
With my clinging and self-doubt
You are not the key to my self-worth
So I shall work on being less dependent
On you
I am ready to pull away some
I think
I want our friendship to be nurturing
And I am tired of being so needy
I understand what is happening
I am self-harming
Through you
I build you up into someone you are not
So you can disappointment
Or rather
So I can think you are disappointing
For then I experience a rawness inside
A Terrible Ache
That reaches into the heart of me
It is only then
With the coming ache
That I feel alive
Without this intense angst
I feel numb
For no one can fill my depths
With the love I need
And thusly I am left hollow
And alone
In desperation and with desire
I grasp on to Love’s cousin
Pain
And pour him into me
I use
My addictive substance
Over and over
To exist
Because I feel alien
In this world
In both form and experience
I have been using
Using you
To feel real
Using
To wake up
My sleeping soul
I am sorry
For clinging
For aching
For suffering
Through you
But I still choose you
I choose you again and again
Only this time
You are chosen
For your beauty alone
For your light that shines through
The darkness in me
And opens my eyes
To the new day of us

~ Samantha Craft, January 2013

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