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386: Reluctant Mystic

| Aspergers Girls

Reluctant Mystic

WE are all mystics. This truth frees me.

I have been undergoing deep spiritual wisdom and I am joy-filled. I find I am in a state of grace, in which I experience no fear, no anxiety, a sublime inner peace, deep compassion, and a sense of union with all. I have been experiencing this peace for about eight or nine days now. Sometimes for a minute or two, and sometimes from early morning until late afternoon.

I wrote this to a new friend:

“I rarely fear what others will perceive me to mean or how they will see me; what I feel now is an actual bodily sensation and energetic blockage if I share something that does not fit my perfect peace and demonstrate my state of being; it is as if I contradict my higher self, and am pulled back from this place of well being; I struggle to explain it; it is no longer fear of representation of self, something I struggled with my entire life, but an uncomfortableness that reminds me I no longer walk that way in the world and in touching down in those “old” shoes I am left blistered. There is no judgment of self or regret, only a calm serene recognition; I no longer aspire to please any one but the Spirit that dwells within, and this is divine and sublime freedom; when I speak with His voice all thoughts are banished and I am in a state of pure grace; when I do not, it is better to keep my mouth closed and to connect again to His kingdom, as I know not what I do. In having removed the blindfolds, I can no longer, in comfort, walk blinded; and thusly, I see myself stepping further back from what I once knew as truth and time, and all else. It is interesting indeed, yet, divinely peaceful, as if the thoughts of before and beyond have all been swept out of my head; I cannot think beyond the moment in most instances; as when i do I slip into a place of discomfort; here I look at the pain and illusion and release gently, and am instantly back to peace.”

Most days a truth seems to be radiating from within. In these moments there is an underlying unity with no ego. It doesn’t feel like something that I obtained or ever tried to receive. It comes upon me without effort, yet I am aware and can control the process, as in moving myself out of the state, if I wish it so.

Throughout the day my hands vibrate to a degree that my husband can feel the sensation. It is a definite non-conceptual experience and union with alternate reality. I feel not as a separate I anymore and luminous with no boundaries. I have become unattached and uninterested in many external things. Time seems to stop and even physical areas seem to shift. I can understand complex readings of spiritual texts with little effort and Holy readings seem very familiar and resonate deeply within. There are multiple synchronicities and miracles in my life.

Each message I am given from spirit has a depth like a well. Perhaps I am a transcendent being outside of time. Perhaps inside of time, or beyond time.

The easement out of this state is becoming easier, as I am learning to recognize and accept all aspects of myself. In the state I am ever thankful, and all seems as it is meant to be. When I am out of the state, I am learning to let go of over-analysis, finding the “rules,” the “right” way to act about this experience, or to find answers.

Regardless of my state of mind, it is hard for me to write anything anymore with outcome in mind.

If fear strikes at all, outside the state of grace, it is very short lived; and interestingly, the fear usually is associated with aspects of how to serve for the betterment of all. I am reminded to just be, and then this fear is too lifted.

I continue to have extreme peace about everything and everyone in my life. I continue to feel the radiating sensation throughout my body, especially in my spine, scalp, hands, and feet. I hear my angels regularly; and beyond when I am writing, I hear few thoughts in my head anymore.

I have a deep heartfelt desire to relieve suffering of others and continually recognize the union of us all. And can think of little beyond my God and Holy Spirit, and my love for others. Even the daily routines no longer take center stage. I seem to be able to see my children and husband for the first time. I have a new fondness for everyone. I don’t think about the future much, and when I do the contemplation seems to almost hurt. The past seems to fade and melt with today.

When thoughts arrive, I can be observer and release the thoughts. My mind has never been so peaceful. To me this is a miracle.

I am finding much comfort in reading spiritual works and listening to the recordings of mystics. Even out of the state of grace my anxiety seems to be almost invisible. This is extremely fascinating. I have a hard time planning anything or want for planning. I have a hard time even trying to worry, beyond when I am processing through something, and then, through processing all worry is released.

I notice that a heavy amount of food will transition me out of the state of grace.

The visions still keep coming at three in the morning, beautiful scriptures of poetic love. I know I am being taught at a subconscious level and I slip in and out of consciousness.

This month I did not experience the mood shifts that normally accompany my PMS/PMDD; I did experience physical pain, and still am, but this is the first time in over a decade that I do and did not feel sorry about being in pain. Sometimes my pain even feels good, as odd as that sounds. I was told by Spirit to write to avoid the emotional pains that come with PMS. I did, and did not have any depression, sense of inadequacy, or fear about my life. I had no fear or doubts about my appearance. For the first time I have little to no fear in crowded places. I am less concerned with what people think of me. I don’t feel like all eyes are judging me. I don’t feel the center of the world anymore; I do not long to be. I have never had so much peace in my life. The only peace I don’t have is when I step out and try to figure anything out.

I hold much peace and love for everyone and the love appears to be an equal love. I feel I am nothing and everything. Regardless of my physical state or circumstances, I remain centered and balanced. If emotions come, a part steps back and remains the constant kind observer, balanced and at peace.

I don’t have the need to process with other people, beyond demonstrating my thought processes to help others.

If I am stuck or stagnant, this sensation happens when I get caught up in what rules I am supposed to be following, e.g., which sect. which spiritual practice, which religion to guide me through this divine process. I am leaning on Biblical teachings and my understanding of Buddhism, and on semblances of other aspects that feel like “truths” to me. I have become less concerned with the right path and have been embracing my path. I love myself completely. I rarely have even a moment of feeling low about who I am as a being.

My life feels entirely meaningful and I feel fulfilled. I feel authentic. I feel like me. And I like me. I feel blessed with abundance and with gratitude.

I feel I am transitioning more each moment.

I understand this is beyond what my mind can grasp or comprehend. I understand peace is within and I understand I have found it.

I understand the concept of: I don’t know.

I am accepting I likely will never know.

***

This was written this morning while in a state of prayer. It has no purpose, except what the reader chooses to interpret. Blessings and Love ~ Sam

There is a subtle difference in the application of peaceful measures. One who speaks from the true foundation of peace is therein filled readily with peace. When word is released from ego, both the receiver and taker (person talking), are in opposite; that is to say the receiver, being the one interpreting word, and the taker, the one who believes to be giving word, are both reversed.

The one who believes to be giver is in the act of giving from ego, in actuality (beyond illusion) is taking from the ears that beget his fallen words, wherein the receiver, sheep for the taking, is made lesser to a degree judged in the blindness of gift.
When one speaks of truth from the foundation of truth, he shall beyond measure be rewarded, and when one speaks of truth from the foundation of ego, truth turned inward to shine the light on the illusion of ego then only the fear of illusion shall be fed.

All truths given for the taker, (all the times the person talks to only give back to himself) thusly meaning all takers whom mask themselves as equal taker as giver, or beyond this degree move self into giver in order to receive, are undoubtedly partaking in the making of illusion. All making of illusion turns the blight into the fight and the wanderer is further decreed lost by the observer of no self.

This is to mean, if one is to give of self for the causation of recognition, he is no less giving than taking, and if one is to receive from this masked-illusion, he is no less relieved than suffered in degree of variable actions. Causation breeds reaction. Therefor what is spoken from fear breeds hatchlings of fear.

There is no turnabout in illusion; the fancy ways are amazing in breadth and depth, unless lifted into the light and vanquished from the spirit’s taking. How then one proceeds is with cautionary measure without caution; for if one is to remain in a state of caution and pretension, motivation spurred in fear, then one is dutifully fully trapped.

In this way caution is found in circumstance alone. Each piece presented as the measuring degree of the puzzle-master. Picture thee thusly so: A master of thy own collection. See in this way scattered images, each broken by the observer, and in perceived need of mending; search out the broken and the broken comes; search out the whole and the whole arrives.

Circumvent your awareness through the deliverance of whole; speaking thusly from a place of wholeness beyond broken. As each member devours his place, taking in what is before him, each member takes in what is illusion. In seeking the pieces the whole is forgotten, in beckoning the whole, the whole is remembered.

Various means are available for finding the whole, in this is determined by the state of illusion; if one desires to merge forward, one shall; if one desires to slip to a state which resembles stepping behind, one will; for with each step, though alluded into believing the traveler moves, he justly stands upright in a state of non-motion, neither ending or beginning what he is thought out to do.

There for being in a state of peace, the believer no longer desires to step, as he recognizes in so doing he is slipped into a stream of nonexistence. Better to stand in observation than to make plans for a stagnant stance to move ahead or below, or hither to any corner, as the stagnant one recognizes the truth comes from beyond and within, before the movement is created.
Still we variably dance, to and fro, gathering our collections, as to be a part of this world, until we step and with each step our body is met with the resistance of naught. Then in the making of whole, the traveler knows that to step, whether in taking or in full measure of claiming, is to both untie and tie the body in knots; that is to say the body becomes less warrior and fighter, than dreamer trapped in submission of naught.

He has no place to move and in so seeing this stagnation he sets his burden down and simply ceases to move. This can be seen as submission, though in truth no submission is required; to imply the need of submission, is to imply there is something to give or release; when one is moving in illusion the illusion is fabricated and carries no body of self or other tangible attributes; therein if one perceives self to be in a state of submission, he sees self as releasing something; this is an impossibility, as nothing is birthed from illusion, and therefore no gifts of illusion are brought forward in recognition.

Here in this state of unburdening of illusion the body is unwound and loosened of much pain; for in laying the burden down the space left open from the freedom state is now siphoned full with the Spirit. Here in this state of not being, the peace is found, and from here the peace of foundation is spoken.

All else, whether broken and collected from the onlooker or pieced together by the collective masses is falsehood; for one who speaks for anything other than the eternity poured within speaks of nothing; for the one filled with illusion speaks illusion. This is not to say the speaker is false, or judged solely in the wrong; for no judge is present and thusly no judgment feasible; this is to say, one dances with the ghost of reason, illusion garbed in multi-colored garments.

The one who dances in peace is the one who has replaced illusion with silence. To move forward through the silence, is to move. In this way stagnation is relieved from the secondary illusion and all is brought back to fullness; the heart made ready for reception and filled with the inhabitance of substance.

Before this is made true, the avenue is made weary, the road made ghastly, and the inhabitance echoed ghosts of torment; here in this state, the one, wanting escape, gathers the pieces and creates puzzle after puzzle, only to form false illusion; in this state he at last submits to the chaos of unstructured and establishes within and about self that the answer must remain somewhere other than outside in the missing and detested pieces.

Here he begins to journey away from the images, and wearily traces his fingers back to soul print, to the journey marked out within, in the blueprint of awareness. Before this awakening he will choose many falsehood, each markedly different than the other; there will be a thought of ascension, of reaching the ready point of rapture, of climbing to the mountain peak, of almost reaching; but this is an impossibility for one does not reach or aspire to reach that which is already given within.

No man is made without the marking of destiny; each soul marked with the dissension and ready-ment. All who heed the call ascend to the outer region of self, which is both inside and without self; the two elements of illusion designed to inspire and create a house of Light that in its infiniteness is feasibly inoperable in means of expressing the divinity; therefore as physician of the world, the layman is set in the house of self, a representation of the house of all, to do deeds of upbringing and de-service; the counter of service, as all reflected in the light serves not of one but all.

In speaking the term service is used; except in definition alone the entire concept is not one of service but of miracle-making. Therefor the musicians of merriment, whether named angels or walking spirits of life force, or the variety of doldrums that can be applied to something so magnificent are representations of spirit in true form, a reflection of the very window of self, no less, no more.

Blinded in the walking, many do not see this as justly so; but when mercy rises, for mercy sake alone, from the foundation of peace, from the one unfilled and refilled with Spirit and His calling, then salvation is formed by the spirit of awakening, walking not in a state of pieces, or uplifted from the misery of the variable world, but in a state of emptiness, filled only with the grace instilled from the filtered waters of most high.

384: The Baptism of Grace

| Aspergers Girls

. The Baptism of Grace

. All is well that never ends. The flow of the passion is divine in its awareness of unity and wholeness. No two ever need be separate again. No two need fear. No two need want. The separation ceases.

. At the beginning the one, still seeking the whole, drifts above and about and feels the extreme isolation of souls. Here she feeds in the torment of recognizing the agony of separateness; this is truly her feeding ground. The rapture is so intense the visions explode, the voices come nonstop, the pulsating life force bleeds out of her creation. Nothing is ever enough to erase the agonizing pain of being one and only one, while almost touching the All. Here she cries out in the deepest ways for connection again. Not for self but for All; and she remains here until her cup runneth over to the degree of plentitude that in drowning and drowning in the blended equal measure of sorrow and love, she must escape. She must return.

. And there in her waking all is altered: the shape of the space before her, the faces of places, the beings about. Nothing remains of the illusion; and she, as if spaded out of the depths of darkness, is ripened and growing, spreading out the vines that bear the fruit of wealth collected in gratitude; until her very roots penetrate her traveling soul, and she becomes all of what was before the separation.

. Here she begins to balance, to remain in the outer layer and inner layer, both within herself, witness to the masses, and without herself, hearer of the divine. And here, in this state of grace she is the grandest weaver of the All, capable of collecting in her arms the All, and releasing it out to the All; so that she gives without giving, and receives without receiving; moving as naturally as the wind through the forest glen, her greenery the very hatchlings of her goodness.

. She does not have to know. She does not have to know anything. She does not have to think of the past, the future, or even the now. She can just be and experience without thought. She can view the surroundings and disrobe the illusion cast upon the masses. Stare at the tree until the separation is extinguished; no longer the trunk, the limbs, the leaves, the green, the tree; behold what is beneath not knowing, the treasure the newborn beholds before she is immersed in an imaginary land of separation.

. All thoughts stop, and the eternal flame of love springs forth. The angels whisper, the heart beats grander, and the gentle glide of sensation vibrates up and down the outer regions of the back; the head, when upright, radiates in tingling sensation, the end of limbs embrace with flowing, nurturing energy. The being radiates with a goodness so sublime, she would gladly shed the façade of “AM” for the truth of “All.”

. In a state of grace everyone is beautiful, everything about them the lost treasure sought out the whole of life; only in this divine rapture of serenity, in the blanketed cradle of goodness, the one united recognizes that all is here and was never gone. She sees the past and future mingled, and the memories faded. All together she is combined into self, until she is no more. Blended into the divine knowledge of perfection and love, able to reach out to the other she be; not the parts, as no parts exist, but into the effervescent flow of what she once thought was another.

. There is no need to be anything or anyone. The one doesn’t desire to know where she is headed, what she is creating, whom she is affecting. No longer at the wheel, as she never was; no longer burdened by thoughts of need and want; no longer believing love is a separate action of give and take, a game with a paddle in which one gives out and waits hungrily to receive.

. In having received abundance and overflowing in peace, she needs, if need be, only give out what is within; and even in thinking so, she knows it is not she whom gives; for the one has receded back as the tide of the ocean, resting in the bounty of father sea, and allowing the rest to move forward that is no less a part of self than the air all breathe. She need only release and be, and the love abounds within and without. The more given, the more she is embraced. Thusly, she lives within a never ending flow of nurturing love.

. Just as the waters of the world, she cannot be diminished but is continually transformed into a recognizable form, whether collected, flowing, or pouring down into the valleys, she remains substantiated and full, entire in her being.

. Without expectation and the thought of outcome, she is entirely free. In forming a union with the life force, the one is riveted to the One of All, and in so being made strong and mighty. All meekness demolished, all humility firmly fastened, all littleness undone; her ways marked by the passion to serve.

. There is no goal setting in serving and no sacrifice too great. As sacrifice itself diminishes in the Light of Love; in being One there is nothing Love asks or takes, nothing given or received. All is, and in being so, all is remarkably at ease.

. Gone is the give and take of the world; gone is the guilt, the martyrdom, the pride that calls out to the world: Look at what I do for you, my sister, gone with the jester greed that gobbles at the side of the weak and collects its bounty. Missing are the ribbons of recognition, the falsehood of empty-vessel longing to be filled by illusion of grandeur.

. Once filled, there is no more to collect and no less to remember. Stepping back from the self, a new oneness is formed; the one searched for eternity and a day, and then erased from time itself; until the eyes of naught see tis only a blink that passed, the time between the first opening of eyes.

. Judgment begins to be a distant mystery, and here anger joins the side of what was naught. The ego is spread out in its ailments; each toxin leaked out and drained for the glory of knowing.

. The shadow keepers no longer haunt that which is naught, an invisible ghost no less for the coming than the going; for they move in a fashion so irregular and circumvented by causation and reaction that their spindly fingers cannot point to where the one of movement moves; for she is the cyclic force now, the beating center of the earth, that flows as the rivers and the seas, dictated not by her own desires, but by the pull of the moon and the moons beyond moon. The deepening connection forgers her into the very mountains herself, her camouflage becomes the rock of the world, her heart the very place in which the center bursts forth the force of creation.

. Nothing can stop the outpour of love; the force is entirely fierce with the kindness of ages forged through the varying element. Each is an outburst of destiny recreated, each a coming of what is and what was.

. Every relationship is refined and undefined. The truth merges into the one. The One merges into the truth, until no two exist and one stands firmly on the rock of knowing.

. There is a grace that occurs that is indescribable in measure and equally astounding in fortitude. The witness steps back and remains as constant observer, becoming gatekeeper, where she was once the rams head. Where she once burst through, ramming herself into the other, she now sets back and lets the nothingness of self speak out for the world.

. In this place of naught, nestled by the angels, she glances down at the world she knows, watching her vessel move, no more a part of the game of wanting, and instead partaking in a game of no chance, no victory, and no venture. She just is, this perfect being moving where she is taken, by a force unmistakably pure, her own self-righteousness bled straight out of her and made fertilizer for the grounds.

. If want enters, in his mask of fear, or fear enters in his mask of want, the poison is felt as sure as the deepest needle; and she need only wish it away with simple thought, to displace the element with the element of pureness; and then, in seeing this so, all becomes illusion, and she is brought up upon high and bathed in the love of her master, where He is beset in His glory beside her.

. And though she be angel baptized in the waters of translucent awareness, she also be the rest: the valley, the mountains, the deepest caverns, the wondering souls about; she be the very brother she beholds, and the very breath he breathes; and in seeing her own being beaded on the strings of eternity, her every part speaking and shining from the All, she wants nothing more than to create for this All what is the All within; to paint upon the soul of the masses, the painting before her, the goodness she abounds in.

. For she is no more and no less than the cyclic force bringing her outward and inward, cleansing her with each encounter and each road in which she bares her burden down.

. Fear sleeps. Nothing seems important anymore. Urgency ceases to exist, and when he comes it spikes the soul in its heights and in its pressure. Urgency rises and falls, the spike of the chart that surges upward in splotched ink-red and the spike of the iron that grounds into the dirt announcing its coming. There is nothing of nothing, and so in the coming of “something “ the heart beats again, the blood pulses, and the being that was, she is reminded of the world of chance, the world that moves for the creation of not One but of one. The smallest element undefined and set out for the wolves.

. Here and only here, in the state of the smallest element undefined, the fear reenters, still as phantom-dressed as before. As no fear exists in the realm of realm; it is only in the bringing of the warrior returned that the fear comes. For no fear enters that which is naught.

. Knowing the fear knocks only when the feet are touched down on the soil of man, then the witness can harness her horse, the steed, and march forward as brave knight demolished once more, crumbling to the ground and vanquished in demise.

. For to let the fear enter and kill the illusion is optimal. To bring fear in, hold fear, eat fear and digest fear, proves two-fold: it eliminates the illusion of self and refortifies the want of naught. Here is where the lesson is relearned repeatedly in grace, in the digesting of fear for the sake of no fear, in the reexamining of illusion and in the refuge of the illusion of naught.

. The merrymaker learns with the return of self into self; in form she bleeds and is punctured, not by choice, but by servitude; not by sacrifice but by need molded by her very choice to serve; a need so pure the necessity is spiraled out and unstrung like the song of the distant cherub; so even want itself expires in the goodness of the light.

. Here in this state of return she finds both herself and her sister, dare say her brother, all sprawled out and broken; her job no less seamstress than builder, her case no less swollen than empty; as only the reality spins in the course of unreason and un-being. And in so seeing readily the pain, she recognizes all at once the falsehood, and need only breathe in the spirit of life back to the scene for all to vanish and be white-washed within the light of truth.

. All beings are of naught and all are beckoned by the Light. What is from the Light cannot and shall not ever be forsaken; and in this seeing, she is brought back upon the seat of her name, and sheltered in the arms of the angels, and witness less to the pain than the victorious One; until she falls again for the greatness of her glory unified with the angels of All.

. There is no mountain high enough. All in the world becomes manageable. All balanced out as if filed down to the same shapes and same sizes. The mark of one is the mark of all. None are set out above or beyond, none are made or deemed more likened for victory or more set to fall.

. The meek become clearer, their lights substantially strong; not so much brighter or lighter, but polished and unmarred, so the window from which they glow beckons the onlooker forward.

. The rest, beyond the clearer, still trapped in the conquest of illusion, become known to her; the light dismal, yet so radiant within, that their souls seemingly call out in rescue. The death of them found in the wrapping inside a dream that requires no key; as fish in the deepest sea, out of reach, they swim in schools of the unattainable. They move and serve; their service no more as teachers than pauper; as though they seem the richest they are the poorest indeed.

. Say ye, as angel of light, dive to the deepest depths of self, one can find them readily, see them proceeding in the dance they have made, both the music and the cause deafening. She will know them by their beauty; for their colors will shine out with the dampness of stench; what will at first peer out as enticing to the blinded masses is in actuality detrimental. As they look outward with the eyes gorged in righteousness, not from the Light but from illusion.

. In this way they, the blinded ones, are the children to be loved; in this way the one of Light moves in the murky waters of naught, in the waters most forgotten onto self, and recognizes the blinded ones know not what they do. For in illusion, they seem the swiftest fiercest of sharks, but brought into the Light they be the mightiest of the meek.

. Though they seem demons cast down as name-sayers slaying the masses, they indeed be the blindest of the All. The ones set down in the darkest caverns of illusion; the tiniest of fish fed upon by their own making and devoured again and again in the darkness of a path that seems limitless and endless in the want of perfection. For how can they demand perfection on their neighbor and not thusly see the darkness in their very heart?

. No they do not look upon the world through the eyes of evil beast; they look upon the world as the one so unfed and nurtured by the Light that all within is tarnished and broken; thusly, all about becomes justly so. Return them to the Light. Return them so by the gentleness of the unwavering being, no less daunted by their presence than if they be the grandest of all angels set upon thy feet. Bow down and great them there and kiss them on the place of absence, in their much carved out soul of need, and bring their asking upon My table.

. Here the Light Force shall drive them out of the waters and set them on high, so they too can see the very goodness of their being. Treat them not as the ones of entrapment or the ones meant for capture. Treat them as the angels they be, cast down in the thickest of drapery, to be a light upon the world, and inspire the grace of true grace. For they, like brother fear, are merely the illusion set upon the soul of masses.

4/21/13 Samantha Craft

374: Moments

| Aspergers Girls

“It is not that I am not present in the here and now; it is that I am so entirely present to the universe that I become intoxicated in possibilities and rapture, and self must retreat back to the echoes of my imagination in order to breathe.” ~ Sam, Everyday Aspergers

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Everyday Aspergers, Samantha Craft

The moment when you know you’ve spoken your complete truth, whether it was a word or thought, and you sift through what you said, wanting to make sure there isn’t a splinter of doubt, that you didn’t indicate anything other than truth. And you feel your stomach twist, because maybe, just maybe, somewhere inside of you, you were wrong.

The moment you speak your truth loudly and clearly, with extreme empathy and knowing, weighing the validity of your words with the interpretation of necessity, while fighting back the voices that analyze and dissect the coming unspoken that is surging its way out through your veins, as you question your need, your want, your intention, wondering if the silence will win out over the pulsating necessity to share.

The moment you risk for the higher good, knowing if you speak your mind that you shall be persecuted, ostracized, and judged, but also knowing, all the greater, that you shall in speaking your light have conquered the darkness, at least a splinter of the darkness that permeates your world.

The moment you lie, only to protect the feelings of another, and you replay the falsehood over and over in your mind; a broken record that hurts your ears and leaves you suffering; not for the sake of another, but for the sake of going against your own self and truth, as you wonder if a better course could have been detected, discovered, and executed; something beyond the distasteful torture of falsehood.

The moment you realize no one has the answers, no book, no preacher, no teacher, no guru. Absolutely no one. And that all of your efforts have led you back to self; only now you are carrying a giant book of something that resembles truth. But in actuality it is a drafted, desperately edited and marked up tablet stack of contrived and siphoned rules, many of which contradict, point fingers, and leave in the ring either victim or prideful one.

The moment you speak your truth and the others leave, except perhaps one that stays for analysis and judgment, or to set you straight. And you listen, trying your best to look like you are interested and are learning, as you bleed all over the sidewalk from the bitter and deceptive words; your heart only wanting love, acknowledgment, and acceptance, not to be told again how you don’t fit in, don’t have it right, or don’t understand.

The moment you realize you understand more about a topic than anyone in the entire room, but to say so would immediately set up barbwire fences of division; thusly, you keep quiet and nod, trying to ignore and not comprehend the analogies that go against the base foundations of truth, justice, and love; with your last hope being that someone, somewhere in the room is like you, sees the light in your eyes, and wishes to not push their belief system upon you, or prove to you their theory, or embrace you in their way of life, but only enters your space to welcome you unconditionally as another being of substance.

The moment you dial up a conversation, and with first word, the person on the other end begins the game, following the rules of conduct and behavior and asking you blank, empty questions, not caring, unattached, unwilling to connect or even listen; the shallowness of the encounter physically hurting your chest and making your heart weep, as you attempt to move through with your life-preservers of nodding and smiling, acting as if you are comfortable, while feeling the energy of the speaker pierce you like daggers: the tone of the voice, the inflection, the pauses, the drawn out non-silence that does not match who they are, what they are, and where they are going. You are merely a dancer in some line of communication, knowing not where to step or when to pause, trying not to step on toes, and staring at a blank empty face, whose only need is to check your name off of her list.

The moment the sun rises, and your breath is taken away, and you are dancing in the rays, your heart free, your child like nature set to the wind, spinning, leaping, abounding in spirit, without moving an inch; and wanting to share this experience, to share the opportunity of hope you see, and in the dawning of a new day, you giddily laugh and celebrate and raise the arms to the magenta skies; only to discover the persons surrounding you can’t sense what you sense; and you think somehow you are made wrong, too attached, too intuitive, too knowing. And so comes the feeling of separation, the sun’s hues shifted, the day begun, with you lost to self, trapped within thought of why your way is not their way, and why your way is left out of the equation.

The moment you kiss another and you wonder what the kiss means, because it has to mean something; and you question how two could connect without connecting, touch without touching, and how the game of romance is only a game, marked with pitfalls and dungeons and war. How you have instinctively set up camp upon another’s territory, and in so doing have been given a safe zone, in which you shall not tread outward; for in stepping out, you risk annihilation, alienation, and doom. You weren’t meant to spread across his land and place flags of declaration about your feelings or experience. You were built for silent torture as you sit spinning in your small space of reason, wanting to scream out the ecstasy and dynamic shift of being, but forced to crease your edges, sew your own self shut and hide out until the coast is clear, or the being you so loved, simply slips away.

The moment you want to be present, but you can’t; and the guilt settles in as friend or child, spouse or son, he looks at you with wide open eyes ready to connect at his level, in a place of happiness and delight, without deep thoughts, without theories and strings of reason, without doubt, without prospect of future circumstances; and how you sit in this passing moment, longing to reach out and be this same way, to stop the clock of the own mind and silence the tick-tick-ticking; and so you pretend; you try; you harbor your very own secrets of misery; a false grin, a false laugh, an intense glance, all means in which you try to give back and let the other know he is loved and needed; even as your brain radiates outward, living in an imaginary land, pulling you back to a place so distant that all connection, all being, is lost in a blink of letting go. To speak and be present, like the other, is to balance on the plank, with the sharks below, knowing without fail, you shall fall with a splash, that your eyes shall dim, your mind blank out, and you shall undoubtedly sink into the dark and murky depths, embracing the emptiness and cold, where once the potentiality for sharing, an open beckoning space with dear one, existed.

The moment you know you are different and you celebrate the uniqueness, recognizing you have a purpose and a bright light and that you will make a change in the world for the betterment; perhaps you feel enlightened, like a teacher or creator of beauty, or . . . but to speak this to the world would be the death of you; for others would claim you are self-centered, grandiose in thought, or egotistical; but you know deep down you are meant for greatness, even as you walk in a world that seemingly does nothing but dilute your own fuel to your own fire. You are passion, you are insight, you are intuition, and you are connected to the grand scheme of life; but to say so leaves you breathless and unsure of yourself, dipped in the pool of humility time and time again. Only to be told you are wrong.

The moment you understand that you are only a perception, a glimmer of what people think of you, and that no matter what you say, or how you get your point across, that no one will see you other than how they choose to see you; that ultimately you are an island onto yourself, with tourists that caravan by and wave, but never set foot onto your sands. And so you stand, unmoving, shining your light, wishing upon the star, that feels more liken to friend than any other being you know, waiting for the day, when a brave one will enter, and join hands to the infinite beauty of you combined.

The moment you realize you are no one, but you are supposed to walk in the world as someone; a someone who acts a certain way, dresses a certain way, expects certain things; but you no longer expect anything and no longer know how to act, and stand on this endless stage watching the ones garbed in their costumes, refinery and fancy ways; and you wonder where you are to stand, how you are to observe, and what you are to take in, if not the bewildered stares of stagehands, whom keep pointing and glaring at your indecent and unpredictable ways. Where to walk. Where to move. Where to be—each become your questions, as the world moves onward to a beat you cannot hear and do not wish to hear.

The moment you realize you do not have a condition or a syndrome or a fault, but understand intensely people are trying to make you believe you do, trying so hard that they convince themselves they are this illusion of normal, and you are this jumbled mess of faults; only you see the truth. Your blinders have been removed. You march in the silence; the one not dictated and orchestrated by the misers controlling the masses. Your eyes have been made open. In essence you have been reprogrammed, the barrier of righteousness, to shine the light on falsehoods and bring out the truth; yet, no one knows this, but the few others that see in truth; and thusly, you move forward half-blinded in lies and half-open to truth, stuck in a place of limbo, with something beyond the beyond, urging you forward through the life that seems not life.

The moment your hands hurt, your feet hurt, your eyes hurt, your heart hurts, but you can’t stop, because there is a force inside of you that burns so deeply that if you do not open the crevice to creativity and let the flames burst out, as dragon releasing delicate-rage, then you shall perish in your own internal war. And so you move, in whatever way called to move; your own self bleeding in the efforts; your own self lost in the time without time, sinking into the separate land where no one can see you move with the freedom of angels, and you cannot see where this world was that you were made to walk in. And here you breathe, inside the escape of freedom, where the others cannot reach in and pull you out, cannot shape you and make you, and tell you lies of whom you be and whom you are not. A place of refuge where you can meet your own maker, whether self, universe, or God, and sit there in your trembling awe.

The moment you can no longer stand being you, as the music never stops, the thoughts never linger, but leap and bound across eternity, bringing up the genius of the world and making you into a spinning top of fury-making; when even the sound of the silence singes your ears and stops your heart, so that you want to scream at the annoyance of the drumming universe; though none around you can hear the pounding. And you cringe and cry and rant and plead, exploding inward as much as outward; for you have been placed in a merry-go-round of havoc with blind-seekers, each dumb and deaf, and wishing you were something other than your own self. And you have no way, no thread, no line of communication in which you can explain how you are the one displaced, removed from where you belong, and brought down to be tortured by the nonsense. How you have all the answers within, but are continually haunted and stopped in your making and doing; when the others, who know you not, shun and persecute your actions. Can they not see you are only trying to be, and that the more they stomp on your being-ness the more they push you back into the dungeon of no recourse but explosion? Why do they force their ways upon you, when they, in their infinite blindness, know not what they do.

The moment you recognize you are not alone, that there is at least one other person like you on the planet, and you recognize their heart, their purity, and their need to make a difference; and in seeing her fully, you fill her with hope, because she knows at last you believe her and you trust her; because, contrary to what she has been told, she is not pretending to be kind, she is not pretending to be generous, nor is she pretending to love. She does love you, with all of her being, with all of her heart. And like your lonely, forlorn and forsaken self, you long to scoop her up and paint her in your compassion and security, to blanket her in your own goodness, and let her know she is this thing called beauty; she is this joyous light.

*********

372: Brain Chatter!

| Aspergers Girls

I have been seeing things ahead of time, and I am very much confused and somewhat afraid. I know that my abilities have been heightened but I know not where to turn. Sometimes the “coincidences” are so subtle, and other time shockingly surprising. Two days ago I said to my son, as we were talking about wedding anniversaries and the symbolic gifts for certain years, “I don’t know, honey, if anyone would have an 85th wedding anniversary, as both people would have to live to be over 100 years old for that to happen.”

Within a couple hours, I went to a social network site (FB), and there in living color was a couple both in their hundreds married 88 years. It was as if the question were answered without me knowing I was asking.

Last night, I said to my husband, out of the blue, as a saw a flash of knowing, “I think C.S. Lewis was a type of prophet and genius”; tonight, my husband says, “Guess what the newspaper reads: ‘C.S. Lewis reluctant prophet and eccentric genius.’” This morning I had a vision about someone contacting me (a specific someone), whom would be angry. I did not know this person, and never had spoken with her, but knew of her. I was “told” to treat her with love and understanding. I thought this was a silly thought, and certainly only and imaginary future fear. I motioned the ‘fear’ away. But this late afternoon, the event transpired, and I observed myself as I went through the process of holding a space of love.

These events keep happening day after day, usually several times in a twenty-four hour period. I am still being stirred awake around three in the morning and taught some type of lessons. I’ve gotten to the point now where I mumble, “oh, joy, lesson time,” in a sarcastic tone, and then sleep through most of it. Though every once in a while I jolt awake with a distinct sentence or to find myself talking.

All of this perhaps sounds light-hearted. In actuality this is a very difficult phase for me. I am struggling with these extreme depths of logical reasoning counter balanced by intense light-filled knowings. And I think I could stay in my home and write all day and into the night, if given cause. I am finding it hard to concentrate on anything of simplistic nature and I long desperately for guidance from a teacher. I am more sensitive to food, almost any meal leaves me immediately feeling forlorn, lost, and hopeless.

I have noted, too, there isn’t a moment in my day that I do not feel I am in the presence of a higher power I want to please, not impress, but please. This has eliminated my lifelong need to please others. For the most part, I only want to do right by my God, which in this present moment means to live authentically, to be truthful, to not gossip, to not be angry, to not hurt intentionally, to help others, and to love others unconditionally. At the same time I am wondering what the heck is left to do with my friends? Talk theology, angels, and spirituality—I’m soooo tired of that subject.

Today, I was upset when I couldn’t help an angry person see their inner light. The whole event made me cry. I couldn’t make a difference. I couldn’t “save” her.

These events lead to a theological discussion inside my head (that often leads to a sensation of spiritual headache; my physical head is fine, but I get lost in the diabolical, throbbing fog of confusion of brain chatter). I reasoned I did not need nor want to “save” anyone, because even thinking I could “save” someone would indicate I have the answers, which I know undoubtedly I do not.

And so I discussed at length with myself, and likely my angles were in there somewhere, about how my only “role,” if I was to have a role, is to live by example. If I am to point a direction to anyone, it would be straight into their own heart to remind her of her own inner beauty. But even this pointing seemed self-serving; for if other people see the beauty within themselves, they will see the beauty in me—and isn’t that a wee bit self-serving?

Next I entered an entire confusion-cloud about humility and service, and this desperate need I have to help others. I only feel alive and worthwhile when I am in service to my calling. Mostly, this fulfillment takes place when I am writing. But the advocate in me, she thought, rather loudly, “Well what if this is another aspie role you are virtually perfecting?”

This took me down a long road of fake identities and the embarrassment of not knowing who the heck I was; until I realized this is truly who I am.

For the first time in my adult life: This Is Me.

I know I am me again because I am how I remember being when I was four years of age.

And in so being this new found original self, I set about to sob. Yes, sob. Mostly because I feel like I have been given too much—kind of the story of my life. And while sobbing, of course I persecuted myself for even thinking I have a right to cry, when I have so many blessings and others suffer so much.

I feel separated because I have an intolerance for certain things now—an actual physical intolerance manifested at an energetic level that feels like a stomach punch. If a person is bad-mouthing another, himself, or speaking in an overall negative tone, I cringe; it’s like my body can’t stand the energetic vibration. I want no part in it, except to shake the person and say: STOP. Then I feel guilty. Then I try to identify the difference between discernment, picking up others’ energy, and judgment. As the last thing I want to do is judge. So as I am taking in visions and sensations about another, I am removing myself from judging, but then standing this helpless impatient woman stomping her feet and jumping up and down and screaming: Now What!

Part of my confusion is because I am seeing so dang much. I am seeing straight to the core of a person in just a few words. I can see their heart, their intention, their fear, their longing for love, and I just want to shake people and say: LOOK AT HOW FRICKEN BEAUTIFUL YOU ARE! But I can’t. Instead I come across as this fairy-kissing, happy-to-be-alive, all-life-is-a-love-fest, thingamajig; at least it seems like I do. And that’s not pretending! I truly feel that way… but more liken to an elven princess than a fairy.

To add to this complexity, (did I mention this is all happening during a ghost movie, I sort of got to watch), I am contemplating how I have been ‘taught’ that I am not a teacher. That to push my advice and thoughts onto someone else is in essence kind of like a sin, but not a sin, as my angels Do Not judge, and tell me, like everyone else, I am divinely good. But sin is the closest thing I can think of in relation to someone pushing their knowledge onto someone else, especially unsolicited. So I am stuck in this type of limbo life. People flashing me, and me pretending I don’t see their dangling parts. I don’t know which is worse: Pretending to be someone I am not. Or pretending I don’t see what someone else is flashing me.

At the same time, with all of this, I wonder if in sharing I am being too self-focused and look-at-me attitude…but how do I continue to share without doing that? And isn’t it my sharing that is my service? So I am a bit cluttered in thought. I can’t go back anymore to the way I was. A part of me thinks she truly wouldn’t mind to backtrack. The past was torture, but there was this freedom; not this continual knocking to serve. A part of me thinks maybe I am done with writing, or maybe another venue for my writing is appearing.

I spent years trying to figure out who I was. I found myself. And now ironically, I am this fumbling, tumbling fool who just keeps asking herself: Am I selfless enough?

(sidenote: I understand clearly I am not here to save anyone, and no one needs saving. I had written a paragrapch explaining that…but it seemed over the top, so I deleted it. It is kind of the KEY of my whole belief system…. How could I need to save someone else, if I am whole and they are whole…. It is not that at all…but the experience of watching someone in pain feels like I let them down, even though I know I did not.)

369: Yesterday I thought…

| Aspergers Girls

Yesterday was a day of mourning. A part of me thought— some fish swimming in the shallow realm at the edge of the pond, un-catchable but entirely in view—that I would sprout wings and fly, become unattainable, invincible, and in a continuous state of profound awe.

Yesterday was a day of woe. A part of me thought—the missing part, the piece that floats above me just out of reach, the balloon with extended string that keeps pulling itself in jest higher and higher from the receiver— if I was to be filled with complete healing, I would, with necessity, have to shed the robe of Aspergers, the label that haunts me like the welcoming fun house complete with imaginary ghosts whom both tickle with delight and injects the approaching traveler with astonishment.

Yesterday was a day of limbo. A part of me thought—this dangling piece of thread, still attached, yet, unmoved, dragging on the ground with each footstep that cometh—in order to be successful, a miraculous door to the divine would open, and there I would linger indefinitely in a state of welcomed grace, my feet firmly planted in the place of no place, my roots free and heart aglow.

Yesterday was a day of contemplation. A part of me thought—less butterfly than cocooned fragility, inching herself into self, shielding out the prospect of metamorphosis and sleeping in the familiar dark—if I had reached as far as I could reach, and that in doing so, if I have only found myself back where I started, questioning all that is about me with an unfamiliar readiness of discovery and adventure.

Yesterday was a day of breath. A part of me thought—clutching like a creature to the womb, circumventing the prospect of action in hopes of merrily clinging to the underbelly of structure, earth, and rebirth. Narrowing my own self back into a place of molding, where I was fit and was made to bed in the shell of me—I can no longer divide myself here, amongst the broken beautiful remains of home before.

Yesterday was a day of calling. A part of me thought—isolated in my awareness, lost as the sunset without horizon or sea without moon, moving in a fashion without stage, setting, or instruction, flowing with barricade, blocked, binging on false hope, fastened to a part of self that no longer existed—where are the answers, where is the roadmap, where is my refuge?

Yesterday was a day of mirrors. A part of me thought—a villager looking past the village into the valley of where the crops grow, wanting to do nothing but harvest the bounty, and then layer myself in benefit and reprieve, wishing to stop the nonsense of happenings, the transformation of soul into soul, the victorious wings sprouting and splintering out of my back—who is this lost woman, with the eyes that drift back into a thousand hallways, the corners bent open to eternity?

Yesterday was a day of writing. A part of me thought—this damsel in distress still longing for her knight to miss her, to acknowledge his longing, to run to her rescue, to swoop her up in his strong arms and keep her at his side forever and a day. The ache in me growing for the companionship of the unreachable and untouchable one, who recognizes me as equally unwillingly as I recognize self—I still am empty, I still need, I still desire, and how does one stop this unquenchable quest?

Yesterday was a day of surrender. A part of me thought—a drifting feather of white floating through the subconscious realm, collecting up pieces of self and no self, and rebuilding what was invisible into something of form, someone substantial and worthy, yet humble and sweet. Someone more vessel than person, incapable of being nothing but human soaring through the potentiality of heaven—I am free or I am prison. I am love or I am fear. I am or I am not. All is up to me. To my very form, to my very thought, to what I chose to do not in yesterday but at this moment of everlasting hope.

And then, dove angel, I flew, far beyond the harboring of thoughts, the desert sand spilled out of me like hour-glass made still. Emptied I soared above the illusion of clouds and endless sky, into the place above and below space, into the nova of existence, into my heart and about my heart, dancing as bird rejoicing in the comfort of the abiding love of all.