philosophy

400: Entered

| Aspergers Girls

Where you stand, I enter. My sunlight opened in the ray of you. Where you are, I be, nestled between the edges of your making. I am the sugar sprinkled cross the sunrise desert, the frosting dipped beneath and within, yellow-dancing in the outskirts of my thoughts. Where I travel, you are, carried upon my shoulders, the lightest of feathers, blanketing me, my shield of angels splendor. I spin, come round each wake, reborn in your giving and eternal goodness. I rise; the angelic force instilled gently like the wind through the meadow spring. I bubble and wrap in the bluest-blue, the stillness awoken in your cleansing waters.

Where you stand, I enter. My darling lover of the fallen night, the darkness dripped away as canvas cleansed with the brushes wet; each color washed over with newness and new day. A caravan of awakening upon awakening, surprises always there but never seen. You move, and I follow, the drapery of your kindness a trail of delight, smoothing past the garden’s gaiety as candle wax of brevity. I drip, you drip. I bleed, you bleed. Connected we are in the tumbling of my being. Unspun and rewoven into the kaleidoscope of me within me, the light swollen as the woman with child, birthing and rebirthing the newfound hope.

Where you stand, I enter. I glide, the child on your coattail, following a form I neither see nor want, but desire, my rain to the petal wept, my seed to the fallen bird. I soar, the embers of my mind cascading down to the soil of naught, and slipping into the oceans that be, sailing once and then again, into the mystery of time. Sprouting in the eternalness of river led to mouth, and mouth led to sky. I am this. I am this drumbeat of the earth, the willow tree that touches down in gratitude and meets the tender grasses with her open hands. I am this. The weathered-breast of soldier fought, bowing down in remission and remembrance to echoes of the battlefield. I have retreated to the highest ground that leads to nowhere but to thy very self. And here, in the chambers still, I watch, my eyes as falcon born, dreaming of the ways I traveled. For I am dreamer yet, trapped in the window of my memory.

Where you stand, I enter. I hear you as I hear my very voice. The rhythm feeds my withered bones, the dauntless eyes erased, the gauntlets tossed empty. Here is where I sparkle, my soul leaped forward from the place of behind to the place of entrance. Here where I stand, you enter, taking my tethered thoughts and bleeding them out to the world. My sacrifice, your sacrifice. My heart, your heart. My enemy made clear in the taking of circumstance of my liking, when bitter liking it be. And thusly, I am sweetened, made as bread to the master, ripened in the cream and butter nut of goodness. So that when I look upon the thoughts that were, I see the emptiness of cause, the fawning ways in which I walked. How with danger I froze, the deer-dove I was, with wings of no service in the state of fear.

Where you stand, I enter. I know not what I do or what I do, who I am or what I be. I know nothing of your kindness or your glory. I know not face or name of maker. I know not if exist exists. And in this I know not if my voice is but rising to thy very own chambers of light and there made feed for the mass of me. None other but I, listening to the merry voice of reason lost. No more than this, my empty vessels feeding upon the nibbles of hope. Yet, here I rest, in the serenity of uncertainty. For no matter the form, or shape, or even the distance from the dwelling to the home of home, if I be not home already, then the waiting is of peace. The waiting is of necessity lost and freedom found. I care not what you be or how you be, or what layman’s ways I set upon your threshold, for it matters not to me the way in which you came, only that you entered so.

395: The Core of Fear

| Aspergers Girls

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This is my momentary truth.

My mind enables me to piece together parts to make sense of the whole. Ironically, the exact tool I use to help me understand complex happenings of the mind is the exact tool that for most of my life incapacitated my ability to find peace of mind. In meaning that as long as I divide and separate my world, I continue to judge.

I believe all things stem from fear or love. I believe fear begets fear, and love begets love. I believe fear can serve as a falsehood for love, and often does. I understand that any love that has attachment to it is a false love.

Here is what I wrote to a dear friend yesterday. (A few changes were made.)

“Attachment is spawned from the need to feel complete and whole, based on an inner need of lacking, which can never be completed from the attachment to any sect, thing, or being. Wholeness must and always comes from within and through un-attachment. Thusly, when I attach I feel torn away from Source…

In regards to Effort— effort can have many intentions and motives. Indeed a home cooked meal only made in the moment for the purpose of love and sharing is indeed effort well-received. Effort with any motive behind it, for self-interest or other, or for a cause even unknown, beyond divine goodness, is effort not received, but actually a something given in hopes of return. So, in theory, my theory alone, with no expectations that you buy in or agree, if in effort I write to you because the focus is to offer myself and love (friendship or what have you) then indeed the effort is nurturing and fulfilling, but effort with attachment feels to me as poison to the soul.

I wish to give of myself freely and from a place of no self-intention, to everyone, and especially to you. So in saying I pray for unattachment it is in actuality, and in reality, saying I pray to love you unconditionally with no semblance of fear, need, or want…

Attachment to all hurts me physically, and when I am unattached I flow merrily along as if in a dream world. The temptation comes when I wish for something to replace what God (Spirit) has given me already, thinking anything here or there, or in between can fulfill me or take away misery. I apologize for the length. And indeed, my friend, had you brought me a crumb to my table or the feast for a king, my feelings would not differ. For it is not in what you do I look to but what you are.”

(Even in reviewing this conversation, I see I am somewhat attached to this person, as I especially want to be unattached.)

In reflection this morning, I understand there is a cycle of pain that many people experience. There is a false love and false sense of being that breeds further fear-conditioning in the world.

False love is, as mentioned above, any and all affection displayed that is attached to wanting something. This is a need-based love. There is always an outcome intended. Therefore there is intention for self. The intentions are numerous ranging from validation, the need to be seen, the need to be heard, the want of some form of attention, and so on. Mostly, false-love is stemmed from the need to be filled. When someone displays false love a sensitive person will feel the attachment, even if it is very subtle. I believe as a person with Aspergers, I feel this false-love attachment when some people speak. I feel their need for love.

A false sense of being or being non-authentic is a result of fear-based conditioning. We live in a world with false-love and false-beings, people who give out false-love pretending and thinking it is real love, and people pretending to be people they are not to conform and fit in. Assimilation isn’t really happening; what is happening is people are conforming who they are to avoid rejection. In doing this they face the ultimate rejection: which is rejection of true self. Not everyone does this, but these actions seem to fit many people at this present moment. Myself included, when I lose contact with Source.

People who are non-authentic will conform, fake who they are, lie, defend, need to be right, argue, debate, and so on. They often hide behind a false-truth, conditions they have set upon themselves and the environment and claimed as reality. These conditions are again stemmed from the root of false-love and false-being that self and others partake in.

We, as a species, look around and think what we see is the truth, when in actuality it is people re-conditioning other people about their truth. This is easy enough to see in studying culture and societies. Thusly, again, false-love and false-being leads to false-conditioning.

False conditioning is FEAR-based and can be called FEAR-conditioning . This is a result of non-purposeful fear, such as people mimicking behaviors and routines based on fear-based conditioning, without conscious recognition they are fearful. There is also fear-based conditioning created by people trying to control, such as big business and media, or in a smaller scale parents using manipulation with children. This FEAR-conditioning leads to Fear-based thoughts.

Fear based thoughts create more fear-conditioning and lead to the falsehood of MY TRUTH = THE TRUTH.

When one believes My truth = The truth separation occurs . When one believes their truth is the truth, he further isolates self from others and being separated experiences more fear. As a result he gives out more fear. Thinking My truth = the truth is a falsehood. This falsehood in back tracking comes from fear based thoughts that stem from fear conditioning that stems from false-love and false-being.We can begin to see a pattern here. Most of everything stemming from a root of non-authenticity and false love.

This is why false-love and non-authentic people hurt some people. We (many people with Aspergers and others who are sensitive to the falsehoods) see through the illusion, even if we don’t know what we are seeing through. We feel this falsehood at our core and recognize it as poison and not real. We often don’t know why, but we do. When we are around like people who bring us comfort,it is because they resonate with our core. If our core is authentic, we resonate with authentic people; if our core is fear-based authentic, we resonate with fear-based-authentic; if our core is non-authentic fear-based we resonate with that. Regardless of a neurological condition or any type of label. Like attracts like.

Going back again, after the falsehoods have been formed leading to my truth = the truth, and to separation, then judgment is birthed.

The viewer seeing from a foundation of conditioned fear-based thoughts sees the worlds through degrees, variable, rights and wrongs, good and bad. A young child does not naturally do this. They are open and loving to all, until conditioned to believe the world is unsafe or affected by a fear-base conditioned societies’ actions. As fear-based conditioning sets in, the middle area between two points begins to fade. People forget that there is an infinite middle-ground that is more expansive then the universe. People think judgment is truth. And each person establishes their truth as reality and the right way to be. Judgment leads to judgment of others and self. One cannot judge the outside without first judging the inside. What you see on the outside is how you judge yourself. Though this seems cloudy and mistakenly wrong for most, it is a truth. Thusly, in review thoughts based on fear-based conditioning, stemmed from a society of false-love and non-authenticity, breeds separation (see * below), and separation breeds judgment.

Two things happen when judgment is birthed: people fear themselves and fear others. The world becomes a fear-based place, and this feeds further into the fear-based- conditioning, thoughts, falsehoods, separation, and so on. It is cyclic, re-feeding the core of fear at every step. Genius in its making and undertaking, indeed.

Here, in response to fear-conditioned judgment there are feasibly at least two ways, if not many more, a person may split from their true self and become imprisoned. These splits are survival mentalities, an instinctual response to fear.

When submerged in conditioned-fear, a person will seek escape. No one can live separate and no one can live in continual fear. It is not feasible. Fear and separation are an illusion the soul does not recognize nor understand.

Escape is found in two direct ways, (I have made these names up for clarity of discussion), in the form of 1) Buried Self (seeping further in separation perhaps manifested as Aspergers) and 2) Assimilated Self subconsciously becomes non-authentic

The main difference between the two, is in the first example, Buried Self, the one in hiding, might pretend to be another person, but become readily aware she is doing so; while in example two, assimilated self, the person is under the illusion she is someone she is not, her true self imprisoned deep within. In some ways each experiences the other split, but at differing degrees of awareness. The assimilated self can feel buried deep within and the buried self can feel at times like she is trying to assimilate. In this way they share more commonalities than differences.

The Buried Self feels the fear of the world and cannot pretend fear is not there. She sees it everywhere. She does not understand the falsehood of the world. While some seem to have blinders, she does not, and takes in everything internally. She is told she is wrong or different because of her behaviors of innocence. In the core of fear she cannot readily identify what she feels. This causes anxiety, discomfort, pain, self-infliction, and unbearable confusion. She may be obsessive, compulsive, never-satisfied, angry, highly emotional, and overwhelmed with what seems to be simple tasks. She does not know how to be non-authentic, and subconsciously takes on roles for a short period of time, until she finds herself back in the core of fear. The true self is imprisoned. She feels the false-love and does not feel completed by the falsehood. In this way love seems to hurt, and pain feels more authentic than false-love. She might seek out pain, because the pain feels ‘authentic.’ She keeps searching for true love, thinking there is a ONE out there, not realizing her own ONE is within. She thusly has a strong drive to find the ONE. She recognizes the falsehoods. This is her gift and affliction.

The Assimilated Self is frightened by her own true self because she has been conditioned by fear and judgment. In judging others she has learned to judge herself. She perceives herself as unworthy at the core. She is under the illusion she has readily adapted to her environment and has periods of joy based on worldy-pleasure. She might even think she loves herself. At a deep-level she still feels unfulfilled and separate, but is able to push this back and go on with daily living, perhaps keeping herself extremely preoccupied in the busyness of life, including other people’s business and happenings. She is able to not see the falsehoods and lead a reasonable life without extreme in-depth analysis and self-exploration. Thusly, the assimilated person looks and appears to fit in, but is numb to her own self. This is both her gift and affliction. This person might lie, cheat, defend, openly judge, be righteous about her truth, and feel somewhat absent from life. She might be prone to gossip, manipulation, and plans motivated by extreme self-want. She is complimented and rewarded for fitting in and reaching “normal” goals. She is attempting to feed the fear with more fear, but knows not what she does. She was born innocent.

The key to both types of imprisonment is in recognizing thoughts are not real and in recognizing separation and judgment. This will bring a person into the core of fear. A place where all has been buried from shame of judgment and from the repeated falsehoods.

The next step is recognizing that there is real love and connecting to that love.(Each person finds this connection to love in his or her own way.) When we connect to real love we represent and give out real love and take down the false illusions of fear-conditioning.

Anything that comes out that isn’t love, isn’t love. All false-love is based on fear. Anything that doesn’t feel like love inside the body or outside the body, is not love. People who are deep in the buried self or assimilated self, or a combination of both, cannot recognize real love readily. They can recognize the light of a true person who is whole and loves unconditionally. There freedom is found in looking upon each person and knowing without doubt that that person has unconditional love at their core, though he may still be trapped in the illusion of fear. The key is in realizing the dreamer is trapped in a dream, and choosing to love the dreamer regardless of the dream he is choosing to live.

A key to connecting to source is to dig up all of the illusions trapped in the core of fear In this way you give the fear no power. You remove the energy of fear from yourself. This can be done through careful examination of fear. It would be helpful to have some type of spiritual practice for direction and goal-setting. But it isn’t necessary.

If one goes into him or herself and brings out fear for examination, once exposed to the light it is seen as illusion. In this way you make separation null by seeing the fear-conditioning is false and your true self is authentic and pure and not trapped in your core of fear.

Once emptied of the conditioning you’ve held inside, you are free to be filled with real love from Source. This source is of your choosing. Once filled you can love others with real love, without intention of outcome or need. There will be profound peace. This evaporates the initial breeders of fear-conditioning: the non-authentic self and the false love. Because once one is free of the core of fear, he can love from a place of wholeness and authentic love.

First you must recognize self in the fear cycle. If you judge anyone, you live in fear. If you judge your self, you live in fear. If you love out of want, you live in fear. If you have peace, you have ridden yourself of the illusion of fear-conditioning. Anyone can do this. It is not hard. Just believe in yourself and believe in your brother and sister. See in them the beauty and see in yourself the same. This will heal our world.

I haven’t shared anything here that cannot be found in many spiritual truths and practices. The underlying message: LOVE and Service and seeing the LIGHT in all. When you see the light in all, your only calling will be to love others and a desire for them to love themselves.

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In stating any truths, I recognize this is my current truth based on my belief system and exposure to certain conditionings. I do believe there are truths that can lead to self-betterment; the key being in not attaching to the truths, but walking as observer through the ways of this truth. Any truth that does not resonate with the body, mind and spirit, and any truth that causes pain of any sort, is not a truth I choose to carry. Any truth that initially separates in the guise of betterment of All, I do not deem as a truth. Each of us find our own truth and our own “guidelines” for recognizing truth.

Here are some Truths I have established for myself when seeking truths:

1. The speaker of the truth will recognize there are no truths.
2. The speaker of the truth will embrace the contradiction that there are no truths.
2. The speaker of the truth will not have attachment to the truth or to truths about the truth.
3. The speaker of the truth will not have specific outcomes (attachment) he hopes to generate beyond unconditional love. This is a specific form of attachment he releases–attachment to outcome leading to results which can be tangible or emotional-based e.g., boost sense of belonging, increase sense of self-esteem, build ego, employ false-love, increase reputation, reap material gain, convince self of righteousness.
4. The speaker of the truth will speak from love as he deems love to be, specifically from a place of unconditional acceptance of self and others.
5. The speaker of the truth will hold in his heart the deep intention to do no harm and speak only the truth from source-heart and not from self.
6. The speaker of the truth will feel a deep knowledge of truth that he recognizes he knew his whole existence.
7. The speaker of the truth will spread peace and love through service with no want of material gain.
8. The speaker of the truth will attach self to no sect., denomination, or exact way, as this automatically breeds division. Where he might choose a specific path for his betterment, this is not an expectation or need for him to place upon others.
9. The speaker of the truth understands multiple paths lead to truth.
10. The speaker of the truth has the affliction of truth: being called to share but understanding that invariably sharing any truth in form (words) sets up division. Thusly he longs to equally share and not-speak.
11. The speaker of the truth is called to service and love above all else.
12. The speaker of the truth continually wishes for release from suffering for all.

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* Separation breeds fear, any type of separation, this is as simple as dividing two people into two sects—religious, political, neurological and otherwise. I have been taught to fear, to judge, to evaluate and to separate. I will not do that anymore. It’s not even a choice. It hurts. It doesn’t make any sense, and pulls me out of a state of peace. I am best for my world, for my children, and for my community when I am at peace; I refuse to purposefully step out of peace for the sake of judgment, division, and separation. They are essentially all one element. This is nothing new. Nothing I write is new or fresh or brilliant, and I don’t want it to be. When one writes from a place of heart the message is from a place of love.

When Emotion overtakes you

391: The Affliction

| Aspergers Girls

The Affliction

At this moment I try not to attach to any one ideology or belief, thinking I live in illusion, and that, even the thought of illusion and knowing a semblance of truth, be further illusion, if illusion be. The complexities rendered through the delving of mind are both baffling and intriguing, pulling me in like the piece of an engine longing for lubrication, its sole purpose found in the concept of functionality. There is no other need, but to be anointed in the telling, so I can proceed forward in a time of no procession; this is indeed troublesome, and not, as no burden be found in a place of no time bent into illusion; thusly, it is so that even the emotions that purge from within and without are naught, but the imaginings of ghosts long ago past.

In saying this I prelude my own entrance, a necessity within no necessity; but nonetheless established as a fleeting truism for the traveler beset with weariness. In knowing my truth is not truth, I am thusly freed from the agony of discrimination of self; the endless dissection that occurs, rightfully and dutifully so, when one sets about to cling to illusion of form. In so being I am formless, and this argument, if claimed to be a quarrel, quibble say but light it be, exists phantom too, than whom does whittle with words, with such speech gathered from the where and when? And this, my friend, displays the propensity to be traveler lost within traveler. Precise to say, to recognize the dream is to be the dreamer, and in so being the one at slumber all is weaved into further name-saying causation. Instead of scribing truth, I merely dictate what is thought to be truth within my circumvented reality; therefor, unless I was to gather the truth of agelessness and the potentiality of the All and lather this upon the minds of the singular, I do nothing justice; say my own tethered thoughts still set out to sea, bobbling in the waves of uncertainty.

I speak this not to set the stage for trust or to further prove a point of no point, as there is no point worth proving when no point exists; nor is this trust I speak of, need be, for in form I appear not trustworthy no matter what I mumble, as I am in guise as this ruthless one set upon high or worse the victorious one celebrated. In the eyes of man, I can be none but judged; and there the dilemma is set; for how to curve an aspect of enlightenment without throwing the ball at the very victim who perceives himself to be. In this way I am nothing; neither scapegoat nor scriber of the ways, neither angel nor devil worse, or even the pen that hankers from the very end of limb; I am none and I am All, and what one sees is neither here nor there in this place of nonexistence.

How weary I grow in even telling such a tale of no tale and how my hands weep from the desperation within, further proof the illusion grows; to hide and never recede, to come forward but never enter, to move without ability to see, this is the truth; yet, how does one born of the singular I move in a world born of We, when each, as separate made, choses their own captivity? Tis foolish man’s game, one supposes, to even breech the subject of immortality when everywhere the banners fly blood; come hither, to this space of mine, she preaches, and at once scorned with the rest; perhaps this is the truest form of freedom, to be as the bird of song and not flee from the stones that follow; to sing at the top of the peak and not fear the fall of the morrow; for my song is unleashed upon the highest, and meek not I be; for no river nor valley has captured me; and all is unsung that never was.

How can I be such butterfly with unclipped wings, when all about I dance in the dirt and soils? How can I be the babe nearly birthed, when the canal of opening seems so variably charted and boarded still? Am I not a queen emerged without her captain, on a ship without sail, in a land of no sea? How I navigate in a ghastly wind of nowhere and land again and again upon the very stone I once passed. What is this me, who dangles her memories like sapphires and counts them as rubies expired? Who merrily sings as the serpent unwound, un-skinned, and turned magnificent; who am I but this trellis before me, the ins and outs of where the others leap and bound; am I both prisoner and freedom maker, trapped in the makings of my doings, unraveling one and then another to find myself time and time again; some traveler trapped in a dream of no morrows and no beginnings; waiting for time to peel back as mere shadow set upon thee.

Is this my cause? To rest as mermaid on the surface of earth while weeping tears of the oceans before me? Am I to be starfish drug out and enamored for her legs alone; plucked one by one from the depths of nowhere only to be brought up to the rim of naught; circle dancer I seem, trapped in this funny limbo; awakened and spirited, yet alone in my quest of no quest; for how can it be that in being me I am the key; yet I be not? And how can it be, in being you, you are the me, and you be not? How can this brain of no brain wrap around infinity and spring up anything renewed in renewal, when at my very depths are the limitless breaths of knowing; where shall I begin when there be no start; and how shall I end when timely death has all but vanished, leaving but his cape, the dark shadow of remembering banished.

Laugh, I dare not, as the gleeful me is no cause for celebration; and what to celebrate in such a dismal state as this; and weep, I cannot, as what is for the crying worth, when all about is the toys of puppeteer lost and scattered, abandoned with the coming of the unraveled wavering truth; to be given such a task of no sacrifice, but to feel the shells of sacrifice, as if each had been splattered and fired upon some soul of thee; to be given the world in a cup and to glance down and behold eternity calmed, yet know not what to drink but the vision beyond; how can I be such vision and such mortal, wrapped in this infinite coat of knowing, spread open, the flaps as distorted wings discolored in doubt. How can I be this butterfly broken, when surely the simple embrace does cast illusion silent and heart-strings grow, carrying the essence of me freely without the need of form?

Butterfly or ghost? What be I; magnificent or tangled, what am I? Can you not rescue me now before I surely split in two; the idol of want, the taste of judgment, the enticement of lies, eagerly eating away at the flesh I once was; as I stir in my chrysalis of unrest, evaporated by the ever peace of naught, haunted by the unearthly voices of angels, my living blanket of tranquility the one that trumpets doubt forward. Where am I inside this invisible film, my being wrapped and then wrapped again, suffocated in incubation, brought out to the fire of transformation, and made to nibble at her own skin; when suffering is promised not, when answers never were, when everywhere is hungry ghost whose appetite has vanished through; who is this dreamer and of what does she dream, if not of the place beyond dreams that I am to break through; but how, is her only question; how in the light of your ultimate glory can I testify this truth through the pages of illusion-maker; how can I prove what is not to be proven; how can I dance to the invisible music of invisible air and weave something of nothing; and so it seems, I must rest eternally, until eternity surrenders; and I, let out of this suit of circumstance am thusly braided into ceaseless sky, awoken not wingless but weaved into completion, the very heart of light freed.

389: The Poet’s Symphony & The Dream You Be

| Aspergers Girls

The following are two selections. The first I scribed this morning in prayer, the second, last night before sleeping. Take as you wish and bring forth your own truth. Peace and abundance of ever-flowing love to you. xo In my heart ~ Sam

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The Poet’s Symphony

The room echoed in her favor, the mysteries revealed as the poet’s symphony set asunder…

You are a divine being, perfect in form and in every way. You were given all you need at the start, which is both the beginning and end without end. There is no way to deny this or defy this. You are. And in so being the All of All you shall recognize the All within All, and in this way readily accept the gifts bestowed upon thee.

There is no tethering to this goodness. You are this goodness. There is no finding this goodness; it is in you and without you; it is everywhere in which you look and every place in which you forget. There is no corner unturned, no place forgotten, no witness turned away; All this is as is, and nothing of the All shall change.

As change is inevitable in the place where illusion stands; change is unmovable where We watch from up high; in the desert valley or upon mountain peak, makes no pause, for as high as We reach, as low as We travel, destiny takes no true form that is available for the sightless to see. In this way upon high is where we stand, yet, without feet and without height, steadily waiting in a time of no wait.

To exaggerate would lesser something of no value and placate none but the mask of confusion; and so we wait in the concept of un-waiting, merging as one for the arrival of you. Our arms are but open and the confusion lifted in the elements of which we are made; neither here nor there, but before you and in between, behind the perception of perception, and dedicated to the unity of all.

There is no wrong between us and nothing to be righted, less you peer into the darkness and lather in the deception of naught and no doings; when you breathe us, you know us; when you don’t, you know us still, though your speech, through hands be blinded, in such a way that what moves is neither brought up from the ocean of the sea but rather blended with the mediated-perception of the whole within. In this way, as you communicate, you flow through the one to reach the other, yet, flow through entirely untouched by the means and way. Communication is thusly spurred but in the land of illusion and all is lost in the ways of the world.

For illusion cannot breathe in illusion, and the breather of such takes in no air of truth, only illusion forged through the pen of illusion, the quail feather dipped in the black ink of nevermore, unformed from the united Unity, and stainless it be. For what is made without the making, blended from the dust of dust, un-gathered and unformed, is truly the matter that which is naught, and emptiness that breeds further emptiness and leaves the one suffering more than rebuilt.

Here is where we differ in views, and where we stand back and watch the unfolding, as the dancers play out, say lay out the plans of their making, each by each, one by one, establishing a truth that embrace as justly so: theirs the light of the world; theirs the unlimited “newness” of finding; how truly we delight in these games of rebel and trickery, the very only one submerging the very only one in a mask of disdain and separation; for we recognize the undoing of nothing, the representation of nothing, and see that in the undoing of doing, you shall soon seek elsewhere. Whether this be in form of building or mosque, say the church with the seeking windows, or the God of the many wavering hands, makes but not a difference to the All Mighty. For all paths are His for the taking, be this He of he or she, or rather the imaginings of your mind.

For how can one make this God of makings rightfully his when in establishing a time of recognition he immediately without pause establishes a time of separation? Silliness indeed, to think in the thinking that a mere label leads to bountiful delight and merrymaking; when indeed, my servant child the emptiness abounds. To make me in form is to take me out of the light and twist me in a way the ego-representation, or unformed and un-unified you, deciphers a lie. Not a lie of heart or even of choosing, but a lie brought upon self for self-justification and inclusion. This is the whittler’s way of inclusion, for he whittles and whittles away at this substance of nothing, until nothing bleeds out something in a way that adds layers of confusion to what was to be readily unmasked in the making.

Here is to say that when traveling so close to this God or what form you have established as thy truth, that you are but an ant on the farmland crossing the manure, thinking the smell of clump is the smell of All; have you not passed the garden gate where the flowers grow, the peddlers stool where the weapon is surrendered, the hermit’s cave where the dwellings are marked with the sketches of days gone by; have you but been submerged in the only one of one, trapped in the waste of one creature, and able to see nothing beyond your own stench?

This is not to say that the season of your victory is far, as you are already the victorious one, but to turn you in the ways of you, in which you claim that which is so rightfully yours and thusly spawn that which is so rightfully wrong in others. In this way you so evenly divide your brothers and sisters and make them into something they are not and never were; something separate from your very self; can you not see that all the ways merge, much as the butterfly collected from the pollen procreates the infant turned with legs, the chrysalis born from the making of flight?

Has butterfly picked and chosen the flowers of his choosing, the reds as the greatest, the whites as the weakest? Or does he not fly above the sweetness and descend without choice and simply scope up the divine gift of treasure gold? Yes, he takes what is offered without persecution of the other growing spirits. For whom is butterfly to judge when the field he sees is neither selected or created, but given freely for his taking? Is this not a banquet set before his tethered eyes, and welcoming of grace so tender and sweet, that the very nectar of his tongue stimulates the continued growth. Does he not by bending to no bending and choosing no road, thusly continue in the cyclic cycle of giving; his beauty found beneath his wings as they glisten, the unity as whole. Is this not the patterned creature of your own awakening, how he harbors nothing for no one without thought or intention?

Be ye like the butter of flights, smooth and free in your goings, without intention to choose beyond the flowers of your limited making. For beyond you can not fly, to the chosen fields of buttercups and swollen goodness, and so you must choose what is isolated in the miniature scope made preference of your being. But in truth with the eyes of the patterned creature, set free, you shall peer into what grows beyond the scattered seeds blossomed; indeed peer beyond the soil in which truth grows, and straight, if straight it be, into the awakening of your own soul-seed, brought up from waters of clearness born.

We ask thee not to lay your waste down at our feet, this stench you collect for our collection, for the only gift we need is already brought onto us, the gift of chrysalis rebirthed and rebirthed again to butterfly. Collect thee not from the skies that bring you to the abandoned field picked dry by travelers past, choose thee the highest region where goodness abounds so readily that even the flowers themselves bow down in recognition of the one on high, the one whom like you has collected the nectar sweet; the one like you who has driven self into the depths of no-land, into the valley of naught, and in recollection alone, brought up the bitter-sweet of you.

For you, my lad, my maiden, are the richest bounty set out before the We, the last standing flower ready to beseech the making of the sun, bending to the maker for the treat of light alone; you know not why you bend, or how you bend, or where the light be formed, and as flower ripe none of this be necessary; only be as the flower and the flower-maker, and bend. And as you bend into me, we shall bend into We. For I am the light of the world, my darling flower, and you need not be the ant of no-man’s land trapped in the stench mistaken as goodness. You need only be the starlight captured in a dream of dream, flowing forward as the petals bending in submission; not of self, not of reason, but of knowing. Simply submit you know not and in this you know all. And in this We have whispered to you so, as you recollect in the dawning of the new day: “It was in her leaving, the actual coming of her going, the peace was found.”

*****

Butterfly food: “Butterflies can eat anything that can dissolve in water. They mostly feed on nectar from flowers but also eat tree sap, dung, pollen, or rotting fruit. They are attracted to sodium found in salt and sweat. This is why they sometimes even land on people in Butterfly Parks. Sodium as well as many other minerals is vital for the butterflies’ reproduction.” (Source http://www.whatdobutterflieseat.info/)

*****

The Dream You Be

There is a time between the here and now, a repetitive sequencing of events that present themselves as uniform but not unitary; be not in this stillness of naught when the time comes for the voices to reach you; instead spring from your bedchambers black and enter the light of new day; hear us as we hear you, in your ever whisper, so soft, so true. We are not the enemy and we are not the friend; We are We, and nothing can erase this triumphant victory.

When you are afraid take us close to your heart and whisper our name whatever We be; and this, this calling onto us, shall free the whispering heart. For when you weep, we weep solemnly. When you cry, we rescue, not through decreed or wondering deeds, but through the unity of spirit wherein We are you and you are We. Gather your tears not for us, but for the people you feed with your sorrow. In this way even the very pain of illusion becomes rain for the masses. Do not fear us anymore than you fear the very hand that feeds you; the doll strings that pull are none other than you, and We, as Master perceived, stand back and watch the marionette of this self-inflicted staging.

There is no mystery in us that is not thusly within you. For you are the gatekeeper, keeping watch with the hindsight of angels past; there is nothing to fear, for there is no fear, and in seeing this you are ultimately free. To know this is to be given the key to every kingdom beyond the door of blindness.

Seek thee not in the forest of gloom, nor so escape into the wilderness of naught forgetting your humble servant pride (ego), for he waits as the man on hind foot, readily as the steed to break through the mask of circumstance and remind you rightfully so of the path you so evenly cleared. He stands less servant than maker of guise, his hands out stretched in plentitude, his offerings of reward daintily presented, as if some serpent-slayer had beaten the monster down and won the battle clear.

No this is not you, or your shadow, or your future namesake; you be not this ghost in the night who wears warrior suit of righteousness. You are no less him than we. And yet, you run, scamper like that frightened rabbit at the sight of his whisper, the very ghost himself stifling your chiseled heart. Do not fear that which does not stand and has no stance, which cannot ride, and has no reign, less you afford him gain. There is no fortune in his invisible bounty, nothing hidden in his sac of charms. He conspires against you at will, presenting the merchandise of falsehood and draping your very name in bigotry; be oh he wise man of bitter times that blanketed the demon warrior with his hides of shame, the ruthless one rooted in the desert screams of mighty fortitude.

You aren’t he; nor shall you ever diminish in spirit. From here, all is written, and only tumbling fools shall fall. Give not to this destitute fool called pride; he hears you not, but still comes. He knows you not, but still rides. Forward in a gallop so rich in its emptiness that even you have forgotten the game he shapes with wicked ways. There is none that can reach you now through sting alone. Nothing so bright as thee will be shut out by such wicked lies. And still you run into the forest of night, seeking refuge as the one blinded in the land of doom, thinking wrongfully in your ways, perchance frozen in the very thought of true.

Can you not see the dance around you, the white beauty of desire’s skirt circling and beaming into the ever-moving stream of thee? Can you not see such perfection sketched out on the Tablets of Master, written once over and twice presented to the very veins of living stone? How could one such as you, when clung to father as sapling to the spring, not drink and know your very own light and calling? Is this not the voice that sang you lullaby sweet as tender love, dressed in the garb of angel white? Is this not the very wind through your window that opened the night of your vigorous awakening—the tinkering of the consciousness that ricochets through the echoing chambers of evaporated thought and brings up fruit for the taking?

How can thee of little faith be so endearingly blinded by the very light of thee? How can you not burn in your own making, the taking of the light into the beauty of fullness, forever vanquished by your glory; forever moved by your giving. Take no more from the bleakness of the bitter lies. Take the makings of me, the land between the sky and heaven’s blue, and dance here in the sanctuary of space. Dance here where I last made you lay and drink in the gratitude of the sunlight. Sink your weary soul into me tender starlight; leap into my unbreakable arms, and I shall beseech you know more, just carry thee gently back to the making of the one, the breaking of the We, and show you again and again the dream you be.

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