314: The Sword of Truth

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

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

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

I think I was surrounded by kinship.

I think I was supported for my truth and vision.

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

And I am often so very homesick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Samantha Craft, 2013 February

Day Nineteen: Return to Planet Earth


I believe, without a doubt, I have Aspergers. And I believe Aspergers affects me on multiple levels. I believe I am handicapped in ways, because of this syndrome. I uphold that what my diagnosis means to anyone, beyond myself, is inconsequential. While I love and care about others unconditionally, I am aware that when I care how others’ perceive me, and let their opinions affect my esteem, then ego is stepping in. Thusly, I have been actively releasing ego-attachments associated with the title of Asperger’s Syndrome. And  I’ve been actively telling myself to not use the diagnosis as an excuse, such as a reason to not leave the house, to escape into isolation, to fixate more, etc. I forgive myself for partaking in this natural process of swinging to one extreme on the pendulum of attachment and emotional-response to the other, before finding a restful state of equilibrium.

Yes, the Aspergers title has enabled me to understand myself at a very profound level. And I support others who are seeking a diagnosis and/or self-understanding. But I no longer choose to let the diagnosis define my personhood. 

 Sam Craft’s Expedition Journal (February 2012) Semi-Fictional

Day One: Upon receiving my official diagnosis of Asperger’s Syndrome, I have subsequently clung onto the title. Beginning to understand the implications of diagnosis.

Day Two: My diagnosis now qualifies as a life preserver, as the term Aspergers appears to be keeping me afloat, as I relive aspects of my past and evaluate my perception of reality. Mental connections observed. Huge relief in finding semblance of answers, preponderance of flashbacks. Mild-degree of depression. Reality shifting.

Day Three: Uncertain if clinging is beneficial. Is this need to grasp onto a title indeed part of my Asperger’s brain or part of my soul’s journey? Many questions emerging.

Day Four: If Aspergers is a man-made diagnosis, does it exist? Still clinging to title.

Day Five: I’ve met others who recognize me and validate my experience. I have found my people. I am proud to have Aspergers! I no longer care if I am clinging. Neurotypicals of planet earth do not understand me.

Day Six: Preparing for trip to Planet Aspie. Confirmation received: I am of alien decent. Leaving behind all prior diagnosis, roles, and identities, in hopes of forging ahead to new frontier. I have reclaimed my spaceship. Excited. Final goodbyes to cruel earth.

Day Seven: Take Off! Less and less grounded, but filled with hope.

Day Eight: Assimilated successfully with my kin. Partying, connecting. Don’t miss earth one bit, or anything I left behind.

Day Nine: Trouble breathing. Don’t know how much longer I can survive here. I fear if I depart I will lose clarity of self and multiple connections in new community. Gasping for air. Disappointed and discouraged by predicament.

Day Ten: Breathing remains labored. Beginning to reconsider options. I miss earth. I miss who I was. Understanding my identity, views, and reasoning have become obstructed and marred by the mere act of defining myself as an alien from Planet Aspie. Forgotten who I was.

Day Eleven: I’ve been forced to make preparations to leave planet, after a radio signal I picked up from earth, on a social network frequency:

“Isn’t it strange how folks pigeon holed by their ‘labels’ want to be recognized for their ‘labels’, yet don’t want to be pigeon holed by labels?” ~ K

Day Thirteen: Ego wounded on planet. A fellow alien wrote the following message on the  side of my spacecraft:

“I’ve never considered it a disability. You take the good with the bad. Asperger’s gives one good analytical thinking and attention to detail, useful traits wouldn’t you say?

Social skills aren’t hard to learn if you work at it…How could you compare a social impediment with…? That’s being perhaps a little bit whiny and self-obsessed.

If- perchance- you’re offended, I don’t blame my asperger’s. I blame myself. If I’ve crossed the line here, I’m sorry and it’s my fault.” ~ J

Resulting consequence: I became self-absorbed and remained (momentarily) in a feeble-state of wounded-ego. I understand now, the message was not a direct attack upon my personhood, and that I only felt attacked because I’ve wrapped my identity in a spacesuit of Aspergers. Though I disagree with aspects of the message and tone, these words carry nothing but ego-bullets. To avoid further injury, I am returning to planet earth where I can better control ego, (and breathe).

Day Fourteen: Ego-attachment to Aspergers identity is still very strong, as I buckle in and prepare for departure.

Day Fifteen: Touched down on Planet Earth. Immediately reunited with vital parts of self. Ego in balance. Collecting parts of personhood that I left behind. Mourning loss of identity. Breathing still labored.

Day Sixteen: Planting a new garden of identity that hosts a multitude of vegetation. Seeds in place. Breathing normal. Earthlings are loving, indeed. Aliens no longer exist. All beings on same journey.

Day Seventeen: Successfully integrated all Aspergers’ traits back into the whole of my personhood. Ego at bay. Nolonger in need of a self-definition to exist. Breathing is divine.

Day Eighteen: Flowers are in full bloom in garden. Welcoming beauty. Anchored in awareness. Seeing others as a reflection of my perceptions. Continue to learn.

Day Nineteen: Accepting and loving all parts of self. Witnessed another earthling blast off to Planet Aspie. Will remain in garden waiting for her to return. Sending her love and light.