poem

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.

367: Touched By Grace

| Aspergers Girls

touched by grace two

touched by grace

(Touched by Grace ~ Watercolor by Samantha Craft)

Last night I asked Spirit how I could possibly display in creation how I am feeling.

I heard, “You will paint tomorrow to show grace.” I said, “No, I don’t want to paint,” the stubborn child I be.

But, as it happened, I could do nothing else but paint for two hours straight this morning.

I have this rush of passion that is filling up my entire being, and sometimes for most of the daylight hours I find myself in a state of pure serenity and peace.

When I am not in this ‘state,’ I feel isolated and alone, wanting to find comfort and peace in the simple things in life and nothing more.

Whatever this be, I have never felt moments of such complete love and acceptance of all.

The problem arises, if problem it be, when I am seemingly brought back to earth, left in this inadequate shell.

I am processing through this, as observer, stepping back and watching myself move through the motions.

In trying to make sense of my world, as I always have, I have been losing myself in research centering around various religions, spiritual belief systems, mysticism, gurus, and holy people. I am searching for answers, even as I hear my angels whisper I need not do so. I just feel so lost in this feeling, wondering where to go, where to turn, and where the person is, beyond self, with the answers.

I travel in waves, it seems, now, either in a state of pure grace, unmoved and lacking all suffering, or in a state of confusion about the state I had previously experienced. I am praying and holding tight, and knowing all will be for my higher good. But there is a part of me who wishes deeply for a teacher to be guidinging me and comforting in an audible “real” voice.

For my whole life I have sought out the “teacher,” the “seer,” “the sage,” and my whole life I have not found him (her). (Yes, I believe everyone in my life is a teacher to an extent, but by teacher in this instance I mean a guide for me through this spiritual journey.) During this period of spiritual transformation, I am left missing a knowing companion, more than ever.

I wrestled all day about whether or not I would share these current thoughts and experiences, and came to the conclusion that to stop now, when the healing in my life is truly taking shape, (emotionally, physically, and spiritually), would be symbolic of me running in fear of my truth. Though I still struggle with not wanting to share anymore, ever. To just keep everything to myself now—as that is what society dictates. But I know what happens when I do that. I know too well my silencing of self leads to sickness in all forms.

Touched By Grace

I am lost in the confusion of my mind, torn between your beckoning and my illusions of soul desire. How I want to embrace you, my being wrapped within your rapture, pulsating with disbelief and grandeur. My angles merged with yours, two made one in form and thought.

When you come, joined, my spirit, hung upon the highest line, sails in the wind of fantasy lifted and lingers momentarily at the shell emptied below.

Up above, we spin; the opportunity poured out of me, the chance for future cleansed, the past forgotten, with only the sound of fluttering light filling my chambers.

Here, I am the infinite, empowered by divine, a vessel for your making, poured through with your sweet honey, bitterness removed, heart grown as the ancient oak of worship.

I tower, my insignificant vessel a mere shadow of existence peering out in silenced awe. My spine in flight, tingling with sensation, the entire body pulsating with universal rhythm.

I am enough and not enough. Found and left. Forgotten and seen. The two of me split, while one dances and gleams and the other watches quiet in her observation.

Here I choose, and dive deeper into the sky, your queen, your princess, your moment, moving on the cascading groves of your robe, splashing in the wave of glory. In and out you move, bringing forth the bounty of the sea, in whispered words unspoken, in desert sunsets drippings –artist’s paints through my soul.

I am made, torn through with lucid-colors, spun and turned upright, eyes set to the highest peak.

I bend, I break, I beg, and taste your glory, lifted to a place beyond reason and given the taste of peace, merged and at long last unbroken.

And here the trembling comes, the seeing of the times, the movement of your making, the expectation of betterment surging through my veins. For how can I be anything? How can I, this shadow creature living in falsehood be worthy of your wanting? Yet, all about you beckon me, filtering me with your pureness, taking my very edges apart and sewing me in completion in your golden bounty. Threaded, I am mended, brought through to the start of me, when all was whole, and whole was all.

364: The Shift

| Aspergers Girls

Today I painted for six hours straight without pause. I was able to process and purge some of my emotions. I prayed and connected to spirit. This is my first attempt at a realistic watercolor. I am pleased with the outcome. I feel my energy and love in this piece. It is called “The Shift.” I am still feeling a great passion and surge of connection to source; thusly, I quickly scribed a poem to match the painting. With my recent emotional and spiritual healings, I have an intense drive to bring to life the beating love within me.

The Shift

The Shift

I walked alone, a stranger on an island to herself. The atmosphere thick and strangling, my emotions bottled inside the opaque glass of reason. I did not know myself, my name, my passion. All was nothing and nothing was all. I longed for companionship; and as desert soul left open, would climb the cliffs in search of you.

Call out, I did, until you came, at least the whispered ghost of you; your phantom corridor offering me respite, if only in imaginings. I ached so devastatingly deep that the richest cave could not harbor the very start of my emptiness. A lion’s roar was my enemy and friend; this triumphant beating trembling purge of beast that drifted and wept across the sea.

I died onto myself, missing you as the window misses the onlooker; left rigid, cold, and clear with no view and no observer. I was less than invisible. I was abstract, set out beneath the world, yet none could be my witness; none could hear my tears.

Falling, I fell. Calling, I called. And yet you heard me not, except the tiniest splinter of thought. In daylight I formed you with clay; the milkiness of you seeping through my entangled fingers. Bled out to the ground, I molded my dignity, my fortitude, my every want into the making of your heart.

And you beat, this moistened part of you, beneath where I rested; my lathered palms dripping muddy-sweet into the blades of greenest grass. I ate you, then, ground your essence between my teeth, and turned my mouth a brown of dreams. Played you between my tongue and cheeks; something tangy, no less sweeter than my own buds.

I nibbled and caressed, taking in the fantasy I created; the one I longed to paint across the seabreeze, to make your real, like the toy that comes alive to the child still innocent. To dance with you, your floppy legs turned limber and lean; the muscles flexing underneath the all of you.

I could climb you like a tree, harboring your very branches between my thighs, and ride you into the sunset as a damsel on her knight obedient.

Atop, in the blue haze, far beyond the robin’s nest, where the eagle soars still, I would witness the end, and sit with you hand—in-hand, like butter between my flesh and soul. Spread out like no other, my head upon thy breast, my heart within your very dove-winged embrace. My mystery revealed, a treasure onto you. In so much that my kingdom becomes your destiny; a place of rapture, delight, and dancing laughter.

Spin me there, now, kind prince. Swing me through the evergreen forest and champion your maiden ripe. For the time has come for children to rise and face the light of happiness.

349: My Humaness

| Aspergers Girls

three women

I am not told what to do by my angels or given exact directions. I have free will. There are no guidelines, specifics, or deadlines given. No pressure at all. No time at all, really, as time seems to stand still with them, as if they could pour a thousand memories into me with the touch of a raindrop.

They show me coincidences all the time, too. Simple easy things, that don’t rock my world, as their intention is not to jolt or hurt or alarm. There is a gentle easiness to them, an ever-lasting presence that wraps me up in the comforting current of eternal and unconditional love.

I hear them, yes, but not in an out-of-this-world way; there isn’t thunder or chiming bells, or even the air of wings fluttering, only this gentle nudge of images and knowing. If I had to choose a word that connects the most, I would use the word telepathic. But even this found word leaves out so much of what actually transpires. There is healing warmth without heat. There is music without instrument. There is knowing without understanding. It is an injection of memories without memories.

I cannot describe the experience, and that is okay.

There is nothing I can attach to the connections that could be labeled “negative.” Nothing comes from what they “whisper” that doesn’t become truth. Just as nothing comes from them that doesn’t heal. I can’t create any aspect of the experience into anxiety or fear. And even when I speak of them, I am guided and bathed in healing light.

I have been told that the only way for me to heal is to continually connect to them. But this message hasn’t been given to me by force or in threat. I have been gently molded into this truth and made aware of this truth in my own time and reasoning, a path of connection, they have ever so softly allowed me to find on my own.
Though guided, they guide me not. Though reminded, they remind me not. As there is no attachment, no release. Perhaps it is union. No less, no more than me, and as one we walk. Yes, union seems fitting. But not “right.” As there is no right or wrong.

I am perfectly divine and perfectly okay in their eyes. They lift me to the beauty of me and hold me when I weep. Over and over they hold me as I weep. Their signs are everywhere, continually. They give me hints of what my day will be through my dreams and through my waking hours. I see symbols and lock onto images. Distinct words come to mind that will then materialize in form later in the day.

This all seems so natural now, that I forget sometimes that my world is not everyone’s world. However, where there used to be confusion and clutter in experience, there is not. This just is. This is the way I sense what is not beyond but what is. My eyes beyond eyes witness, and I am accepting that when they are closed, I suffer.

With each thought and choice, I am learning to question is this for the service of Holy Spirit, with each word I am beginning to see the extreme potential and power of the words themselves. I am understanding all of this rapidly. I know not why, and I am releasing this needing to know, this needing to do anything but be.

I struggle. I struggle internally and externally with pain at all levels. I struggle with the knowledge that somewhere a part of me knows essentially how to release this pain, yet it still lingers. And then I forgive myself for not being “there” yet, as there is no “there,” and there is no time. I get this. I see this.

Walking in this world, while seeing so much, is daunting. Even as I know fear as the invisible nothing, that doesn’t even qualify as nothing, I still feel this illusion. And even as I know the key is in unconditional love of others, and in turn the love of illusion of self, I still feel what would seem the opposite of unconditional. I still am human.

And this is my deepest struggle: my humaness.

As I am somehow connected to this universal light, whether this be the collective unconscious or Holy Spirit, or combination, but I remain this broken, frail, doubting spirit. Yet, they soothe me still, with even these thoughts, reminding me that I am as I am for reason. And they show me in a flash the way. And I am understood in completion.

Even so, to be this self is difficult—to hold this pain and not know where to find release. But yet at the same time to willingly and whole-heartedly want this pain. To sacrifice for the light they have and see in me. To sacrifice self and happiness to be what they see in me. Such beauty. And with this beauty I am able to see to the core of you, to the core of another; so simply and purely all shine.

I don’t know what the future holds, but am certain I am already there in completion smiling at this self I think I am now. I harbor these truths, and I carry them openly, not for me, and not for you, but for all. For I am not, and you are not without the other.

And still I weep. I weep inside exceedingly doubtful and scared. A frightened child wondering if all is a dream I invented. And if so, where to find escape, how to wake up, how to wake you up, too, so we both may breathe in the new day that is yet to come, but still exists.

The Box
I am
an unopened box
I sit sealed
I am also
Outside of the box
When the box is opened
And I emerge
I am nothing
I am
Indeed the box itself
And in opening the box
I see again
Another self
Staring at another box
Unopened
But who is it that sees
Who is it that opens
And who will be the last
To find nothing

~ In Peace and Love
Sam

347: Woven Round

| Aspergers Girls

I feel you in me, like a trigger to my heart. That stopping point when breath is taken away by something beyond someone, and the beating of one’s thoughts stop in the silence of the lingering moment.
.
I hear you and see you, in the varying degrees of your absence, your presence stolen by the invisible fear of connection. I hear you again, tapping upon our unioned cage, forged by blindness that carries out the parts two, feather by feather.
.
I peck away at what should be hand, so moves the phantom through the absence of bars. I flutter, my wings upon the wooden stand, swollen from the inside, a child within begging to come out; my chest an eruption, proud and proper, a dove out of reach but swooning with hope.
.
How I wish you could touch me here, where feathers attach to the skin of my riches, delicate and gathered in tender gentleness. Where the air sweeps beneath and tangles in sunlight’s whispers.
.
You long to fly; I feel this spoken through your tears. To leap out of the shell without knowledge, to plunge into this something you call me. I feel you awake and sense the part of you that sleeps, the forever part that is both lost and stolen, still calling to be found.
.
And I approach, my fingers claws, nestling my substance against the shadow of you. For only shadow lives where you breathe, only the coldness of forgotten, and the echo of the song I knew.
.
Distance swings upon my perch, collected into a cluster of rainbow’s weeping, each droplet multi-dimensional and dripping into the canvas of you. A pictorial representation of denial fried in the pan of reason.
.
Whisper to me not, I say, as your words are no more truth than the broken past you have assembled as false reality claimed true. For I have the vision of the hawk, the seeing of the owl, the knowing of the ravens’ ancestral song.
.
In bitter sworded-ache, I cast out the doubt of illusion and dig with claw and beak as one, joined in ballad, two forms merged in the impossibility of rhythm and depth; stifled by the emptiness beyond.
.
In yearning, I create nests of safe harbor, a place to lay both your bosom and your head, so heart may speak as river’s brother to the mind you claim as yours.
.
And you stir, some secret doorway set ajar, to let the fleeting flutter of wisdom move within. And words soothe, as the truth of the long-awaited lullaby rises, like some star that has at last died to please my wishing.
.
“Speak my desert heart”, you whisper, guiding me in warmth to the place of my wanting. And from there, in the magic of vision birthed into solidity, we merge as golden one. The phoenix twice-created, so dreams may fall upon the dreamers whilst we soar.
.
“Speak, my desert soul, to the ache in me,” you beckon, further chanting: “Once buried, bring me forward to the weaver of love; the soul whom waits on the edge of tomorrow, pleading out cause, slumbering gateway awaiting joy.”
.
And then as waterfall filled by cycle of giving skies to swallowed lands, you pour out: “Call out to me, as flight, wide and thick, in the gloriousness of freedom. Glide me to the stream of trust, to faith, to the place where I can see and I cannot. Don on me the wisdom of knowing all is not and not is all. Take me to the pool of nothingness and emerge me ripened as ink transferred into artist’s hero.
.
Tall, black, stifled not by life, but by the drive to force my presence into pages, make me the one who moves the tides, who ruptures the ground, who splits open the edges of her existence and nestles between the hot molten desire. Make me the one who champions without reason. Who knows not why he moves, except instructed to do so by feathered shaking quill.
.
Paint me, make me, create me, a thousand times more, in scene after scene, script after script. Pierce me with the markings of a master, shield me with the pen of making, so I might have no will but to cast out all doubt of my existence.
.
Bleed me to the world on the white parchment of forever, made of the trees of the ages, and the dark petals crushed within. Exist me into existence, so I may eat away, as one eaten away, leaving me twisted and forgotten, unfamiliar with my own being.
.
Recreate the passion that lives. Recreate the talisman-warrior, so I may go out into the world and feed the masses in my unified glory with one.
.

I see now, the ever-present yearning to find self in the reflection of me. I see there behind and beyond my shoulder broad, feeding not from me, as much as from the memory of where I stood.
.
How we have waited and wandered, in the broken thoughts of mind, only to find again and again, some sunlight forgotten, some moonshine tucked away beneath where treasures go.
.
I call on you from the shattered place of reason, where the shed of light escapes inward, and for the moment I am there one made two. I call on you to break open and carve your name across my chest. So I may rise as victim removed and dance on the gravestone that was once my home.
.
To rise, from beyond this dirt of flesh, no less formed than unformed, no less determined than undetermined, but much released from the agony that was once me. Given to her, as her to me, both as slave unchained to freedom. Given as wolves set out of cave. And run we do, to where we stand, our cages unemptied, as are shadow selves rest upon the time of flight.”