spirit

Post 251: Holy Water

| Aspergers Girls

This story is dedicated to a dear blogging friend Kindred Spirit, who made me giggle at mention of my experiences being ordinary. Here’s one for you Bro!

Holy Water  

by Samantha Craft (based on real life events; some events altered.)

My dog Justice curled up beneath our coffee table gurgling and gnawing at his backside.  I sat cracking open smiling pistachios.  A few paces away, Mother faced our antique German cabinet, her look overcome with concern.  “You know what?” Mother asked.

My eyes sought out the angles of her body, falling on her slight hips and then her tense shoulders.  I responded softly while setting a pistachio between my teeth, “What, Mom?”  Mother turned.  I met her eyes with a curious stare, recognizing at once the nervous thickness in her thoughts, and then swept a cluster of pistachio shells across the table into a small concise circle. I waited.

Mother faced me with the full of her body, the ends of her tangled hair resting against her bulging collarbone.  “I think there is something wrong with the cabinet.”

From the corner of our living room the massive mahogany cabinet stood stoically surrounded by a hodgepodge of second-hand furniture, appearing like a polished soldier amongst a gathering of dusty-faced peasants.  The cabinet’s aged glass reflected an opaque wave of Mother, as she made her way to the couch near Justice and me.  “There’s something not right about it; that’s all,” she said.

I stretched my legs beneath the coffee table and rubbed my toes through the fibers of the carpet, trying to brush the topic away.  Nearby Mother tapped her newly-polished fingernails on the dusty coffee table. Looking down at Justice chewing away at his backside, I remembered the story of how Mother had crashed through the ancient glass front of the cabinet when she was a teenager, after tilting her dining room chair back too far.  I preoccupied myself by calculating the age of the present day pane of glass, and then thought about my mother’s father, denture-wearing, fiddle playing Grandpa Willy, wondering what he looked like now, figuring how many hours it would take to drive for a visit.

Lighting up a cigarette, Mother inhaled deeply, and then blew out.  “I think the cabinet is possessed,” she offered casually.

I bit down hard on pistachio shell and gave out a nervous little laugh.

Mother grinned.  Two fingers embraced her cigarette and pressed against her lips.  I thought about Buddy One, my imaginary ghost friend; he hadn’t moved downstairs with us to the bottom duplex.  Mother picked up a stack of green-backed tarot cards and set them on a table to her side.  “With all your dreams that come true and the noises and voices you hear, even that ghost friend of yours, I can’t help but think something is causing all of this.  And when you think about it, that cabinet has faced your bedroom in the last four places we’ve lived.”

I took in a deep breath, grabbed a day old glass of lemonade and drank, taking the bitter with the sweet, not knowing if I should laugh or cry.  Scenes from Casper the Friendly Ghost and The Exorcist flashed before me.  How I longed for a brother or sister to elbow me in the side and say, “Don’t worry.  It’s all pretend.”

Before supper, Mother appeared at my side with her orange-flowered overnight bag and tossed a grocery sack my direction.  I peeked inside the bag to find a yellow onion skin stuck to the bottom.  “Fill this up,” Mother said. “We’re going.”

The sun was low on the horizon when a woman with wispy-white hair and a whimsical Muumuu opened her front door.  Justice lapped at my tennis shoes and cowered behind my knees, while I tugged on his leash, trying to steady his body.

Minutes later Justice and I followed Mother, as she huffed back to the car with sober steps. I knew beyond a doubt that the combination of Mother’s somber face and conspiratorial tone, blended in with the tale of the spirit in the cabinet, had led to our early departure.  Her actions were indeed strange, but not without merit.  I myself had experienced the dreams which came true; Mother’s theory was as good as the next.  Reflecting on my dead bird and hustling down the dirt walkway with Justice, I counted myself lucky to have a parent that cared.

The next path Mother led me up was a granite-crushed walkway.  This time Justice remained in the car.  After we reached the front door of an expansive ranch-style home and Mother rapped a brass knocker, the door opened to a delicate aroma of roses and a middle-aged man in a paisley tie. The man wiped his hands on the pockets of his denim apron.  “How can I help you?” he asked, his dark blue eyes sweeping the neckline of Mother’s low-cut shirt.

Mother straightened her posture and pushed me forward. I flashed a broken-tooth grin, focused downward on my lavender-starred shoelaces and began counting the stars.

“Is Barbara home?”  Mother asked.

“Sure, just a sec…. I’ll run and get her for you.”

Mother’s knuckles were whitening as she gripped my hand.

Barbara appeared wearing a dramatic aquamarine scarf and holding a wooden spoon.  She looked surprised to see us.  “Is everything all right?  Did something happen at the office?”

“Oh no, that’s all fine.”  Mother paused and gave me the evil-eye. “Keep still.”     Shrinking from Mother’s words, I stopped shuffling my feet on the woven doormat, cast my eyes sideways, and clenched my fists.

“Actually, you see, we need a favor.  We can’t stay at our house tonight,” Mother said.

“Oh?”

“We need a place to stay.”

A frown creased Barbara’s brow.  “I don’t understand. Is everything all right?  Is there something wrong?”

Mother leaned towards Barbara. “Well, you see.  I know this sounds extreme, but I have some evidence that…” Mother stopped to clear her throat.  “Actually, you see there is something in our cabinet.”

Barbara stepped onto the porch.  “What are you talking about?”

I stepped backwards and hid behind my mother’s back.

Mother put her hands on her hips.  “What I’ve been trying to tell you, is there is a spirit in our cabinet.  And you see we need a place to stay; but only for tonight, that is—just until the exorcism.”  Mother looked down as if she were embarrassed by her own words.

Giving an odd glance and shifting back, Barbara moved through the entryway into her house.  She closed the door until only her face showed.  “This isn’t a good time.  I’ve got dinner on the stove and we’re expecting company.  I’m sorry.”  With that the door shut completely and a cool wind swept across the porch.

Sometime after sunset, sitting in the backseat of the car, listening to the song Don’t Cry Out Loud, I stroked Justice’s hairy chin and thought by all fairytale accounts Mother should have already made some headway—made a step past someone’s threshold.  After all even the Big Bad Wolf blows down two houses before failing and two of the three Billy Goats pass over the bridge without consequence.

After a quick stop at a gas station for cigarettes and nine dimes into the pay telephone later, Mother eyed the rearview mirror as if some entity might be on our tail and weaved ahead through the darkening night at a frightful speed.  The car jolted and bounced, climbing over a scattering of rocks, until we landed on a wide gulf where a blur of an ash-colored tomcat disappeared behind the porch swing.

Inside the house, Mother sucked an extended puff from a cigarette. “Every time I try to get my life in order something happens.”  Her lower lip jutted upwards and she let out an exaggerated exhale.  The smoke reached my eyes, my nostrils, my lungs, and I let out a sequence of coughs.  I sneezed into my hands.  Justice’s ears perked up from under the coffee table.  Mother’s dark-haired friend nodded and the conversation continued, meandering from relationships to work, and back again to the haunted cabinet.  I curled on top of a lumpy couch and closed my eyes.

In the late morning mother and I arrived at our duplex and sat on the small patio near the front entry. A priest, donned in a traditional high-white collar and long black robe, emerged from around the corner carrying a weathered briefcase across our dew-wet grass. Looking like she hadn’t slept in days, Mother rose from our front porch and extended her hand.  After a few pleasantries, Mother unlocked the front door and led the priest inside our dark living room.  After following them inside, I sat in the far corner watching them both: my gaunt mother and the stately-looking priest, with Justice’s breath hot on my face.

The priest, wasting no time, took out a miniature glass bottle from his leather case. He unscrewed the bottle, recited a few biblical verses and sprinkled water on and around the base of the cabinet.  After reciting a prayer, he twisted the lid back on, opened his case, placed the bottle inside, snapped the case closed, and looked at the two of us.  “I hope that helps,” he said.

Mother reached into her jean pocket, pulled out a folded bill, and handed it to the priest. “Thank you so much, Father. You’ve really helped us. I don’t know what we would have done without you.”

The priest nodded his head and tucked his briefcase under his arm. “You and your daughter are welcome to our church anytime.  We are just around the corner.”

I rose up off of the carpet and calmed Justice with a brush to his head, nodding politely at the priest.  The priest smiled, waved, and rang out a pleasing God Bless You and then showed himself out the door.

With the priest gone and the evil spirit banished, Mother disappeared into her bedroom, while I remained in the dark staring out at the cabinet.

The story had not ended like I’d expected.  No green-faced monster had popped his ferocious spinning head out from the depths of the cabinet.  No lightening bolts had appeared.  In fact, there wasn’t any evidence of anything out of the ordinary at all.  There were no answers or explanations.  It was as if I was stuck in the middle of some long storybook, unable to flip back to the beginning and start over and equally incapable of proceeding forward to the end. After all the running away and hype, all the embarrassment and fear, there was nothing to show in the end.  Only Mother’s deep snores trumpeting from the backroom and Justice licking up the trickling drops of holy water.

Post 234: Demons, Darkness and the Light

| Aspergers Girls

Demons, Darkness and the Light

You know those days, or time periods, when a bunch of crap just starts to happen, kind of like you’ve dropped an explosive device down the deep stench of the outhouse and a volcano of poop is erupting?

Do you know too that moment when you can step back away from the ego-self and observe your own being, while distancing yourself from the mess that in reality is an illusion? How you can then, with decisive and heartfelt action, breathe in what appears to be filth and smell only succulent roses?

I’m stepping back. And I’m admiring the wonders of this experience labeled life.

I gather I’m under attack of some sort. Whenever I am entirely honest and come from a place of pure truth, as I did in my latest writings, something always counters me.

I don’t mean to sound “far out there” or “super spiritual,” but truth be told, I’ve been countered since I was a young child. And I’ve been placed in events that have directly challenged my strength of will.

By the age of nine, I’d undergone losses of grand proportion, including the loss of two fathers, one through my mother’s second divorce, a man I’d never see again, but once when I was almost an adult, and the emotional loss of my biological father, whom, for the majority of my childhood, I only saw a few days a year. I suffered the loss of my kindergarten teacher when she died of cancer. I suffered the loss of my best friend in kindergarten, Keith, who moved to Hawaii. I suffered the loss of my step-sisters and step-brothers, when our family broke apart; they being the only siblings I ever had. I suffered the loss of my best buddy of three years, who was more liken to a sister, because she was the daughter of my mother’s boyfriend, and I spent most nights and weekends in the same bedroom as her—lost her when her mother “kidnapped” her one day; the last day I ever saw her. I suffered the loss of pets that I would foretell dying in my dreams. I suffered the loss of childhood with the complexity of my thoughts, and an understanding of the vastness of the universe and consequences of social norms, that far surpassed the thinking of most adults. Suffer I did. And all before the first decade of my life reached completion.

I teeter not upon the other violations I experienced, choosing not to go into detail, but instead say that along with the losses, predators found me, and made me victim.

At the age of ten, life didn’t get easier, in fact the trials continued, one after the other, without pause for retreat, without rest, without rescue.

I grew into a woman matured in an untimely fashion by the pangs of this world. I grew into a child, who born sensitive and hyper aware of the spiritual world, became hyper afraid of the earthly world. My fear manifested itself into a grandiose, potentially explosive, bang of illusion associated with death and illness. Everything imaginable was out to destroy me. Who implanted this seed, I do not know, but it remains to this day my greatest internal weed, with thoughts of my demise recycling and winding through my mind sometimes emotionally choking me up to a few hundred times hourly. How to stop this fear has been my quest since I was nine. I have truly died a thousand and one deaths, each minute reminded of my mortality and fragility.

The only thing that stops the thoughts is being immersed in a fixation or passion. The issue then becomes that I am escaping the present to avoid my thoughts, and in fact not really here at all.

I have grown tired of this battle. So very weary.

In truth, I have traveled a tiresome path of challenge after challenge, emotionally, physically, mentally and spiritually. I have been persecuted at all levels.

At age elven, I would awake to demons dragging me down my bed or to the hell fires roasting my body. I’ve been visited by spirits I would call “evil.”

My father had told me as a teenager, when I’d undergo the extreme nightmares, the visitations, the precognitive dreams, and such, that I was a beacon on a hill and that my bright light would attract the good, but with this, I would also attract the bad. I believed him. I still do.

My outer-body experiences started when I was very young. I would wake up trapped in my own body, able to see everything about me and hear, but unable to open my eyes. My father could leave his dream state and body, travel to another room in the house, and upon awakening tell all of what he saw and heard.

For me, I have visions, I see what will happen, or what might happen. I see car accidents, deaths, tragedies, sufferings, and sometimes, though rare, cause for celebration.

There was a time, I sat alone in a room with my father, and when he asked, “Can you tell me what you see when looking at me? And I responded, “Yes, to your right, there is a demon there, sitting and trying to control you.” And my father answered, “Yes,” pointing to the exact spot I mentioned.

Again, another time, my father said to look in a mirror at the end of his hallway and tell him what I saw. I told him a green like lizard-like alien with yellow-orange eyes, and he again responded “Yes; that is what I see.”

My father is quite sane. With the whole of my heart, I believe he was not inventing things. He is above all else extremely honest, blunt, and direct. I fear, though, he still has that demon sitting at his side.

In his house I was never safe. When I lived with him during my college years, I was always frightened to sleep under his roof. I would hear “get out” when I entered his bedroom, though no one was home. And strange events happened, like the television turning on by itself and flicking channels or a spirit holding me at night using the exact same words to speak to me as she did to my father.

“Oh her. Yes, I know her. She comes to me at night in the same way,” my father would say.

Once a well-known and established religious sect tried to recruit my father, based on his connection to the spiritual world. “Quickly, come here,” father would hear, before stealthy escaping the waiting area. “We found one of them!” Them referring to psychic and able to astral project.

With all the challenges and arguably unusual (and sometimes unspeakable) occurrences in my life, I’m growing tired of what I see as servitude through sacrifice. I definitely feel as if I have the soul of a martyr. I say this with no pride.

I tried for many years to heal my soul, to fill some gap or hole, so to undergo a life of simplicity and easiness.

I’m quite the expert in mankind’s current way to better one’s self, and quite the expert on the shortcomings of such solutions.

I’ve come to the conclusion that my soul and personhood does not need fixing.

I am realizing that the most advantageous action for me to take is to continue to be authentic and shine my light. To continue, regardless of the consequence, to be truthful in my personal experience.

I am listening to my angels.

I’ve been called since I was little to help. First with animals, later with the elderly, homeless, non-English speaking immigrants, and children, and now female adults.

Being called to help and shine my light for no other intention but to help is just who I am.

I think, no I know, I scare some people. They just don’t get me.

They don’t understand why I do what I do.

Why I write or have this drive to reach people.

They don’t understand honesty.

They don’t understand goodness.

Day 136: I am Beauty. I am Beast.

| Aspergers Girls

Photo on 2012-05-31 at 09.30

I talk to my higher power a lot. All day really. I talk to my angels, Jesus, nature, God, my guardians of light, people who have passed on. And I continually examine my mind, my thoughts, my actions—all the time. I don’t know how to breathe without focusing on the light, on my journey, on my life’s calling.

But I am human. I falter. I stumble. I become fixated and obsessed. I worry. I forget. I forget my purpose and the gifts I carry.

Then the guilt comes. The analysis. The fret and worry. And I am engulfed in should and should nots. How I could be better, more perfect, less human. My mind spins in review of all the reasons I am not enough. All the sources I turn to instead of light—the things, the people. I make validation my idol. I make love of self my goal. I forget why I am here. I forget to release expectations. I forget I am love. I am perfection. I am pure light.

My gift is in my message. In my story. In my words. In my ability to share my truth from the depths of me.

But I forget.

Sometimes I realize that I am writing for my own interest.

Sometimes I write only to be heard or seen by one special person, a friend, a lover.

Sometimes I write in hopes of discovery.

Sometimes I write so someone, anyone, will take note.

Sometimes I write to count the number of like buttons hit on my blog.

Sometimes I write in hopes of the perfect comment from a reader.

Sometimes I write because if I do not I will absolutely explode.

I think of these reasons. And I weep.

I think these are wrong. I think I am wrong.

I cry and beg for forgiveness. For forgiveness for being human.

I plea to be led back to source. For release from my selfish ways.

I weep and weep.

I beat myself up.

My light dims.

Until spirit gently answers.

Like he always does.

In the kindest of ways.

In the form of a gift sent by a distant friend.

A box

that opens

To bubble wrap

Filled with

A mini-zoo of  plastic animals

Each animal with a small uplifting handwritten note attached

Like the rhino ~ stamina, solidity, a creature of substance and expansive power.

Each with a special message for my spirit

Like the Polar Bear ~ The embodiment of the spirit of the north–one who holds ancient wisdom and shamanic powers.

I hold each animal and weep

And then at the very bottom of the box

Find a Beauty and the Beast CD

And I cry harder

In the knowing

Spirit is with me

In knowing I am enough

That I am beauty despite the beast

And beast despite the beauty

That I am courageous

A source of light

Walking in divine timing

Blessed in grace

This Beauty

This Beast

Both equally powerful in message and truth

And I weep again

For I am

And will always be

Nothing Less

Than Perfect

Thank you my dear precious friend

Thank you dear precious spirit

http://onceuponatime.wikia.com/

Day 123: Returned to Me

| Aspergers Girls
Maui Lavender Gardens 2012

This is the song I used to sing and imitate…when I was like ten. As I’ve said, I didn’t carry a barometer for appropriate behavior. I loved this song. I loved Natalie Wood. In my mind, this was a perfect song to sing in middle school in the cafeteria, while swaying my hips about and tossing my hair. Trouble started when I didn’t outgrow my delight in life—this innocence to dance and sing, and just be. Big trouble, as I approached high school, while still a ten year old in my mind.

I got downright cute and sexy approaching freshman year in high school, but didn’t know it. Once I turned fourteen, I always thought I was ugly. I was entirely clueless why the boys gawked and the girls jeered. Why the boys wanted my number and the girls shunned me. To me, I was still some scrawny kid inside. I didn’t see my sexy, my curves, my short shorts, my passionate eyes. I didn’t see what the others saw. As I matured into pretty, in my mind, I was still a little twiggy girl with buckteeth, a chipped front tooth, stringy hair, high-water hand-me-down jeans, and a flat chest. I had no idea I’d blossomed.

This was the other song I sang loudly in the middle school cafeteria

I used the moves and all.  I was special. I was confident. I was damn awesome!

Before I turned fourteen, I was engorged with passion, full of life, energy, and the feeling I could conquer the world. At the end of eighth grade, Mother plucked me from the coast of California and moved me to Massachusetts to live with her longtime lover. All at once, I knew no one, was loved by no one, and knew not who I was.

This was a time of unmentionables. I transformed from wild stallion to fearful doe. I hid. I stayed in dark rooms. I pretended not to exist—this after being driven down a long country road by our twenty-something neighbor who was married to the flat-chested lady I babysat for the next door over. A scene, I blurred and blanched  out of memory, that sucked out my passion, that transported the little girl I had been to a frightened woman, terrified of life, terrified to live.

I stopped living at the age of fourteen. I just stopped. My daily laughter turned to daily tears. I no longer danced. I no longer sang. I just existed.  It was then I began to see my past, to compare what I’d been through to what my peers had been through. I recognized all at once how different I was, how damaged, how hopeless.

I stopped living because I finally saw my mother. I saw who she was and how she never was who I longed for her to be. I stopped living because I was ostracized at school, made fun of for my “California” looks, for my clothes, for my curves. I stopped living because when I looked in the mirror I was something horrible, unrecognizable. I wasn’t me anymore. The spirit of me, the joy, the lover of life, had been siphoned out of me. I was staring at a stranger in my skin. My eyes dulled. My heart numbed. And my entire view of life grey.

I no longer trusted the world or anyone in it. And I didn’t know where to go, how to be, and knew not enough to tell a soul of my agony. I angst perpetually from want, desire, and deafening loneliness.  I ached for companionship, for people, for someone to shout out they loved me, for someone to see me—for someone to find me, wherever I’d gone.

I dreamt of ending my life. I dreamt of my prince, my twin flame, my soul mate, and would spend hours with him, in some enchanted place my spirit held. I imagined wherever he was, he would know the heart of me, that his heart would match mine, that he would be holding my heart, and would someday find me. I wept and wept and wept for him as much as I wept for the lost me.

I walked emptied.

It wasn’t until a few weeks ago that my spirit returned. I don’t know how, or why, it just did.

I have ever changed. This joy-filled, spirit of light has once again turned on, filling me with child-like glee. I have a plethora of things I want to do. A list that keeps growing and a spirit that keeps yearning and celebrating. I’m dancing inside. I’m walking on air. I’m not caring how silly I look. I’m loving me. I’m embracing my beauty, the beauty I lost thirty years ago.

Only in waking, some three decades later, I am finding myself in a strange land somewhat, surrounded by strange people I almost don’t recognize. Questioning my place, my role, my purpose. Wondering who I was for the last thirty years. Who I’d become. What choices I’ve made. How I’d let myself suffer. How I’d numbed my life.

I’m not recognizing photos of me from a month ago. Not understanding where I’ve been and who was inside of me for so very long. I can’t explain this transformation. I just can’t.

But looking into my eyes, I can see that the little girl who danced passionately without fear in the cafeteria, swinging her hips back and forth and tossing her hair about, is back.  The lovely happy girl who played beside nature, climbed the trees, sang and dance, cuddled with puppies, held hands, and skipped and skipped long after sundown across paths of gold, rainbows, unicorns, and her forever friends, has returned to me. And I am embracing her fully, and never letting her go.

Maui Lavender Gardens 2012

Day 101: The Crystal Glove

| Aspergers Girls

Suggestion: Play the video above while reading.

The Crystal Glove

When my physical body is nurtured through love and balanced eating, I remain in an air of light and floating love all day. It is the most wonderful natural high imaginable. When I walk on this air of light and love, I sometimes awake at three in the morning and experience a rainbow of rapid images and messages. I sense this is a download from spirit.

Last night’s lesson and vision was about LOVE.

We are coming into a time where we need not fear the spoken word love. A time where we can readily and rapidly send light and love to anyone and anything. We have the capacity within to embrace the world with love.

Today, I am overwhelmed with love. There are times I feel an automatic connection to a person. This, to me, can be confusing, and feel a bit overwhelming. Especially if I recognize inside at a very deep and profound level that I’ve known this person for what feels to be an eternity.

I want to shout out: I know you! I’ve seen you in my dreams! I’ve been waiting for you! I understand you! Let me walk at your side!

I now understand my Aspie-ness stems from LOVE and a profound desire to want to connect. I long to reach my roots down and expand through the moist soil. I want to spring my branches forth in all direction. I want to be shade and joy—the wooden swing for the child, the lookout for the soul. In having this love inside, I sometimes burst. I cannot stop this. This bubble of love is beyond me. In seeing my spirit in this light of love, I understand now why I clung to others. Regardless of their shape, size or status, I clung because I am drawn to light. I see the light in them, and I want to be there, in the light with them.

In the past, I was hurt, because I clung on in hopes of returned love. I hoped in giving love to be  filled with love. If love was not returned to me in the same way—the same capacity—I thought something was wrong with me. If people did not respond to my love like I wanted, I became confused and hurt.

lightworkers.org/blog/

Now I understand clearly the key is giving out love without expecting or longing for anything in return.

Last night I was filled with inner-love, bathed in light. Now in return I pour out love to others without expectation. I learned that in releasing the control of love, my love multiplies a thousand times more.

I learned that with society today, love is sometimes a frightening word. Something to be owned or rationed. As if love had boundaries and limitations.  Love is limitless. Because of fear, and fear alone, people carry love, but  don’t speak of love. Fear is the bars of love.

Imagine a man standing with a ball and catching glove. The ball is love in essence, in purest form. The man is clutching the ball in his glove. He does not want to give the essence away until he knows many things. He does not want to toss the ball until he questions: Where is this ball going? Who will receive it? Who will benefit? Will I benefit? Is this okay? Am I wrong? In what form is this essence? In what form will it be received? Will the essence be returned as I wish? Will the essence not be returned?  Will the essence be understood? Do I have enough to give away? Will I be left lacking? Should I throw my ball? Should I wait?

And the inner-dialogue, the clutching of essence continues. The ball is clutched so tightly into the glove that the man does not have open glove to receive. Until he throws his ball, his glove remains cave-in, shrunken, and unattainable.

This is the image I saw:

I saw a person with a glove. But there was not one glove. There were infinite gloves. The gloves were open wide and surrounding every facet of the person’s aura. This person was continually sending balls (love essence) into the universal field. The gloves were each made of clear crystal. The crystal gloves were open, so they could each receive abundance of love. Yet, because they were crystal, they only absorbed the light, everything else not of light and love was repelled off of them and dissipated into the universe. I then saw my being, my aura, my light, surrounded in thousands of crystal gloves, one after the other, shielding me.

Today I detach from fear.

Today I visualize pure love.

I send love without motive or questioning.

I keep my gloves open.

I openly receive the universal love and openly dissipate all that is not of love and light into healing form.

I shine with crystals surrounding me.

I resonate in high vibration.

I am energized.

The more I release love, the more love returns.

It is only when my glove is clutched closed that I am unable to receive.

I choose to remain open in a perpetual motion of releasing essence and accepting essence.

I need never close my glove to catch and receive.

Nothing is caught.

To catch implies to trap.

To catch in a glove implies to cut out light.

Everything is absorbed.

The essence is absorbed straight through the center of my glove.

The crystal protects me.

The love feeds me.

Yesterday, through the help of a friend, I became aware that my deep capacity to LOVE is a gift. My gift is from source. When feeling some fear yesterday over the intense love I feel for people at moments, my friend explained to me that this intensity is because I have this gift.  I recognize that my love is not something I need to hide in the darkness of a closed glove. My love is glorious.

I saw in my vision that the key to healing is mankind learning to love unconditionally. I saw that so many carry closed gloves and fear LOVE. This is a dichotomy in the greatest sense. This is confusion and the grandest of illusion. LOVE is never fear. LOVE is never wrong.

Love cannot hurt. Only the shards of broken illusions hurt.

Love is less pure when motive is attached and expectations, but even then LOVE is LOVE. Love is the only element that cannot transform. The only element that grows the more love is transmitted. Love is in everyone waiting to be transmitted. We only need open our gloves.

Part of what has been labeled and perceived as Aspergers, is largely a HUGE capacity to love. I understand there is never any fault or wrong in loving a person. I was put here at this exact moment to  love. When I share my love, I am in element. When I do not, I suffer. When my gloves are closed tightly, I cannot experience the beneficial love. Today I remain with my gloves open. Today, and in all ways.

I invite you to open your glove.

This is for those of  YOU who recognize someone in this lifetime that you KNOW you have loved for a thousand years. (AlienHippy) :  )))