spiritual

353: I couldn’t sleep

| Aspergers Girls

I couldn’t sleep. My mind was in a state of unrest and I had much physical pain. I left my chambers and came upstairs and wrote this in one quick sitting. I apologize for the visual appeal, as I know, for me, at times it is easier to read in distinct paragraphs, but this is the way the piece is meant to be presented and delivered. Having written this I feel emptied of anxiety and rescued from much of my pain. I do not understand where all of this comes from and why in a sense I am haunted by thoughts until I release them. But I have released, and in doing so I feel realigned, comforted, and home. I choose not what I write and for whom I write. I know only that this is what I was given. As I am tired now and ready to rest, I ask that you also forgive any errors I overlooked. Blessings and Love ~ Sam

Your pain is not a gift, nor is it a curse. You have not manifested your suffering or created or birthed it into being. Your pain is not more because you are chosen. Your pain is not less because you were not chosen. Your mission is not grander with pain. Your mission is not weaker in the absence of pain. To wear your pain on your sleeve is to say: Because I have suffered I am special. But we say onto you everyone suffers, everything suffers. When one suffers all suffer. When ones pain exceeds another the pain is not held by one alone; the pain is held by each body here, one upon the other taking in the pain. Pain breeds pain and suffering breeds suffering. This is not to say that the sufferer is to blame or in charge of his suffering. No one is in charge of his own suffering. Yet everyone is in charge of the suffering of one. We all suffer. No matter the witness or contest, no suffering is greater. There is no way to compare suffering, as there is no way to compare love. And in so saying, you cannot love without suffering. You cannot suffer without love.

Suffering occurs in the absence of love. Every type of suffering denotes a missing element of being. There is a string of events that will show you this suffering. Genetics mean nothing; nor does circumstance. All is merely oil on the canvas, paint applied to represent what is happening. No paint suffers more. Even if the paint depicts a horrible picture of torment and suffering, the paint does not suffer. The image denotes suffering. A representation of suffering occurs. An observer can find the suffering and behold the suffering and relate the suffering to this self in form, but the image painted feels nothing. We are these images. The suffering we feel is not our own paint, the suffering we feel is when one looks upon us and sees the image represented by the paint. If our image be grand through and through, the colors brilliant and bold, the semblance of happiness present and moving, even still the observer may suffer. For he may then sense lacking, the happiness pouring from the once blank slate and indicator of his own demise and inability to reach potential. It doesn’t matter the suffering or the imagined joy depicted in illusion; whatever the observer choses to see, he sees, and whatever the observer refuses to see, he misses. No two can set eyes upon eyes and see the same; this is impossibility, but still you insist reality is real. Well, whose reality is real? Whose view of the painting is adequately represented as truth? Which viewer’s viewpoint do you choose? Yours? Another’s? A beloved’s? An enemy’s? What if we were to say your enemy’s view is as equal to yours and yours to his? For whatever he holds true becomes his painting and whatever you hold true becomes yours. Therefore when two meet and behold the colors brought forth, your illusion is formed not once but twice, in the illusion you perform and the illusion you present as truth of your neighbor. Therefore when two meet four illusions are formed. The painting of one, the painting of the other, the viewpoint of one, the viewpoint of another. All is illusion quadrupled and multiplied in meeting, and still one walks away thinking he holds the truth. But what of the four is the truth? Which one? When one holds true the representation of himself is what he holds as truth, then what is this truth based on but not illusion after illusion built into storybook of truths. And further, when one holds a truth of another based on the view, does he not only counter the illusion of the first but intensify the illusion of the other. In seeing this there is a temptation to unravel the truth, to single out which of the choices is real. But this is the same, very much the twin, of choosing between the reflection in water multiplied thoroughly and deciding which reflection represents the truth of where one stands. In knowing this, we look back at where we stand and examine who is standing and we see it is this us, this I, this me, but who is this I that exists if not singled out and marked by the judgment and makings of the world. How can a being move in this world without absorbing the illusions, and thusly how can a being move in this world without being a rotating painting of illusions gathered? Life to many is merely a sponge of collection of mirages, the water sucked from the view, when no view is there. One illusion upon the other illusion we stare. And still we wait as the illusions unfold for you to see such common place as where the illusion bends. For what if I were to take a color with no color, say ye black turned white and then turned invisible and paint over the canvas once colored, until the blending is nothing but space. And what if then you stared into the illusion and peered willingly and came out with a satisfied grin, simply proclaiming I have seen beyond illusion. I have seen space. But no, we would say to you, you have not seen the space behind illusion. You have simply seen the replacement to illusion, the gap filled in with a substitute in an attempt to satisfy your appetite of discovery. Peer again and I shall resubmit the color as evidence of space removed, and then what say ye? Do you say the illusion has returned? If illusion returned than nothingness cannot exist; for nothing can take the place of nothingness and nothing can fill the void inside a void. Until the nothingness is removed than something remains. As long as there is a space, something can be filled, something can be altered, something can be changed, something can arise. It is in the space beyond space one looks then, into the realm beyond inquiry, stretching the mind in solution, the band made taught and heavy. Wherein where the fault lies is in the canvas itself. Within the painting. All searching is based on the paint of illusion. All decisions granted in the realm of illusion. Illusion has taught, say professed, where to look, and in listening to illusion the seeker finds only illusion. Seek not the canvas of paints, seek the painter. Who is the one painting the illusion and who is the one with the paints. Is this not the collective we? For who is to say the illusion of one is not the collective illusion of all who look upon. Exceedingly we look one upon the other, our brushes moving to create what we see. Not what we wish to see, for that would imply ownership and dictatorship, and even the power of creation, but that which we have taught one another to see. Each illusion a teacher to the next. Each mask painted with the colors of the soul that is supposed to be. Can you not see the illusion arises first not with you, first not with one, but in the making of all? For together we are scribe and painter writing the story of the moment, not with our thought and thought alone, but with the perception of thought. It is not enough to say: think these thoughts and all will transpire as planned, because in this way there is a plan, and in this plan is illusion. In this illusion is a false hope that the one and not the collective know the thought that ought be formed. But what then if one thought is deemed better than another thought? Then do we not begin the battle again. Painting illusions this time with paint dismissed and thoughts induced? Your thought, your word, is no less, better or worse than another. You cannot decide what word is just and which unjust, which word enough and not enough, without creating more illusion. The world will continue to spin in illusion, as one continues to attach to illusion. No answers can be found when one is set upon another. No answer true when searching in illusion. The search is not in self or outside self. The search is beyond the painting and the canvas. The truth is the paint and painter. So whom may we assign as this worthy painter if not we, if not truth, even if this truth be illusion? Who is this truth bearer? The one granted the role of leader and justice. Is this not you? Is this not your neighbor? Is this not your enemy? We say you know this truth innately; it is in the unraveling of each to find the substance of whole in where the truth bides his time, hidden in the controversy and friction between. And this is where we stand on the bridge between illusion and nothing. Not on one side or the other. No in right or in wrong but in the center, in the journey when love is brought out of the flames of illusion and one ventures across the avenue in search of nothing. There we stand in the bridegway waiting. But with blinders you pass us by, as your goal is to cross the bridge and not stay in the place between. For you have been taught by illusion that the place in between is passage way only, serving to get from one point to the next. What you cease to understand is there is no point and there is no next, and as soon as one illusion is reached another is formed. What you cease to understand is that there is no stopping point, just as there is no starting point. You are already there twice over, and twice over again, doubling your path to prove a point until illusion dollies in her own illusion and splits open leaving you centered in predicament. And there you sit both witness and observer. One standing and staring at the other. The two ones meeting. And there you merrily judge your ways, lost in the in between, stepped out between illusion and nothing, staring down your own brother, your own self. For you are not this broken hollowed isolated one. You are we and we are you. But still you stand in the half-way point of in between uncertain where to go. When there be no place to go but here. Throw down your villainess ways, pave the roads with the intentions naught. Take out your heart and lay it down to be crushed and observed as splendid. Bleed your love out to the world, a cross bearer of your own-making, not for His glory or your glory, but for the glory of knowing illusion standing still. Find the stopping point of illusion and tear down the stopping point of where and when. Believe in the absence of intention and fulfillment of love. Bring down your illusion and bring down your guard. Say to your brother I am love and onto him beseech him your goodness. For you are more worthy than the tenth illusion suffered, the levels laid out in fashion unbridled and unbroken. You are more worthy than the battles that came again and again to show the way, when no way exists outside love. All be said in the name of love. And here my brother is where illusion and nothingness depart, in the arms of love carried out by the masses rebirthed in glory and built bountiful by the journey delayed.

“A human being is a part of the whole called by us universe, a part limited in time and space. He experiences himself, his thoughts and feeling as something separated from the rest, a kind of optical delusion of his consciousness. This delusion is a kind of prison for us, restricting us to our personal desires and to affection for a few persons nearest to us. Our task must be to free ourselves from this prison by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty.”

–Albert Einstein

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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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“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.
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“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.”
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.”

346: The Love I Am (A review of emotions, joy, fear, and pain)

| Aspergers Girls

I remember sitting on my bed in my early twenties and realizing with a sudden revelation that I did not know how to feel joy. In fact, in analysis, I concluded then that in the past several years I had not recognized many emotions. Generally I felt anxious, nervous, over-concerned, shy, out-of-place, insecure, depressed, sad, and worried. That was all I could feel. I could not feel anger. I could not feel love. My feelings for my significant other were all wrapped around fear of abandonment. I could feel fear.

I went from extreme emotional highs to extreme lows. I now believe this was not biologically induced. I think I made myself purposely cycle through thought-processes. If I was not extremely high (overly-anxious, overly-obsessed, overly-concerned), I was extremely low (unable to leave the house, fatigued, depressed). There wasn’t a manic high of joy, elation, grandiose thoughts, and magical-viewing of the environment and self. In the high-state there was only this inability to let go of fear, which led me to act out (OCD-like behavior, rituals, non-stop analysis) in order to eliminate thoughts. In the low-state there was the same inability to let go of fear, but my efforts to eliminate the thoughts were displayed through withdrawing, sleeping, and retreat.

I still go through these same states. Though I now know what the middle ground of emotions feels like. I think I “make” myself go through these states in an attempt to feel joy. I used to only feel joy when I was transitioning from one state (low) to the other (high). And even then, only for a fleeting moment.

In the past, and at this moment, I cannot experience this sensation of fleeting joy/happiness without the anxiety tagging along and questioning me, like some annoying tailgating friend I attempted to shake of millions of times before: “Are you sure you’re happy? Is this happiness? Will it last? How do you know it is happiness? Why are you happy? Are you being selfish? Is this self-based?”

My being seems incapable of holding onto this type of joy, and joy alone. This joy has to have companions of suspicion, dread, over-analysis, and such. And I utilize the word “have” because that is how the experience registers for me.

In the same line of thought, my extreme lows which include the inability to move, the discomfort of being me, and the fatigue of simply thinking, comes too with a posse of entities—emotions garbed as “why again,” “what is happening,” “why can’t I control my own self.”

This doesn’t feel like a mood disorder to me, though I see how my behaviors, and possibly thoughts, would present themselves as so. To me, this teeter-tottering is always pinpointed to an exact spot of awakening to the highest step of anxiety or lowest step of deep sorrow. I can find a reason. I can in retrospect see where I was switched from one extreme to the other.

Typically, I feel the mixture of joy and dread when I have 1) Accomplished a goal that I was afraid I would never accomplish; 2) Accomplished a goal in which I was fixated from the start and glad to be done; 3) Completed something I was dreading for days; 4) Received good news after worrying about bad news; 5) Received a compliment about my appearance, as I am insecure about the way I physically look.

In review, each of these supposed “joys” is accompanied by a fear or “negative aspect.” For example, in number one, “I was afraid,” and in number two “I was fixated.”

For a long time, this was the only way I could feel sporadic spurts of mixed joy: by attaching a fear or negative aspect, and then with some stimuli (another person, place, thing, event, words) the negative aspect is momentarily released and that moment of release feels to me akin to joy. For me, when the negative aspect I placed on self is temporarily removed, joy steps in.

In fact, in my mind, and in my scenario of feeling, I cannot feel this type of joy without first attaching an element of “negativity” and/or “fear.”

In contrast, in my moments of fear, in my low state, I have attached hope or the “best case scenario.” I create in my mind the release, the escape, or the rescue and I wait. I set myself in a cage, much akin to a prison, where I’ve locked myself away in darkness, and then wait. What I am waiting for is the removal of deep pain, and I have decided, somewhere deep in my mind or spirit that this removal will only happen in a specific way. For example, in sighting past experiences, this might be, this release of pain through the removal of a stimuli: an illness going away, a person coming and going, a meeting passing, a phone call received.

Here seems to be the tipping point, or the starting point of where my fleeting joy begins. While I sit readily in this cage of misery, I am creating the future of joy I hope to see. Whilst worrying immensely in a non-stoppable way and running through all the possibilities and strings of variable outcomes I can, I am in a direct way preparing to feel release and joy in the near future. This is to me, seemingly like a junkie in need of an adrenaline high. I am making myself increasingly low, so when the event or stimuli arises that apparently lifts me from outside of my self-inflicted prison, I am brought to a state of infinite fleeting freedom. In extreme emotion, I am brought high above myself and able to at last feel beyond suffering. I am creating my own high.

It is only in the in between state, between the middle part of prison and the freedom of elation that I feel the fleeting joy. I quickly rise past the joy to the state of high-anxiety, as the doubts and questioning sets in. This is why, after much processing about a possible scenario that could lead to my demise, failure, rejection or the lot, I will appear momentarily elated with relief when the scenario does not turn out in the thousand terrible ways I thought, but then I will quickly switch of the invented and created false feeling of joy and question my emotion. This will then put me in a state of shutdown, where I am wondering why I worried to the degree of physical and emotional, even spiritual ache, for the gift of fleeting fake joy brought on by a self-invented high.

Is this indeed a process I have created in an attempt to feel human? In an attempt to feel what “I am supposed to feel?” Am I lacking something or some chemical? I don’t think so.

I think this is the way my mind works itself out of confusion, in an attempt to unravel all the thoughts that are bombarding me, including all the stimuli, constant awareness, and confusion. I think this is my mind’s way of putting me into protection. I think in my cell of worry is the only time I feel safe from the world. To me, the fear-state is more liken to protection and safety than the joy state. For joy crashes and fear remains. Fear is predictable and stays with me as I loop and over-think; joy emerges as this falsehood and leaves me abandoned.

Do I like the cell perhaps more than I acknowledge? Is the cell the darkness I need to retreat to in order to renew? Am I, like the caterpillar, in need of continual metamorphoses? And if I am turning into a butterfly from the retreat out of darkness then why do my wings suddenly disappear?

In living, I have gained some recognition of middle emotions, the more subtle emotions of: satisfaction, contentment, serenity, connection, gentle-anticipation; but as these subtle emotions surface and are identified, I analyze where they have come from. I wonder which came first, my own thought, or the emotion; and often conclude my thought brought this emotion; and then I go into a place of deep thinking of when and where this thought came into existence that caused this emotion, and if this is indeed an emotion I welcome; and if this emotion comes from a place of selflessness, ego-release, and love. If the emotion/thought, both spun out together with thought in a slight lead, are not from a place of benefit for me and others, I then review why I have created these non-beneficial thoughts.

Where before for four-decades I was highly unaware of my own thoughts and emotions, and felt numb to the world, unless in a place of extreme anxiety or extreme low, now I am highly-aware of my experience, each moment analyzing and questioning my experience here, in this place I have been told isn’t really here at all. I have fed myself with so much factual data, through various sources and through moments of awakenings, that I cannot help but to try to place my own emotional/thought experience into a category.

My mind categorizes. I was built, I believe to a degree, to sort and categorize, to circumvent my emotional wiring and dig beneath and pull out what is occurring. I am a computer analyzing the computer-self. The mind boggles and I am left, wishing to do nothing but to be simple in the extreme, to wash away the complexity and start again anew and refreshed.

In an attempt to pull myself out of myself, I continually study and analyze, not just words and visual sources, but thoughts and happenings. I analyze the trees, the sky, the movement of all, even the invisible and untouchable. I analyze because I am attempting to take the moment I am set free from prison, to capture that fleeting flicker, and rise with this moment in true form of butterfly.

The dilemma is in finding myself lost in self, and reviewing the past data (Eastern philosophies of escape from mind), and then trying to understand this absence of thought, as I am built to a degree where the past ways of transcending (absence of thought; deep meditation in silence of mind) and completing the process of thought (silence and retreat after reflection) are foreign. I seem incapable of mastering my own mind enough to sit in the stillness of release. My brain appears so high-powered by some high-force that I am suited best for the prison of darkness as my retreat.

But there is hope, always hope.

And this hope is found in one way.

I have been able to at last find rescue from my own self in the act of giving of self. When I come from a place of pure intention to give without recognition or reward, I am set free. This is where the butterfly is meant to fly.

What I have been doing for so long is releasing myself from the cage and giving myself the imagined joy. I have been trying to hold onto a joy for self, and to build up self with joy, as this is what has been demonstrated by society: to make myself happy; to be happy; to find happiness. But this is not right; at least not my right, if right was to be.

I am not put here to make myself happy. I don’t need to be happy. Innately, beneath this façade of thoughts that generates a façade of emotions, I am happy. And I know this. I am not confused by self. I am confused by the thoughts and emotions, because beneath I am a spirit having a human experience. But my suit, my human suit is not adjusted, it is open enough so that the experience of human is confusing, debilitating, and disconcerting; I have spent eons, or what appears eons, trying to master my thoughts and emotions, when the freedom is not found in mastery of the invisible and illusion: mastery is found in the release of this humanness.

There is no direct way to self, as I am already self. There is no direct way to free myself of thoughts and emotions, as they do not even exist. They are not real.

Yes, I feel. Yes, I experience. But ultimately after a lifetime of analyzing my own experience, I see the illusion I have created. And though I stand in a lonely place at times, in reality, in my reality, I am finally able to grasp joy, and this joy is not fleeting. This joy does not bring out invisible scissors that eventually clip and remove my wings. I do not bleed from this joy, nor do I suffer.

I am attuning self enough to know that false joy will not last, and thusly this false, self-created, and self-wanting joy feels poisonous to me. I want to spit the falsehood out, and bring out the reinforcement of armies with swords in hand and slice away at false joy with question. I feel attacked when the questions come, when the illusion of joy is destroyed, but I am not attacking anything but illusion upon illusion. I am not attacking anything but selfish want and selfish joy.

Joy to me is only found in giving. This is my place of joy. This is how I am wired. I have been trying to live like the rest say to live, to fill myself in order to be fulfilled. But I am ultimately fulfilled when another is fulfilled. I am filled when I am able to bring joy to another. I am filled when the love I have for another is received. I am filled when I know in my deepest knowing that I am not wanting for self and self alone. There is no way around this for me. I still take comfort in the fineries of good food, decorative clothes, and good friends; these can bring me happiness. But this is not a happiness that stays. I see this. I recognize this. And thusly, my mind creates a stage of battles, where I am once again made supposed victim as the questions slice away at the supposed joy. But I am no less victim than the tree pecked by the woodpecker. I am made home for the world, for the flying birds, when I am carved out and hollowed. And in this place, when the world slips inside of me for shelter, I am joy.

And so it is my journey begins with intention. If I set out to love the world, to give of myself freely, without motive for self, then I shall receive endless abundance and joy that I can time and time again return to and tap into. This joy might waver with the wavering of my thoughts and emotions, but this joy is there always. This joy is always there. This joy is love of others, and in so loving other, love of self. There is no non-benefit to giving and loving freely. There just isn’t. When I come from a place of love, I am free. When I do not, I am imprisoned. There is no other place for me than from a place of love.

I think now that I was made the way I am to force myself into finding love. Here I have been searching to love myself, to change myself, to change my thoughts and emotions, to change my way of being, when all along the key was so very simple: love.

Here I was searching to understand love, to understand love through ownership and misinterpretation, and needing and wanting, and sometimes constant desiring, but that is not love. Love is not found in the one or in the self. Love is not found through the desire to receive. Love is not fleeting. And so often the love I have thought I have found, though unrecognizable, unidentifiable, and uncomfortable, still did not fit. No matter how hard I tried to make love fit, it did not. That is because I was searching for a suit of love for me, something to wear to soothe and protect the suffering beneath. But garments age; they tear, they break; no matter what we do they disintegrate, they become outdated, they eventually stink. The only love that can complete me must be outside the self and unattached from the self, something so immense and immeasurable that fear escapes in the infinite abundance.

I know now how to be happy.

Happiness is found in the detachment of love from self, so that love may fly freely. For it is not the butterfly I am that needs to find and wear her wings, it is the love I am that needs to soar.

345: Eyes of the Whole

| Aspergers Girls

I cannot teach any longer. I can only learn by sharing what I am learning. I am a student sharing her heart and nothing more. The vibration of teaching or preaching or telling is no longer me. I am only able to open myself up and pour out what is inside. I can write when I am called to write. I do not choose the topic, at least not at a conscious level. I do not plan what I write, the thoughts come to me, usually, in a giant wave of recognition, with flashes of insight. I usually do not know what I will be typing.

My intention cannot be my own or the healing energy is lost.

For instance, if I have the intention of wanting others to love me, to like my works, to congratulate me or to be inspired, what I write will be at a different energetic level than if I write without self-intention.

I have learned to remove outcome. I do not do this all the time, in all my waking hours, as I am human; yet, I have found a freeing place, within and without, where I am able to not focus on the outcome. I have found a remarkable way to free myself from fear, by not imagining and creating the future I wish.

If behind a thought I am wanting love for self and needing attention, and from this place of want I form my words, then the energy changes.

I am learning to speak as a child, with my intention clear and my voice and words not hiding what I am feeling inside. So often, when we communicate, an energy shift occurs between emotion, thought, and words spoken. I feel this. I feel when someone is speaking from a place of love or from a place of fear. There is no in between.

There is no combination or variants. Love is the only thing that cannot be divided and sliced and mixed into a grey area. Love is love, no matter how small or how large, love remains the same. Love radiates in all directions and heals. Love cannot be diminished or enlarged. Love just is.

Fear, being the bearer of opposites, is really not an opposite at all. Fear is much a façade that takes the forms of many opposites. He steps in and replaces the place where love would be, but he is not the opposite of love, for he doesn’t exist. He is a space filling a space, so to speak, and there are no barriers he cannot divide, except for love.

He tries to divide love time and time again; and thusly, he is much like hatred, anger, trickery, envy, and the darker lot; however he is none of these, because he is nothing. WE can un-layer the emotions of hatred and anger, and other, and find a cause. The cause is always the same. The cause is always a need for love.

Whether it is a need for money, recognition, fame, acknowledgment, union, clarity, or other, it is still a need for love. When there is love nothing else is needed.

Beyond the basic survival elements humans think they need, indeed imagine they need, is the all-life sustaining-force of love. It may sound silly, even odd to profess, but love is all We need.

Energy resonates and builds off of love. Truths are brought to life by love. Truth is willingly transformed by love. Eyes are opened by love. Children are birthed from love. Love is rebirth of rebirth, a transformation of one generation into the next.

What you see is truly what you get, in the arms of love.

In the arms of fear, you get nothing and no one.

You, as individual, are divided and made one, as all fear is in the state of unity divided, as fear is the divider. Once divided, and in what present day may call an ego-state, fear sets in. This fear then multiplies; because although fear is nothing, fear begets fear. Nothing begets nothing; just as love begets love.

WE have a choice to feed the world the end-product of nothing or the end-product of love. This is simple in argument and representation. Choose love.

When one harbors grief and dismay, the beneficial remedy is love. When one harbors disagreement and guilt, the beneficial remedy is love. All emotions are healed through love.

What would be called positive and neutral emotions are healed by love, too. For love does not heal in the sense of taking something that is broken and repairing. Love sees nothing as broken. Love sees everything as already whole. Love cannot help but see only whole. If love stepped in and viewed “broken,” then the intention becomes to ‘repair,’ and thusly, the element that love has set her attention on becomes “broken” in spirit.

The teacher does not look upon a student and think: “broken” I shall fix. The teacher looks upon the student and sees potential in the seed planted before him. The seed shall grow, and thusly shall we all in love’s waters.

There is no fear. In hearing the rhythm of the angels, of nature, of the birds overhead, there is a healing sound. This is because there is no fear. There is a trust born of innate trust. Not fed trust, or given trust, or told trust.

Trust cannot be earned and none can be lead to trust, as there are no leaders, as there are no subordinate ones.

There is no hierarchy in a state of no fear and only love. And there is no state of no fear, as fear does not exist.

Though the call to trust is necessary, but truly resonates only from within soul. There is no avenue, no road, no way, or secret passage.

Those who profess to know, know the least.

It is only the one, or more so the union of ones manifested by illusion of one, which voices disbelief and question in own self, denouncing self and the profiteering of self, that understands.

As money divided, and any truth attached to profiteering, is already circumvented by fear.

Those who give freely are those who give without intention. That is without intention beyond love. Any disruption in this system leads to pain, which is falsehood.

Intention undermined by falsehood leads to the ugliness of falsehood. As falsehood exists, though this falsehood too is underscored by the non-existence of fear.

Remember fear is merely the absence of love.

Take love as a shape, a black cloak, and set this shape to dance in the threshold of your mind. Have this love in form move in the light. The dark of love is still beautiful. The dark of love still whole. All forms of love are whole and complete.

Watch the dark move and the shape of love resonate. And now, with intention to recognize the absence of fear, move love. Create in your vision and perception for the darkness shrouding love to leave. Make love momentarily appear gone. See only where love was. And now trace an outline where love once was. Fill this outline with nothing, just air if you wish, as nothing is unfathomable. Now remove the outline, too, and see the nothingness filling up the space that was love.

That is fear: the emptiness filling up the space that was love.

Behind every intention that is formed with nothing, nothing is birthed. Behind every intention that is formed by love, love is birthed.

Take judgment, a misrepresentation of the absence of love, an illusion brought on by the pressures of wanting to be loved, this judgment taught by the masses to divide and classify and make “sense” of the world that is seen through the “senses.” Remove judgment, and the illusion of fear is seen. The aspect of love forgotten, conditions set forth to divide, and the movement of fluid love to conditional need.

Where there is need, there is outcome projected. Where there is outcome projected, there is need. Where there is outcome projected, there is false intention, where focus is on the future as wished, and not on the present of love.

If talking to one, who is WE merely represented by one, and another “one” questions with the intention of love, healing emerges from the depths, and intention born of love heals.

When “one” speaks to “one” for what would be called “self-motives” than love is lost. Not gone, but lost, waiting outside the shape of love to be called back.

“Self” temporarily removes love. Love appears erased but love is merely momentarily missing.

Love cannot be brought back by a calling or a wish, love comes of its own making, without intention. When one wishes upon love there is self-intention, and love escapes. The only way love answers is with the mystery of self without self. This is to say once “self” evokes love, love vanishes into the areas of unseen. Love remains, but disappears from our limited senses.

Love cannot exist in this realm for self and self alone. Love exists for We.

This is to say that to wish for a self-love, before wishing for whole-love, is backwards and reverse. To love self is essential, if one is viewed as self, and whole was divided as multiple selves. Yet this is a truism that can breed dismay or great pleasure. But always the two extremes.

For self does not exist in stagnant form to be fed by self-love. We can only feed that which is not divided. Love is not divided, nor does love recognize the divided. Love recognizes union without self-intention.
To claim self-love is to live in a state of familiar let down and continued questioning. To release self-love is essential. Self-love cannot be grown or transformed or reflected, because there exists no self. To love: the whole must be loved. The intention of love for the whole.

When “one” seen as “one” concentrates on the whole of what could be called goodness, on the picture of what could be, and what shall be for all, then love comes. One must see the whole picture, and in this is the wholeness.

None are to be singled out and made above or beyond, and in self-created love, which is a form of falsehood, then love is divided by intention.

To love, love from the perspective of whole: Whole loving whole.

What is good for the whole is good for the whole. We are not regulating you to love a whole so as singular you will benefit, as there is no you. You cannot be divided, as the tree cannot be divided by parts. You are WE and we is whole.

Once we claim separation, we are no longer in the comforting arms of love. This is not to say you are not unique and special. Each is unique and special as each is part of the whole. But the whole cannot be divided.

“I” cannot take an apple red and start to chunk out pieces with a carving knife and scatter the chunks and misshaped parts across a board, and claim this is “he” and this is “she,” and this is “him” and this is “her,” and look how special and grand each of these parts exists. This is an apple portioned into parts. “I” cannot determine the chunk that makes a complete piece of the whole. I cannot form a chunk that beneficially represents the whole.

No matter the size the shape or the division, “I” cannot equally divide an apple. And thusly WE cannot equally divide what is our whole into one form which is claimed you. For there is no way to determine, or more so recreate, that which is already divinely whole.

The world is a reflection onto self, but yet this self does not exist.

Imagine the apple piece looking up at self and wondering where to find whole. This is what self does. Self hammers away at chunk and multiplies division, thusly evacuating love once more.

Self need do nothing but recognize the absence of self and love enters. With the absence of self, giving becomes obsolete. As self is transformed into whole, and whole is love, and love gives without effort and intention.

Giving is no longer a verb but a noun. For giving equals love and love equals giving.

It is in the giving of self that love is birthed and rebirthed: Giving up the illusion of self.

This is not to indicate service. Giving of self has often been misinterpreted in the form of giving self. “One” can best “give” when self-intention is removed, and the self-intention is removed when self is removed. In this case self can vanish and truth can enter, truth of love and love of truth.

There is no doctrine that proclaims love, and love only, unless in doing so there is no division. When intention or division enters, love is removed. To honor the love, remove the intention and divisions.

Truth exists, but self must be removed to find the truth. And then as WE, truth is neither found or lost. Truth simply is.

Truth is love and love is truth. They are the same in one. There is no truth beyond love. There is no love beyond truth. This is where the universe ends and the elements are born, in the birthing place of love and truth. But truth cannot be found with self and self alone.

Truth seekers seek to know self first, but in truth they are searching to know whole, and whole is only temporarily masked by the illusion of self. So truth seekers, love seekers true, are in effect searching for truth in the whole, while masked in illusion.

Some will find the whole and others will be swallowed in self. The difference is clear. Look for intention without the use of sight. Feel the vibration of the words and the energy of the truth seeker. You can feel intention. You, as the perceived separated one, can feel intention, and this is either the heartbeat of love or the illusion of fear.

Remember fear begets fear which is nothing. Love begets love which is something.

What is the fruit of this apple tree, they say often, and this is to mean: Is love surrounding and growing or is fear illuminating from the space of nothing?

If fear is ringing louder than truth then illusion is present. If love rings alone, then love is present.
There is no other degrees of love. “One” cannot find a mixture, or to say a little bit of love with a lot of fear or a lot of fear with a little love.

There is either love behind intention or no love. And this will be felt as love, if serving the whole. If serving the self, the intention is a falsehood: a form or emotion, represented by the illusion of fear. You will know this well by the vibration and energy.

Choose love of whole and the vibration will heal the world. The whole is the answer and you are already this whole.

If the nothingness of fear is ringing than love is absent. Though truth and love are twins, they vary in their representation, when the illusion of nothing is heard. Love cannot change; love cannot alter; love cannot be silenced; but truth, in the ring of fear can be changed.

This is important to remember: Truth is silenced in the ring of fear.

Listen with that which is beyond senses and the love will be clear. Ask what the whole can do to love the whole and you, as perceived one, will have answers. Monitor the intention of one, and lead with the eyes of the whole.

~ Samantha Craft, 3-21-13
(This was written in one sitting this evening. I wrote what I heard, and was simply the observer of what I sensed and experienced. This is neither my truth nor my untruth. It simply is.)