366: The Stream

Photo on 4-8-13 at 4.33 PM

Yesterday a dear woman called me. She is a well-known healer in our community. She called to let me know that the (first and only) email I sent her resonated with healing energy; that my words were at a healing, soothing vibration. I have been told by others who are viewing my words that various experiences are induced. For me this is cause for celebration, not because of my ability or outcome, as I do not believe this is from this ‘me;’ this is cause for celebration because I was told through various seers and through repeated visions that indeed the words I scribe would carry a healing vibration, that in actuality the energy attached and resonated by the words was the pure substance of healing.

Though the words are not empty, they were not meant and created to be digested and deduced; they exist more as the carrier of the underlying message which is infinite and currently unattainable through the deciphering of symbolic letters alone. Underlying the words is a resource of rivers and streams, and outmost pouring of diverse and integrated messages, less tangled and superimposed than drawn out of deep souls and splattered across canvas of other.

The seeker will see this, and the rest will feel this, I am told.

And so in hearing from this adored healer, whom called me yesterday, I was somewhat validated in my journey and in the promises of my angels. As the more people that come forward and recognize the healing energy in the words I scribe, the more I am recognizing and able to acknowledge the truth of my angels’ promise.

It is not that I doubted them in a deep sense, but that I am human in form, and being so readily told messages since my youth, I had reason to doubt, if only to be able to function and exist in this world that I have been told is non-functioning in the domain of angels.

Though I believe in my angels and listen to my angels, I still carry the measure of doubt equivalent to the splintered-paw that keeps whispering in nonsensical demise: Your angels are not real.

And here is where I falter and fall, tumble down the path of piety and self-serving, and become miserable onto myself, lost, isolated and alone. For when I dismiss the divine within and without, the pain comes in all forms.

For awhile I walked the path of reason I’d been told, and continually haulted the sensations from divine, whether this be the dreams, the visions, the constant knowings, or the vibrations moving throughout and within my very being. However, when I gave pause to the illusion of creation, and attempted to grasp on to this false belief that I (am) was nothing more than the flesh and beating heart of man, then I was made victim to my own imaging, an imaging far worse than the persecution inflamed upon me by my fellow man. The deleting of the world beyond self and welcoming of the one and the only one I be, in essence wiped out the all of me.

In accepting, or more so struggling to accept I was but one, and none other existed, I stifled and suffocated my very soul. In so doing I became the fire of confusion, isolation and woe, and the pains surfaced on all levels, from dynamic psychological consequences to physical manifestations of torture.

I understand now that to allow the spirt to flow through me is to allow for the ultimate of healings of whole; in other words, healing what is already healed and returning to the wholeness granted to me by eternity and thoughts there of, even beyond thought.

In recognizing this “un-self,” I chose much courage in the start, or first step, whenever that be, as each step led to another, and multiple paths were driven forward at once. In journeying, I forged through self and illusion of self, to accept what was once perceived illusion of spirit. In accepting spirit instantaneously and without purposeful intention, I was to delete self. This in truth was never a scary process but often confusing and mixed with the absence of seeing the outcome, which will not and does not exist.

In stepping out, I was made to, by no choice of self or another, but by circumstance and perception of onlooker alone, to be someone that will not be recognized to some. This is a variable odd place to be, without this self and living somewhat as observer of a walking vessel that reflects the personality of the onlooker outside of self, whilst taking bites of visions, trascribing them thusly, and watching from a place beneath and beyond and above vessel all at once, and accepting the potential silliness of said actions, while knowing the truth heals not one but many.

Invariably I waver to speak, if to speak at all, to breathe, if to breathe at all, as so much moves through me, I become fisherman wondering which species to net, and which to bring up to the light of day from the depths below. For the only sediment of worry now exists in releasing thought into word and wondering if word enough be. For what of the rest left shifting and drifting merrily in the stream of consciousness?

Here is my dilemma, in having moved beyond the pretense of intention of what another thinks of me and views my actions readily with, this self they so frequently perceive as one, then thusly what do I bring forward that is fish enough? How can I the climber of no mountain, the fisher of no game, in seeing this endless cycle of illusion bring forth anything beyond the building blocks beyond pure form. How can I bring up the fish I see that stretch out as rainbows to eternity, when once out of water the breathing stops? How can I as fool made aware, preach as man made whole?

I am stuck here in the flowing rivers of no-time breathing in wonderment in the waters of goodness and envisioning a thousand upon a thousand streams, yet know not where I stand or whom views. And it is in this unknowing I am divided between you and me, longing without longing, recognizing without recognizing, that where we stand is one in the same, sister upon sister, brother upon brother, moving forth to a destination non-existing, in a stream of imaginings.

And so I write, not to form the words of illusion upon illusion, but to bring up the streams itself, the first stream, the second, and the endless circle of more, pouring the waters through. And the fish remain behind in the waters abundant, as the fish cannot breathe here. For invisible cannot breathe in the substance of illusional form.

~ Sam

Below is what I scribed in the winter of 2011. I received this in vision, a combination of images, and what feels like whispers, just as I received most of the prose above on this page.

Balance is foremost a way of perceiving. Each person will perceive a balanced life differently than the other. In examining the aspects of “balance,” it is important to keep in mind that we are not in the position to judge or evaluate who is balanced and who is not balanced. Every one is balanced to the degree necessary to fulfill their life’s intention. Each person will continually rebalance and reacquaint him or herself with what they deem necessary and required in their lives.

Balance is perceived by the society one lives in. The timeline affects balance, as does environmental climate and universal climate. In looking at balance for an individual, first and foremost determine where there is a hole, or missing piece. They, the person, will seem heavy and hearty, literally “heart-filled” in many areas surrounding them; however, with close examination, and focused attention, there will be apparent gaps or holes. This is where the person is “off balance.”

Before pointing out a discrepancy in balance, the person must grant permission to be evaluated, and question or ask for assistance. To simply approach someone and say: “You are off balance” or the like, is dutifully shameful, and will harm more than do good. There must first be a period of comfort and trust built, and the seeker must be seeking. This is worth noting.

The holes can be felt in many different ways by many different people. There is no right or wrong way in detecting what we will call “weakness” in the balance of a person. For we are truly discussing the person and not the person’s life—there is no life without the person.

In seeing the holes, there will be an obvious lack. A person can turn him or herself in enough to see this lacking. It will resemble a pain in the body, a pain in the mind, a pain in emotion, or pain elsewhere. This hole will be evident in relationships especially, and is most easily detected out in the open in interacting with others. Often, individuals “lacking” much balance will spend less and less time out in the open or develop a way of masking their authentic or true self.

In order to determine these holes, time in the open, out of isolation is necessary. Here they will be noticeable. With the exception of very few humans, each person that walks the earth plane has holes and is “lacking.” The word “lacking” is not to say there is something wrong or incorrect. There isn’t even something missing. The hole of lacking is what is waiting to be filled. This can be perceived as a crystal bowl, clean, unbreakable, and eternally new—the hole created by the crystal bowl is this “lacking” or space to be filled. To say that something is missing would be incorrect. This would be like saying the wooden hole that waits for the peg is missing something, or that the baby bird in the nest with its beak open for food is missing something. True, the baby is hungry, but nothing was lost, misplaced, forgotten, or overlooked—the bird is waiting to be filled. In this way you can see the “lacking” or the need for complete balance, as an innocent being waiting to be filled. What good would it do to point to the bird and say: “Birdie, you are missing food?” This would prove nothing. This would help nothing. Better to look at the bird and say: “Birdie you look as if you are hungry. Would you like some food?” If we point, the bird doesn’t understand and only becomes more hungry. This is how the process works for people. We are each lacking; thus, we are each missing. We have holes to be filled, and we point to the holes and say: “Your hole is this; your hole is that.” Instead we must see the lacking and ask to fill the lacking.

A person with no friends—become his friend. A person with no healthy food—give him healthy food. A person with no time for movement of body—walk beside him. A person with no time for prayer and meditation—meditate beside him. In this way, in the seeing the lacking and then feeding the lacking we will grow. In this way of pointing to the lacking, perceiving it as missing, and then doing nothing—in this way we remain stagnant. Many, many words have been written about humans’ deficits, behavioral wrongs, intellectual debates, defeatism, work ethic, and more. Little, little words have been written about feeding one another. Yet, if you look at all the great works of the world, each considered Holy by the masses, the theme of “giving” remains steadfast. This is what must be done. This is what will be done.

So little one, when you ask: “How do I balance the life?” I say to you that first you must ask another question: “How do I feed the world?” In feeding the world, in feeding the lacking, you consequently balance your life. Two for one. One for two. So say to me next time that when you are lacking, when you are less centered, look not down into your holes, into your perceived lacking, look unto others, and feed them. In this you will remain balanced.

314: The Sword of Truth

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

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

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

I think I was surrounded by kinship.

I think I was supported for my truth and vision.

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

And I am often so very homesick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Samantha Craft, 2013 February

313: Dream Us Into Being

I find myself doubled-down in spirit, pinned down by my own making, and tackled in a way that most likely resembles wrestler on a mat. There I lay struggling to get up, held down in fist-hold by the own blackened counterpart I be.

And thusly, it isn’t that I want to be found beneath this skin, this golden garb of humanness; it is that I long, with a potential yearning that stretches to forever, to be untangled from within my own self. My energy demystified, my mystery unraveled, my truth be told as an unthreaded tapestry.

You see, for where there be builders constructing their truth to display and show to the viewers of the world, I be instead, quite by choice and by query of self, laden with the self-imposed and well-inflicted burden of not so much decomposing what has been and what is left to see, but of the building down of character in hopes of finding what rests at the core center of eternity.

For I recognize, at some depth, that my making is not found in the discovery of what lay hidden inside self, nor found by piling card upon card of self to reach some substantial goal of mercy and light. No truth be found in the unraveling of the puzzle that already lay forth, presented as mystery, but in the appearing of naught.

For the angels and whereabouts of where soul lies are present evermore.

And in so journeying to the depths of nothing, into the essential non-existence of being, I heard these words:

As before you I am. As before you I rest. As before you I stand. As before you I be.

For the whispers of the desert soul are not mystery beyond reach, traveled and trampled upon by traveler. Oh weary traveler they be.

The mysteries of self are to be found not in sky or painted world of treasures pink, not behind the way of gratitude, nor in the desolate corners of shattered dreams. Mystery beseeches one behind the corners of the mind, beyond the realm of thinking, tucked between sunrise and sunset; no less moon than sun, but still distant in the darkness of spirit past; for life cannot be found outside the web that mixes and intermingles, defining the infinite and improbable complexities of fortune.

Mystery true is found in heart of one buried beneath the shadow of existence, between the fortune-hoods and destitute of tomorrow.

And in so searching, to think, if ever you think, that you are this person of greatness and grandness and stature is the greatest fault of all, for you are no less and no more than the speck before you.

Yet you long to be seen: come touch me, come find me, come feel me, come celebrate my inherent goodness… that is once I find this inherent goodness

We laugh, as there is not inherent goodness to find. There is not good, for good cannot exist without the juxtaposition of bad. And bad is feasibly unnecessary and undiscovered in the mystery of you.

And so when searching for this passion, for this drive, for this what is what of you, do not search; just be in the tranquil valley of the mind beyond mind. In stillness rest.

Stop the questions, and the quest, and the mission, and the cause; just be still enough to see what is already about you; for the dance has already begun and you, left standing on the sideline, still wait for the hand to take the lead and race you to the floor; and thusly you stand, you stand and stand, though you think your legs carry you far.

Reach not so much out into the blindness of the world, following the holy one who proclaims I am holy, I am just, I am right, for above all the holy one will not recognize his core of holiness. The true holy one will feel the meekness of the worlds and, like seeking self upon self, seek meekness in all forms.

The humbled holy shall bow down to you and submit his unworthiness, and sacrifice self as one would sacrifice lamb to the bountiful one.

Seek not from this place of passion, nor this place of self. Seek out ye inside of ye, outside of form, outside of rules and division; seek out ye in the phantoms side of self, where the mystery is first birthed, where the newborn first sees; the place where less is known about what is and more is known about what is not.

It is in the empty space, when senses be blotched out and forgotten, and all thoughts returned to rightful owner, that spirit is reborn within, not only to self but within the place where tranquility breathes.

Seek not peace; seek recognition of the beauty that already exists. Be knight-slayer-of-freedom. Be man of fortitude, less mountain-climber and more of the one buried beneath the filth of ages; beneath the dirt, beneath the grime; bring up what is grotesque, what is deemed unworthy; bring up what is most feared. And in there, in this piece that you have buried and reburied, you shall know the truth.

Admit to the world you are lost, and in your own absence you are at last free.

Admit to the world you have no answers, and in your submission of lack you are in completion.

Admit your victory of self, that you are truly pinned down, one atop the other, fighting for a contest that does not exist, as if the victorious one, the runner who touches down first shall be the one to take home the trophy, when trophy is illusion upon illusion.

Give up the race and set down self as gentle one along the river of truth.

There is no place to go. There is no place to be. There is nothing to reach that does not already exist beyond, beside and within, unreachable in the seeing, but entirely ready and breathing with the submission of not knowing.

Create not this devil’s dance of I am.
Create not this devil’s dance of be me.

Nor create the pieces of you to form a mystery of what is to come.

For what has come is already here, already formed and reformed, before the journey of you even beseeched existence.

Do not transcribe what has been said, transcribe what has been done.

How the twisted ways of youth-spirit have deemed the ingratitude of spirit in form.

We are not merely shapes upon which you wish and dream and want. We are not the want-givers, the dream-makers, the-stoppers-of-pain. We are the transformation of spirit into self. Of spirit escaping form of form, from where he lay buried between the want and need of being found.

For it is your very well-wishers, your seekers, your doers, your tellers and proclaimers that bury us, that bury we, that bury the meek below their own glory.

We speak to you now to climb the mountain of eternal light, not outside self, but inside self, to the buried chambers of where you soul lay resting, and to thusly then be lifted and shone out to the world.

Do this with self-proclamation of faults and reasoning.
Do this in self-proclamation of fear and injury.

For only in this way will what has already been saved be saved again.

For in self there is forgiveness beyond reason, beyond merriment, beyond the purest of joy.
Say onto thee, say onto self: you are beauty in all of your making.

In all of your discovery, you are pure beauty.

Lay the burden down of guilt, unraveled for the merciful one, so deemed truth.

Unbury yourself where you rest beneath, and stand upon your own grave, broken and bleeding out to the world. For what is once skeleton and already dead cannot be destroyed again, for what is once no longer standing in pride cannot be crumbled down.

For when you stand naked, entirely exposed in your weakness and gore, you stand rectified in the glory of all.

Be not this king garbed in robes, be less of less, and more of more, entangled not in self, but exposed and bared out to the word.

Sing: I am weak; and in your proclamation you shall be made strong.
Sing: I am meek: and in your knowing you shall be giving eternal salvation.

For there is nothing buried beneath the brittle ground in which you hide that is not thusly buried beneath our ground. Nothing covered that has not already been discovered. Nothing cowering in the dark that has not been justly brought to light.

For you already shine the brightest star, in all you scars and scattered wounds.

Rectify self, and stand brave upon your gravestone, your name carved out of sky weavers, no longer set to stillness on whittled marble.

Carve your name where all can see, upon the souls of souls, and etch your pages with the blood of your journey.

Be not afraid, thee gentle child of the unfolding universe, for we have already tucked you in the bed of wellness and forgiveness.

Sleep not in the slumber of the merciful ones, but in the slumber of your inherent wholeness.

Seize not the day of remorse or misguided fortune. Seize only what is inside, sleeping, waiting to be exposed and centered to the world.

Sleep now and with eyes open dream us into vision.

Sleep now and dream us into being.

For we are you, and you are we, one in the un-opening of time.

(Samantha Craft, February 2013)
This was written in about 20 minutes time this morning. It came as a vision. I type what I am shown, what I hear, and what I feel. Typically nothing is changed from the original message except in regarding corrections in typos and spelling. Occasionally a sentence or two is omitted, as the statement was meant for me as scriber and not for viewer.