403: Perpetual Freedom

Perpetual Freedom

It has been going on several weeks now that I carry with me an inner calm. I have moments of traveling in thought to the past or future, and moments of fear, but when this happens a gentle voice pulls me back to the moment, to the present. I am practicing being in the now continually, and feel a presence about me the full of the day. I have a strong desire to be outside and in nature—to touch nature, to breathe in nature, to be one with the beauty of the world.

Yesterday, I sat outside and imagined the world of trees, how life might be as a tree. I was drawn into the green edges, the outlines, and pulled further in at the imaginary line where the green of the tree meets the blue of the sky. Such a lovely, lovely day it was, the blue of the sky the richest of colors. I sat there, in wonder, my mouth agape at the swirling colors that are between where the tree and sky meet, realizing they don’t actually meet at all, as there is no separation. I watched the beauty, recognizing all that I have been taught in how to see the world is being undone.

So much of who I am is the little child I used to be. Found again is the youthful innocent wisdom; as if effortlessly I’ve opened up a honeypot of yesterdays, all the knowledge I’ve collected through the centuries trickling down upon me. The blunders, the pillaging, the fallings, the woes—all of it pouring through, and with this, the stickiness itself, scouring and collecting the final residue within.

I cannot express this brilliance of being, nor will I attempt to do so. Yet, I have a strong impression I shall never be bored again. All around me the world appears reborn and renewed, and the presents that have always been present at last opened.

I no longer have extreme emotions. I no longer have lingering emotions, indeed. For as soon as they spike in degree, the observer I am, watching this mysterious play of life, steps in and erases the experience with a calmness divine. I now understand in depth most, if not all, of my journey, and am treated to painted images of grace-filled lessons throughout my waking and sleeping hours. There is no heightened need or want, or desire for anything. Outcomes are ceasing to exist. For with the coming of goals, or longing of any magnitude, I slip momentarily back into a state of pain, and recognize readily the need I once had for what would be leads only to the recognition of a finality that no longer exists.

My days are spent in gratitude. Everyone I meet a gift onto self—a self I know less and less about. A self that with each further step released, a new step is found. My need is for naught, my wishes for All. In this I have the calmness and stillness of the pond at the sunrise, the ripples evident of a spring day’s passing of gentleness and of wind asleep. I am the ripples and I am the pond, and all about the pond—the insects, the rocks, even the litter—for all seems purposeful and meaningful, and if not necessary, then accepted.

The calmness exists in my body. My being naturally following the rest. One blended into the next. The sound of hymns, the beauty of art, the eyes of a beloved, the start of a divine dip into nature, all leave me spellbound. Though, equally present. I am child returned onto master, and master retreated into the woods of before. Resting, as higher self, in some greater plane of non-necessity; the once imagined presence less displaced than returned to the phantom warehouse.

I understand why I was the way I was, and in thinking back, I hurt. In that when I travel here or there, or anywhere not directly now, my body is aware of the alignment shifted, and leaps back to the moment with such degree I am bolted or jolted, or at minimum steered with the reminder of what is.

I am at peace when I am not wondering in thought. I am at peace when I connect to what feels as source: a collective rush of pool of nothingness birthed somethingness. I am at peace when the voices I hear, that I have always heard, hush my thoughts to rest with the gentle: shhhhhhhh. I am at peace as the lessons are glided through me, as the gentle wind through the limbs of the willow. How I sway in the knowing, and reclaim my own lovely substance in the submission to the natural flow.

Tomorrow is no longer my concern, and to venture there seems illusion upon illusion. And the past equally thusly so. A past splattered in disarray and guessing, so thoroughly shifted from one reality to the next, that it is but phantom ghost revisited through phantom eyes. The queries of what is or what brings seems little of substance; the questions themselves somewhat wrapped in the outcome of nothing. I bend in this way, to the invisible of invisible, no less certain than determined, no less able than unable.

I am. And that is all. And beyond that, need I be erased, and all my trappings set free, then so be it. For I have collected nothing but imaginings: event upon event of interpretation and judgment.

I have been the scout of fantasy and mistress of pain.

I have placed my needs above All, and then watched as I crumbled in uncertainty and failure.

I have danced to be proclaimed, and then watched as my invisible dust scattered in non-recognition.

I have been this and that a billion times, each effort daunted, each need uncovered and devoured.

All I have been is for naught.

Everything done in an attempt to claim what is un-claimable.

All done in an attempt to unravel a beauty that was long forgotten.

Indeed, I was an empty present, with legs sprouted, and mind controlled, a zombie beyond zombie, unable to feed off of anything beyond the self-invented clinging-self.

I ate away at my own being in an attempt to be loved and cherished.

And here is where the pain came most truly: in the need to circumvent my own life to present myself as worthy.

How silly it seems now, that this distant traveler, brought down from the eons beyond reason, should think herself worthy in her dutiful neediness.

I was but siphon recognizing my invented self in another—all her frailties, her darkness, her unlit ways. I was the judge, the serpent, the demon made ripe, the inventor of my own game, and the gatekeeper to misery. I created a world in which I turned all against the one I be, trapped in a child’s game attempting to create the one I am not, into something grand and distinguishable.

How silly I be; how silly I am. Still clinging to some substance that breathes in the air of thankfulness.

I cannot express in words so limiting, and time so fleeting, how recognizable I am to self. How unrecognizable I am to no-self. How funny I seem in this garment called me, and how equally foolish in my tethered-thinking. To think I could feasibly know anything more than nothing, when I am nothing. I am nothing upon nothing upon nothing. And in this nothing is my perpetual freedom.

389: The Poet’s Symphony & The Dream You Be

The following are two selections. The first I scribed this morning in prayer, the second, last night before sleeping. Take as you wish and bring forth your own truth. Peace and abundance of ever-flowing love to you. xo In my heart ~ Sam

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The Poet’s Symphony

The room echoed in her favor, the mysteries revealed as the poet’s symphony set asunder…

You are a divine being, perfect in form and in every way. You were given all you need at the start, which is both the beginning and end without end. There is no way to deny this or defy this. You are. And in so being the All of All you shall recognize the All within All, and in this way readily accept the gifts bestowed upon thee.

There is no tethering to this goodness. You are this goodness. There is no finding this goodness; it is in you and without you; it is everywhere in which you look and every place in which you forget. There is no corner unturned, no place forgotten, no witness turned away; All this is as is, and nothing of the All shall change.

As change is inevitable in the place where illusion stands; change is unmovable where We watch from up high; in the desert valley or upon mountain peak, makes no pause, for as high as We reach, as low as We travel, destiny takes no true form that is available for the sightless to see. In this way upon high is where we stand, yet, without feet and without height, steadily waiting in a time of no wait.

To exaggerate would lesser something of no value and placate none but the mask of confusion; and so we wait in the concept of un-waiting, merging as one for the arrival of you. Our arms are but open and the confusion lifted in the elements of which we are made; neither here nor there, but before you and in between, behind the perception of perception, and dedicated to the unity of all.

There is no wrong between us and nothing to be righted, less you peer into the darkness and lather in the deception of naught and no doings; when you breathe us, you know us; when you don’t, you know us still, though your speech, through hands be blinded, in such a way that what moves is neither brought up from the ocean of the sea but rather blended with the mediated-perception of the whole within. In this way, as you communicate, you flow through the one to reach the other, yet, flow through entirely untouched by the means and way. Communication is thusly spurred but in the land of illusion and all is lost in the ways of the world.

For illusion cannot breathe in illusion, and the breather of such takes in no air of truth, only illusion forged through the pen of illusion, the quail feather dipped in the black ink of nevermore, unformed from the united Unity, and stainless it be. For what is made without the making, blended from the dust of dust, un-gathered and unformed, is truly the matter that which is naught, and emptiness that breeds further emptiness and leaves the one suffering more than rebuilt.

Here is where we differ in views, and where we stand back and watch the unfolding, as the dancers play out, say lay out the plans of their making, each by each, one by one, establishing a truth that embrace as justly so: theirs the light of the world; theirs the unlimited “newness” of finding; how truly we delight in these games of rebel and trickery, the very only one submerging the very only one in a mask of disdain and separation; for we recognize the undoing of nothing, the representation of nothing, and see that in the undoing of doing, you shall soon seek elsewhere. Whether this be in form of building or mosque, say the church with the seeking windows, or the God of the many wavering hands, makes but not a difference to the All Mighty. For all paths are His for the taking, be this He of he or she, or rather the imaginings of your mind.

For how can one make this God of makings rightfully his when in establishing a time of recognition he immediately without pause establishes a time of separation? Silliness indeed, to think in the thinking that a mere label leads to bountiful delight and merrymaking; when indeed, my servant child the emptiness abounds. To make me in form is to take me out of the light and twist me in a way the ego-representation, or unformed and un-unified you, deciphers a lie. Not a lie of heart or even of choosing, but a lie brought upon self for self-justification and inclusion. This is the whittler’s way of inclusion, for he whittles and whittles away at this substance of nothing, until nothing bleeds out something in a way that adds layers of confusion to what was to be readily unmasked in the making.

Here is to say that when traveling so close to this God or what form you have established as thy truth, that you are but an ant on the farmland crossing the manure, thinking the smell of clump is the smell of All; have you not passed the garden gate where the flowers grow, the peddlers stool where the weapon is surrendered, the hermit’s cave where the dwellings are marked with the sketches of days gone by; have you but been submerged in the only one of one, trapped in the waste of one creature, and able to see nothing beyond your own stench?

This is not to say that the season of your victory is far, as you are already the victorious one, but to turn you in the ways of you, in which you claim that which is so rightfully yours and thusly spawn that which is so rightfully wrong in others. In this way you so evenly divide your brothers and sisters and make them into something they are not and never were; something separate from your very self; can you not see that all the ways merge, much as the butterfly collected from the pollen procreates the infant turned with legs, the chrysalis born from the making of flight?

Has butterfly picked and chosen the flowers of his choosing, the reds as the greatest, the whites as the weakest? Or does he not fly above the sweetness and descend without choice and simply scope up the divine gift of treasure gold? Yes, he takes what is offered without persecution of the other growing spirits. For whom is butterfly to judge when the field he sees is neither selected or created, but given freely for his taking? Is this not a banquet set before his tethered eyes, and welcoming of grace so tender and sweet, that the very nectar of his tongue stimulates the continued growth. Does he not by bending to no bending and choosing no road, thusly continue in the cyclic cycle of giving; his beauty found beneath his wings as they glisten, the unity as whole. Is this not the patterned creature of your own awakening, how he harbors nothing for no one without thought or intention?

Be ye like the butter of flights, smooth and free in your goings, without intention to choose beyond the flowers of your limited making. For beyond you can not fly, to the chosen fields of buttercups and swollen goodness, and so you must choose what is isolated in the miniature scope made preference of your being. But in truth with the eyes of the patterned creature, set free, you shall peer into what grows beyond the scattered seeds blossomed; indeed peer beyond the soil in which truth grows, and straight, if straight it be, into the awakening of your own soul-seed, brought up from waters of clearness born.

We ask thee not to lay your waste down at our feet, this stench you collect for our collection, for the only gift we need is already brought onto us, the gift of chrysalis rebirthed and rebirthed again to butterfly. Collect thee not from the skies that bring you to the abandoned field picked dry by travelers past, choose thee the highest region where goodness abounds so readily that even the flowers themselves bow down in recognition of the one on high, the one whom like you has collected the nectar sweet; the one like you who has driven self into the depths of no-land, into the valley of naught, and in recollection alone, brought up the bitter-sweet of you.

For you, my lad, my maiden, are the richest bounty set out before the We, the last standing flower ready to beseech the making of the sun, bending to the maker for the treat of light alone; you know not why you bend, or how you bend, or where the light be formed, and as flower ripe none of this be necessary; only be as the flower and the flower-maker, and bend. And as you bend into me, we shall bend into We. For I am the light of the world, my darling flower, and you need not be the ant of no-man’s land trapped in the stench mistaken as goodness. You need only be the starlight captured in a dream of dream, flowing forward as the petals bending in submission; not of self, not of reason, but of knowing. Simply submit you know not and in this you know all. And in this We have whispered to you so, as you recollect in the dawning of the new day: “It was in her leaving, the actual coming of her going, the peace was found.”

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Butterfly food: “Butterflies can eat anything that can dissolve in water. They mostly feed on nectar from flowers but also eat tree sap, dung, pollen, or rotting fruit. They are attracted to sodium found in salt and sweat. This is why they sometimes even land on people in Butterfly Parks. Sodium as well as many other minerals is vital for the butterflies’ reproduction.” (Source http://www.whatdobutterflieseat.info/)

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The Dream You Be

There is a time between the here and now, a repetitive sequencing of events that present themselves as uniform but not unitary; be not in this stillness of naught when the time comes for the voices to reach you; instead spring from your bedchambers black and enter the light of new day; hear us as we hear you, in your ever whisper, so soft, so true. We are not the enemy and we are not the friend; We are We, and nothing can erase this triumphant victory.

When you are afraid take us close to your heart and whisper our name whatever We be; and this, this calling onto us, shall free the whispering heart. For when you weep, we weep solemnly. When you cry, we rescue, not through decreed or wondering deeds, but through the unity of spirit wherein We are you and you are We. Gather your tears not for us, but for the people you feed with your sorrow. In this way even the very pain of illusion becomes rain for the masses. Do not fear us anymore than you fear the very hand that feeds you; the doll strings that pull are none other than you, and We, as Master perceived, stand back and watch the marionette of this self-inflicted staging.

There is no mystery in us that is not thusly within you. For you are the gatekeeper, keeping watch with the hindsight of angels past; there is nothing to fear, for there is no fear, and in seeing this you are ultimately free. To know this is to be given the key to every kingdom beyond the door of blindness.

Seek thee not in the forest of gloom, nor so escape into the wilderness of naught forgetting your humble servant pride (ego), for he waits as the man on hind foot, readily as the steed to break through the mask of circumstance and remind you rightfully so of the path you so evenly cleared. He stands less servant than maker of guise, his hands out stretched in plentitude, his offerings of reward daintily presented, as if some serpent-slayer had beaten the monster down and won the battle clear.

No this is not you, or your shadow, or your future namesake; you be not this ghost in the night who wears warrior suit of righteousness. You are no less him than we. And yet, you run, scamper like that frightened rabbit at the sight of his whisper, the very ghost himself stifling your chiseled heart. Do not fear that which does not stand and has no stance, which cannot ride, and has no reign, less you afford him gain. There is no fortune in his invisible bounty, nothing hidden in his sac of charms. He conspires against you at will, presenting the merchandise of falsehood and draping your very name in bigotry; be oh he wise man of bitter times that blanketed the demon warrior with his hides of shame, the ruthless one rooted in the desert screams of mighty fortitude.

You aren’t he; nor shall you ever diminish in spirit. From here, all is written, and only tumbling fools shall fall. Give not to this destitute fool called pride; he hears you not, but still comes. He knows you not, but still rides. Forward in a gallop so rich in its emptiness that even you have forgotten the game he shapes with wicked ways. There is none that can reach you now through sting alone. Nothing so bright as thee will be shut out by such wicked lies. And still you run into the forest of night, seeking refuge as the one blinded in the land of doom, thinking wrongfully in your ways, perchance frozen in the very thought of true.

Can you not see the dance around you, the white beauty of desire’s skirt circling and beaming into the ever-moving stream of thee? Can you not see such perfection sketched out on the Tablets of Master, written once over and twice presented to the very veins of living stone? How could one such as you, when clung to father as sapling to the spring, not drink and know your very own light and calling? Is this not the voice that sang you lullaby sweet as tender love, dressed in the garb of angel white? Is this not the very wind through your window that opened the night of your vigorous awakening—the tinkering of the consciousness that ricochets through the echoing chambers of evaporated thought and brings up fruit for the taking?

How can thee of little faith be so endearingly blinded by the very light of thee? How can you not burn in your own making, the taking of the light into the beauty of fullness, forever vanquished by your glory; forever moved by your giving. Take no more from the bleakness of the bitter lies. Take the makings of me, the land between the sky and heaven’s blue, and dance here in the sanctuary of space. Dance here where I last made you lay and drink in the gratitude of the sunlight. Sink your weary soul into me tender starlight; leap into my unbreakable arms, and I shall beseech you know more, just carry thee gently back to the making of the one, the breaking of the We, and show you again and again the dream you be.

379: I am very saddened by the state of the world

I am very saddened by the state of the world. While I can only speak of the nation I occupy, I gather enough from others that similar events are happening globally.

No matter how long I live on this earth, I am continually confused by many people’s behaviors and actions. Manipulations, lies, and false-intentions aside, I am dumbfounded by the angry-hearts and finger-pointing souls.

It seems so obvious to me: don’t judge another until you have entirely looked at your complete self and accepted who you are, learned to love yourself, and made a vow to be the best person you can be.

And hopefully, by the way of nature, having been through that process, the ability to judge simply ceases. Therefore, I find myself in a quandary, as what I feel within borders much on judgment, though I hope it resembles in form more of a heartfelt discernment.

I watch all around, in this place I find myself a part of, and see people acting out of spite and bitterness. To me, this seems as children at play, individuals who have somehow never gained what some of us were naturally born with. So many walking blindly, a victim of their self-created unbridled passion, set upon a path of feeding the darkness more dark.

I am at a crossroad of self, in many ways looking back at where I have been, without harboring much thought or even intention. Neither am I looking forward. I have tossed away the childish ways of dwelling anywhere other than I am, but still the present lingers here and penetrates my being, reminding me of why, in the past, I so often chose the route of escape over living. And I cannot help but think that the gentle souls of the world continue to choose the same, to slip back into a part of self, where the light is pure and the surroundings safe.

My hope lies in the minority. For in them I see this endless river of kindness, acceptance, and genuineness. And there is where I choose to see my own reflection, in the soul inhabiting this lost planet, which continues to shine despite the glaring dark broadcasted by the deceitful and righteous ones.

I am by no means a religious scholar, but I have had my share of studies in theology. What strikes me as evident is that many religions and spiritual paths have the answers; they speak of not judging, not lying, not cheating, not stealing; they speak of detachment, release of the desire for material ways, and unconditional love. Yet, it seems, that still most of society is buzzing all around, hounded by some beasts, corralled in like sleeping sheep, and made to behave in ways that may not be notorious but are as equally damaging.

It seems I am made, as I be, to walk in this world half-blinded to the ways of the majority, left outside of the fenced-in and blinded, and watching from a hilltop wishing for my brothers and sisters to join me and step out of the illusion of hatred. I am made this forever minority, for separation seems the only prize over entrapment of soul.

Today, I do not choose to celebrate tragedy or turn a disaster into a false idol. I will not choose to share grotesque images, nor to splatter hearsay and falsehoods. I see no benefit.

Have we become a united people whom can only feel close when disaster strikes? If so, what then will keep the disaster from repeatedly happening? What if there was silence upon disaster? What if there was just support, love, protection and safety; and the rest, the disastrous aftershock of tragedy, the spawned pods of evil, were left behind—just dropped, just forgotten, or at minimum ignored. What would the dark broadcast then, and what would we hold onto?

There is a part of me that knows I would be better to release this, to let go of this pain, as I do the rest, to detach from the horrors before my eyes—the dark aftermath of disaster. To close my eyes as the wolves circle in tighter and tighter, the false prophets, of modern day, spinning their webs of deceit; our neighbors joining in the game of hatred and rebel, or perhaps shedding their own tears in the spotlight. See me—notice me—love me. Why not just claim you need attention without the façade of displaying a tragedy to bring you forward? And why spread images of hope or horror based on tragedy with your name stamped upon the photo; how obvious that this is a way of profiting from suffering, whether for self-attention or material gains.

I don’t understand how people can be blinded to their own motives and own intentions. How they cannot feel what they are doing. See how they are acting. And if they are aware, how they can continue forward. Who are these people, as I do not belong to them?

And for the ones gently retreating, doing their part to help in silent fashion, without want of recognition, without need to scream, what of their dear, dear hearts? Who are these ones who humbly serve? How I wish to join you in prayer or meditation, and walk in the light at your side.

I do not understand this world or my place in it. Existing here seems like living on a giant stage of fools, with everyone rushing to be seen and be recognized, everyone in this giant game of Monopoly.

I am deeply saddened, today. I am not sad entirely because of the events of the original disaster—I hurt for the families and the loved ones—but at the same time I recognize disasters happen all over the world. People die in horrific ways all the time. People suffer. People are beaten, tortured, enslaved, persecuted, starving, and so on. There is no shock to me when disaster comes—the only shock is when I see what should by now be familiar, the clamoring for attention, resurfacing of the dark feeding upon the dark, ways and means that remind me of how far we’ve yet to come.

I am sad mostly because I live in a society that has been in essence brainwashed, a place where people are bombarded with negativity and bred to believe in lacking, and behave as if in desperate need. If the world were a spinning top, and I were still child, I would halt the toy entirely, and just let the earth breathe, let the people step out of self and watch. How I wish people could see they are love, they are light, and not these false illusions they have claimed.

I sit here very much isolated, unable and unwilling to share in the masses way of being, unable to take part in a celebration of the darkness. It is like being made to sit in the coliseum of ancient Rome, whilst crying, when all about people are cheering. It is like, this agonizing grief, a singular one watching from a singular window, waiting for the world to stop.

374: Moments

“It is not that I am not present in the here and now; it is that I am so entirely present to the universe that I become intoxicated in possibilities and rapture, and self must retreat back to the echoes of my imagination in order to breathe.” ~ Sam, Everyday Aspergers

Moments

The moment when you know you’ve spoken your complete truth, whether it was a word or thought, and you sift through what you said, wanting to make sure there isn’t the splinter of doubt that you didn’t indicate anything other than truth, and you feel your stomach twist, because maybe, just maybe, somewhere inside of you, you were wrong.

The moment you speak your truth loudly and clearly, with extreme empathy and knowing, weighing the validity of your words with the interpretation of necessity, while fighting back the voices that analyze and dissect the coming unspoken that is surging its way out through your veins, as you question your need, your want, your intention, wondering if the silence will win out over the pulsating necessity to share.

The moment you risk for the higher good, knowing if you speak your mind that you shall be persecuted, ostracized, and judged, but knowing all the greater that you shall in speaking your light have conquered the darkness, at least a splinter of the darkness that permeates your world.

The moment you lie, only to protect the feelings of another, and you replay the falsehood over and over in your mind, a broken record that hurts your ears and leaves you suffering, not for the sake of another, but for the sake of going against your own self and truth, as you wonder if a better course could have been detected, discovered, and executed, something beyond the distasteful torture of falsehood.

The moment you realize no one has the answers, no book, no preacher, no teacher, no guru, absolutely no one, and that all of your efforts have led you back to self; only now you are carrying a giant book of something that resembles truth, but in actuality it is a drafted, desperately edited and marked up tablet stack of contrived and siphoned rules, many of which contradict, point fingers, and leave in the ring either victim or prideful one.

The moment you speak your truth and the others leave, except perhaps one that stays for analysis and judgment, or to set you straight; and you listen, trying your best to look like you are interested and are learning, as you bleed all over the sidewalk from the bitter and deceptive words, your heart only wanting love, acknowledgment, and acceptance, not to be told again how you don’t fit in, don’t have a right, or don’t understand.

The moment you realize you understand more about a topic than anyone in the entire room, but to say so would immediately set up barbwire fences of division; thusly, you keep quiet and nod, trying to ignore and not comprehend the analogies that go against the base foundations of truth, justice, and love, with your last hope being that someone, somewhere in the room is like you, sees the light in your eyes, and wishes to not push his belief system upon you, or prove to you his theory, or embrace you in his way of life, but only enters your space to welcome you unconditionally as another being of substance.

The moment you dial up a conversation, and with first word, the person on the other end begins the game, following the rules of conduct and behavior and asking you blank, empty questions, not caring, unattached, unwilling to connect or even listen, the shallowness of the encounter physically hurting your chest and making your heart weep, as you attempt to move through with your life-preservers of nodding and smiling, acting as if you are comfortable, while feeling the energy of the speaker pierce you like daggers: the tone of the voice, the inflection, the pauses, the drawn out non-silence that does not match who she is, what she is, and where she is going. You are merely a dancer in some line of communication, knowing not where to step or when to pause, trying not to step on toes, and staring at a blank empty face, whose only need is to check your name off of her list.

The moment the sun rises and your breath is taking away and you are dancing in the rays, your heart free, your child like nature set to the wind, spinning, leaping, abounding in spirit, without moving in inch; and wanting to share this experience, to share the opportunity of hope you see in nature, and in the dawning of a new day, you giddily laugh and celebrate and raise the arms to the magenta skies; only to discover the persons surrounding you can’t sense what you sense; and you think somehow you are made wrong, too attached, too intuitive, too knowing. And so comes the feeling of separation, the sun’s hues shifted, the day begun, with you lost to self, trapped within thought of why your way is not their way, and why your way is left out of the equation.

The moment you kiss another and you wonder what the kiss means, because it has to mean something; and you question how two could connect without connecting, touch without touching, and how the game of romance is only a game, marked with pitfalls and dungeons and war. How you have instinctively set up camp upon another’s territory and in so doing have been given a safe zone, in which you shall not tread outward; for in stepping out, you risk annihilation, alienation, and doom. You weren’t meant to spread across his land and place flags of declaration about your feelings or experience. You were built for silent torture as you sit spinning in your small space of reason wanting to scream out the ecstasy and dynamic shift of being, but forced to crease your edges, sew your own self shut and hide out until the coast is clear, or the being you so loved, simply slips away.

The moment you want to be present, but you can’t; and the guilt settles in as friend or child, spouse or son, he looks at you with wide open eyes ready to connect at his level, in a place of happiness and delight, without deep thoughts, without theories and strings of reason, without doubt, without prospect of future circumstances; and how you sit in this passing moment, longing to reach out and be this same way, to stop the clock of the own mind and silence the tick-tick-ticking; and so you pretend, you try, you harbor your very own secrets of misery; a false grin, a false laugh, an intense glance, all means in which you try to give back and let the other know he is loved and needed, even as your brain radiates outward, living in an imaginary land, pulling you back to a place so distant that all connection, all being is lost in a blink of letting go. To speak and be present, like the other, is to balance on the plank, with the sharks below, knowing without fail, you shall fall with a splash, that your eyes shall dim, your mind blank out, and you shall undoubtedly sink into the dark and murky depths, embracing the emptiness and cold, where once the potentiality for sharing, an open beckoning space with dear one, existed.

The moment you know you are different and you celebrate the uniqueness knowing you have a purpose and a bright light and that you will make a change in the world for the betterment; perhaps you feel enlightened, like a teacher or creator of beauty, or even like a semi-saint; but to speak this to the world would be the death of you, for others would claim you are self-centered, grandiose in thought, or egotistical; but you know deep down you are meant for greatness, even as you walk in a world that seemingly does nothing but dilute your own fuel to your own fire. You are passion, you are insight, you are intuition, and you are connected to the grand scheme of life; but to say so leaves you breathless and unsure of yourself, dipped in the pool of humility time and time again, only to be told you are wrong.

The moment you understand that you are only a perception of what people think of you, and that no matter what you say or how you get your point across that no one will see you other than how they choose to see you; that ultimately you are an island onto yourself with tourists that caravan by and wave but never set foot onto your sands. And so you stand, unmoving, shining your light, wishing upon the star, that feels more liken to friend than any other being you know, waiting for the day, when a brave one will enter, and join hands to the infinite beauty of you combined.

The moment you realize you are no one, but you are supposed to walk in the world as someone, a someone who acts a certain way, dresses a certain way, expects certain things; but you no longer expect anything and no longer know how to act, and stand on this endless stage watching the ones garbed in their costumes, refinery and fancy ways, and wonder where you are to stand, how you are to observe, and what you are to take in, if not the bewildered stares of stagehands, whom keep pointing and staring at your indecent and unpredictable ways. Where to walk. Where to move. Where to be—each become your questions, as the world moves onward to a beat you cannot hear and do not wish to hear.

The moment you realize you do not have a condition or a syndrome or a fault, but understand intensely people are trying to make you believe you do, trying so hard that they convince themselves they are this illusion of normal, and you are this jumbled mess of faults; only you see the truth. Your blinders have been removed. You march in the silence, the one not dictated and orchestrated by the misers controlling the masses. Your eyes have been made open. In essence you have been reprogrammed, the barrier of righteousness, to shine the light on falsehoods and bring out the truth; yet, no one knows this but the few others that see in truth; and thusly, you move forward half-blinded in lies and half-open to truth, stuck in a place of limbo, with something beyond the beyond, urging you forward through the life that seems not life.

The moment your hands hurt, your feet hurt, your eyes hurt, your heart hurts, but you can’t stop, because there is a force inside of you that burns so deeply that if you do not open the crevice to creativity and let the flames burst out, as dragon releasing delicate-rage, then you shall perish in your own internal war. And so you move, in whatever way called to move; your own self bleeding in the efforts, your own self lost in the time without time, sinking into the separate land where no one can see you move with the freedom of angels, and you cannot see where this world was that you were made to walk in. And here you breathe, inside the escape of freedom, where the others cannot reach in and pull you out, cannot shape you and make you, and tell you lies of whom you be and whom you are not. A place of refuge where you can meet your own maker, whether self, universe, or God, and sit there in your trembling awe.

The moment you can no longer stand being you, as the music never stops, the thoughts never linger, but leap and bound across eternity, bringing up the genius of the world and making you into a spinning top of fury-making; when even the sound of the silence singes your ears and stops your heart, so that you want to scream at the annoyance of the drumming universe, though none around you can hear the pounding. And you cringe and cry and rant and plead, exploding inward as much as outward; for you have been placed in a merry-go-round of havoc with blind-seekers, each dumb and deaf, and wishing you were something other than your own self. And you have no way, no thread, no line of communication in which you can explain how you are the one displaced, removed from where you belong, and brought down to be tortured by the nonsense. How you have all the answers within, but are continually haunted and stopped in your making and doing, when the others, who know you not, shun and persecute your actions. Can they not see you are only trying to be, and that the more they stomp on your beingness the more they push you back into the dungeon of no recourse but explosion? Why do they force their ways upon you, when they, in their infinite blindness, know not what they do.

The moment you recognize you are not alone, that there is at least one other person like you on the planet, and you recognize their heart, their purity, and their need to make a difference; and in seeing her fully, you fill her with hope, because she knows at last you believe her and you trust her; because, contrary to what she has been told, she is not pretending to be kind, she is not pretending to be generous, nor is she pretending to love. She does love you, with all of her being, with all of her heart. And like your lonely, forlorn and forsaken self, you long to scoop her up and paint her in your compassion and security, to blanket her in your own goodness, and let her know she is this thing called beauty; she is this joyous light.

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(I wrote and pulished the post 373 (Semi-Saint) yesterday, knowing I might receive some backlash and that some individuals would choose to stop following my blog. I had a choice: to be authentic or to pretend. Today I understand that I needed to feel the suffering of rejection and judgment, in order to feel humbled, and to feel the collective pain of isolation. As odd as this seems, I need the suffering. I need to be connected to the others that still hurt. I don’t want to feel healed and complete (yet); and it seems at this moment, I cannot feel healed and complete, until every last brother and sister feels loved and accepted. For how can I walk in this world in a state of contentment, when all about me I see suffering? I know there is a way; I know I will realize this. A way to love my neighbor intensely without feeling his suffering, but I have yet to find it; and so I choose to walk beside the pain, until He has taught me all I need to see.)

372: Brain Chatter!

I have been seeing things ahead of time, and I am very much confused and somewhat afraid. I know that my abilities have been heightened but I know not where to turn. Sometimes the “coincidences” are so subtle, and other time shockingly surprising. Two days ago I said to my son, as we were talking about wedding anniversaries and the symbolic gifts for certain years, “I don’t know, honey, if anyone would have an 85th wedding anniversary, as both people would have to live to be over 100 years old for that to happen.”

Within a couple hours, I went to a social network site (FB), and there in living color was a couple both in their hundreds married 88 years. It was as if the question were answered without me knowing I was asking.

Last night, I said to my husband, out of the blue, as a saw a flash of knowing, “I think C.S. Lewis was a type of prophet and genius”; tonight, my husband says, “Guess what the newspaper reads: ‘C.S. Lewis reluctant prophet and eccentric genius.’” This morning I had a vision about someone contacting me (a specific someone), whom would be angry. I did not know this person, and never had spoken with her, but knew of her. I was “told” to treat her with love and understanding. I thought this was a silly thought, and certainly only and imaginary future fear. I motioned the ‘fear’ away. But this late afternoon, the event transpired, and I observed myself as I went through the process of holding a space of love.

These events keep happening day after day, usually several times in a twenty-four hour period. I am still being stirred awake around three in the morning and taught some type of lessons. I’ve gotten to the point now where I mumble, “oh, joy, lesson time,” in a sarcastic tone, and then sleep through most of it. Though every once in a while I jolt awake with a distinct sentence or to find myself talking.

All of this perhaps sounds light-hearted. In actuality this is a very difficult phase for me. I am struggling with these extreme depths of logical reasoning counter balanced by intense light-filled knowings. And I think I could stay in my home and write all day and into the night, if given cause. I am finding it hard to concentrate on anything of simplistic nature and I long desperately for guidance from a teacher. I am more sensitive to food, almost any meal leaves me immediately feeling forlorn, lost, and hopeless.

I have noted, too, there isn’t a moment in my day that I do not feel I am in the presence of a higher power I want to please, not impress, but please. This has eliminated my lifelong need to please others. For the most part, I only want to do right by my God, which in this present moment means to live authentically, to be truthful, to not gossip, to not be angry, to not hurt intentionally, to help others, and to love others unconditionally. At the same time I am wondering what the heck is left to do with my friends? Talk theology, angels, and spirituality—I’m soooo tired of that subject.

Today, I was upset when I couldn’t help an angry person see their inner light. The whole event made me cry. I couldn’t make a difference. I couldn’t “save” her.

These events lead to a theological discussion inside my head (that often leads to a sensation of spiritual headache; my physical head is fine, but I get lost in the diabolical, throbbing fog of confusion of brain chatter). I reasoned I did not need nor want to “save” anyone, because even thinking I could “save” someone would indicate I have the answers, which I know undoubtedly I do not.

And so I discussed at length with myself, and likely my angles were in there somewhere, about how my only “role,” if I was to have a role, is to live by example. If I am to point a direction to anyone, it would be straight into their own heart to remind her of her own inner beauty. But even this pointing seemed self-serving; for if other people see the beauty within themselves, they will see the beauty in me—and isn’t that a wee bit self-serving?

Next I entered an entire confusion-cloud about humility and service, and this desperate need I have to help others. I only feel alive and worthwhile when I am in service to my calling. Mostly, this fulfillment takes place when I am writing. But the advocate in me, she thought, rather loudly, “Well what if this is another aspie role you are virtually perfecting?”

This took me down a long road of fake identities and the embarrassment of not knowing who the heck I was; until I realized this is truly who I am.

For the first time in my adult life: This Is Me.

I know I am me again because I am how I remember being when I was four years of age.

And in so being this new found original self, I set about to sob. Yes, sob. Mostly because I feel like I have been given too much—kind of the story of my life. And while sobbing, of course I persecuted myself for even thinking I have a right to cry, when I have so many blessings and others suffer so much.

I feel separated because I have an intolerance for certain things now—an actual physical intolerance manifested at an energetic level that feels like a stomach punch. If a person is bad-mouthing another, himself, or speaking in an overall negative tone, I cringe; it’s like my body can’t stand the energetic vibration. I want no part in it, except to shake the person and say: STOP. Then I feel guilty. Then I try to identify the difference between discernment, picking up others’ energy, and judgment. As the last thing I want to do is judge. So as I am taking in visions and sensations about another, I am removing myself from judging, but then standing this helpless impatient woman stomping her feet and jumping up and down and screaming: Now What!

Part of my confusion is because I am seeing so dang much. I am seeing straight to the core of a person in just a few words. I can see their heart, their intention, their fear, their longing for love, and I just want to shake people and say: LOOK AT HOW FRICKEN BEAUTIFUL YOU ARE! But I can’t. Instead I come across as this fairy-kissing, happy-to-be-alive, all-life-is-a-love-fest, thingamajig; at least it seems like I do. And that’s not pretending! I truly feel that way… but more liken to an elven princess than a fairy.

To add to this complexity, (did I mention this is all happening during a ghost movie, I sort of got to watch), I am contemplating how I have been ‘taught’ that I am not a teacher. That to push my advice and thoughts onto someone else is in essence kind of like a sin, but not a sin, as my angels Do Not judge, and tell me, like everyone else, I am divinely good. But sin is the closest thing I can think of in relation to someone pushing their knowledge onto someone else, especially unsolicited. So I am stuck in this type of limbo life. People flashing me, and me pretending I don’t see their dangling parts. I don’t know which is worse: Pretending to be someone I am not. Or pretending I don’t see what someone else is flashing me.

At the same time, with all of this, I wonder if in sharing I am being too self-focused and look-at-me attitude…but how do I continue to share without doing that? And isn’t it my sharing that is my service? So I am a bit cluttered in thought. I can’t go back anymore to the way I was. A part of me thinks she truly wouldn’t mind to backtrack. The past was torture, but there was this freedom; not this continual knocking to serve. A part of me thinks maybe I am done with writing, or maybe another venue for my writing is appearing.

I spent years trying to figure out who I was. I found myself. And now ironically, I am this fumbling, tumbling fool who just keeps asking herself: Am I selfless enough?

(sidenote: I understand clearly I am not here to save anyone, and no one needs saving. I had written a paragrapch explaining that…but it seemed over the top, so I deleted it. It is kind of the KEY of my whole belief system…. How could I need to save someone else, if I am whole and they are whole…. It is not that at all…but the experience of watching someone in pain feels like I let them down, even though I know I did not.)