Belly of a Star

my practice of compassion


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He Doesn’t Say I’m Beautiful . . .

He doesn’t say I’m beautiful.

He helps me up the stairs with a gentle guiding hand.
He hurries to the room, when I call out his name, whatever room I’m in.
He comes home with surprises from the local bakery.
He wheels me through the airport and museum, even as he is uncomfortable with crowds and it hurts his arms.
He doesn’t complain.
When I say I am thinking about growing my hair out grey, he encourages it, and says he likes grey hair. When I say my hair is actually more white than grey, he says he prefers white.
When I put on a bit of makeup, he says I look nice but also look fine without it.
When I look down at my growing tummy, he says, “I like it.”
When we have a spat, he gives me space and then asks to come in, and then apologizes for his part–sometimes with handwritten letters.
He rubs my back and kisses my toes. He holds me close when I cry and have trouble falling asleep — from anxiety, pain, or fear.
He listens to my frequent nightmares, the ones from dreams and the ones from the past. He asks if I am drinking enough water, and then brings me water, in my preferred mug (the clean one that doesn’t smell bad), with water he has collected from the artesian well downtown.
He leaves his office room for ‘object permanence checks,’ as he knows if I can’t see it (him), sometimes I question if it (he) exists.
He never comments on my messy, unbrushed hair or mismatched clothes. He doesn’t readily point out when I’ve made a mistake or error . . . in words or judgment.
He finds my oddities and antics and misuse of words to be charming.
He doesn’t laugh at my ways or mock me, or shake his head in disapproval.
He gives me the space and freedom to be me.
He is proud of my efforts at home and beyond, and tells me so. He stops to look at me, I mean really look at me, and offers a kind, gentle smile.
He makes a point to tell me this is the happiest he has ever been in his life.
He doesn’t objectify me or compare me to other people.
He doesn’t offer ways I can improve myself.
He rides the waves of my hormonal outbursts.
He prays for patience and to love me the best way possible.
And he does.
He tells silly, off the wall jokes and riddles.
He dances with me in the bedroom to ‘Brown Eyed Girl,’ and sings out the lyrics in a bashful voice.
He takes me to doctor appointments.
He helps shop for groceries.
He stocks the car and attic with emergency supplies.
He lends his dress shoes to my eldest son for that important interview.
He is silent and full of grace in harder times.
He is resilient and full of spunk in lighter moments.
He has introduced a genre of movies and shows that add spice to our collection. We bird watch together from balcony chairs, the ones he bought cushions for.
He refills the birdbath and worries for our feathered friends, scolding the neighbor’s cat . . . to go some other place. He says he will do something, and then he does it. He speaks the truth.
Means what he says. Says what he means. He says he’d die for me.
His hugs are tight and warm. He is a gentle giant, and my steadfast cheerleader and protector.
He doesn’t say I’m beautiful. He shows me.


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Yesterday’s Labor

Clairvoyance, clairaudience, clairsentience, claircognizance —

I’ve experienced these each since a small child. My book was a calling. A calling from my higher power. My journey here as well.

Like many a wanderer and light-seeker, my faith is shaken and challenged, often. I’ve faced a plentitude of demons — both spiritual and in human form.

It’s not uncommon for individuals who have been diagnosed with gifted intelligence or on the autism spectrum (or similar profiles) to have ‘unexplainable’ cognitive abilities. It’s not uncommon for the aforementioned to be extremely empathetic and empathic.

Some of us have a unique connection with the divine and hidden world.

Having experienced knowings my entire life, I have no doubt there is much more occurring than meets my worldly eyes.

Something I’ve learned in the eight years since my personal journey began with ‘Aspergers’ (now also recognized as ‘autism’), is that if I wait and watch, people’s true colors appear.

I’ve learned I need do little to nothing and all will unfold and be revealed.

Today, each time I’m tested, by one force of nature or another, one circumstance or another, (I now have 6 chronic pain conditions.) though the challenging circumstances typically result in the dark night of the soul — several dark nights — I’ve learned that I return from the bleakness and blackness to find my being fortified.

I return braver, and evermore determined to live by the light.

Perhaps because I’ve experienced miracles, I believe in miracles.

I am fortunate in having found inner peace with my calling.
I carry a profound sense of peace with my works and writings.
I rest my fruits of labor in my higher power’s hands. What will happen will unfold in the right place and right time. Who is meant to cross this path with me, shall.

I know without doubt that the end product, the fruits of my labor, are rooted from the soil of my intention. When intention is rooted in connection, love, and service, the fruits undoubtedly demonstrate their origin.

Today, I stand on the foundation of my past behaviors and actions. I stand with integrity. There is no closet housing a dark secret or shameful act. No hidden agenda to expose. No eagerness for ‘followers’ or eagerness to be heard, or right, or loved, or accepted. Only a calm knowing all is.

All I need do is observe. To watch what is attracted to each of the flowering fruits. To recognize not all fruits are nourished in righteous soil. Not all are watered in grace.

I steer clear of the fruit that attracts the maggots and flies.

I choose adamantly to bask under the shade of the fruit blessed in butterflies and hummingbirds.

I watch and observe my present words and actions. For what I sew in yesterday’s labors, becomes the future path I walk upon.

~ Samantha Craft, June 2020


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Subjectivation: The Castle’s Keeper

Subjectivation: The Castle’s Keeper

In the act of identifying as outside the norm, or in presenting outwardly with attributes which fall under the encompassing label of anomaly, one is thusly distinguished by self and society as an outcast.

Cast away from the middle ground, removed and divided from the dot that hovers on the center of number line– the heart of box, the eye of needle–one becomes adrift in a land of make believe constructs.

Broken truths, as yoke from egg, fall as they may; the sun of knowledge blinding the eyes from beyond. Beyond what is, removed. Beyond what is, replaced. Beyond, existing still in another time and place, forgotten and lingering on the threshold of reasoning. A waiting watchman set upon a hill of misty sky.

Society, as too a construct, dictates limiting and finite truths based on anomalies in perceived character. An interdependent system of preordained order that creates something of nothing, collecting assumed data as input, to produce a tangible interdependent product of conclusion.

Thoughts built upon thoughts. Castles in the sky illuminating bricks layered upon bricks of a builder’s wants and truths.

Even as the watchtower keeper rises, his naked eye upon the many, parading his power and dominating might, the causation blossoms. It’s blooms as dark petals penetrating what was in a place of no end, nor beginning.

As a bonafide noun and as a moving verb of action, the keeper himself, who houses his truths, in baskets woven by weaver same, cannot exist as a singular, without observing below. His careful watching a method for collecting truths and making sense of senses. A complicated matter, as even the senses were once eradicated from the mist, gathered in safekeeping to make sense of what seemed of something.

Interdependent is the onlooker, whether glancing in the clear lake or within the walls of decorated turret.

One, in himself, split he wanders; footsteps marching, pounding through the differences within and without.

Within, erupts comparison to aspects of other parts of self. In how fingers move to become separate from hand, as the heart from the mind. Likewise, spirit from soul, life force from nature.

Nighttime fails, and he, the one, divides and divides into separateness, not as an organic substance, of blood and pulse, but one moving in way in which the outside orchestra is silenced.

A singular onlooker, the outer world wiped clean, what is recognized, other than wholeness, other than a new one: undone, unraveled, re-birthed.

His mind drifts and a voice enters:

“As the baby is of all, undistinguished, as is man, though he knows not of this. By nature we take from what has been seen and create that which is unseen, illusions twisted into fabrics of causation that speak of a forbidden truth of naught.

A twisted, again, labyrinth of makeshift corners and caravans, marauding living forest of unknown potential. A potential to mask the substantial of what is, to procreate what has come before.

We are neither here nor there, but bound to the evidence set forth above and below us, as even the ground and sky become tangible in their blundered separation. How the blue that is not blue, divides the sky that is not sky, from the earth that is not ground.

And still, we seek this separation to makes sense of what is naught. Keying the inlet of mind with a cause for opening, as fish spawning in river too cold. What is birthed is naught, as creation is numbed in the shivering-blind.”

Opens the eyes, the keeper, if such word as ‘eyes’ existed. If such word as ‘words’ survived; if either ‘existed’ was scribed. For if person existed to scribe, with instrument to hold, and hands to grasp, had he grasped for the end, recognizing no beginning, recognizing his recognition was not of him?

A some semblance of a once someone drifted. Neither here nor there, in being, but in believing he be, and believing he believe.

For who is the one who believes?

Said I, “I am I.”

Said I, “I am.”

Irradiate the one (of I), irradiate the all of illusion.

Irradiate the illusion of more than one, irradiate the separation, the norm, the typical.

For it is not this ‘them’ that breeds and dictates isolation and destruction and ill-ways, but the belief of the belief.

For when all is erased, as pounding wave to sand, what remains out of sight, are the intricate makings of mountains crumbled, smoothed over by the ages of time within time. A barrier to existing within existing.

And how can this gentle mind of man, this watchtower keeper remain nimble, yet taught? Centered, yet swinging? A spectrum concaving into the unbearable light.

And though he be the mountains still, and the very sand beheld. There is nothing of nothing. No words in his tale, as the very breath that is blown, becomes wind to cast sail to sea drifting in existing, unseen.

The wandering keeper, stepping: a dream within a dream.

His castle, shifted.

The bricklayer, the valley, the very bricks, merged.

The one who watched becoming the one watching. The one who waited becoming the one who arrived.

Samantha Craft, June 2020

Other blogs: https://everydayaspie.wordpress.com/ https://everydayaspergers.com/

A flashback post from this blog on FEAR: https://bellyofastar.wordpress.com/2013/05/17/the-map-of-fear-and-the-indicators-of-truth/