Belly of a Star

my practice of compassion

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A Few Thoughts

A few thoughts:

“Each day is another opportunity to choose to partake in the process of discernment. In implementing discernment, I stay on equal ground with all. In judging others’ behaviors, I automatically give up energy, and view myself as lesser- or greater-than. In observing, while gently releasing judgmental thoughts, I remain energized, at peace, and available to serve.”

“There are those who would profit off of their victimization. They make the most callous of leaders and point others astray. Listen with open heart to unveil deepest intention. Seek purity. Especially beware the individuals who magnify their victimhood, who justify their hurt — their proclaimed suffering masked as boldness. Be weary the wolf who appears meek and wounded; there in lies the deepest of traps. Step away from those who lead with a metal clapper.”

“An amulet of honor houses strength of character, a sense of right and wrong, and faith. It fortifies gentle wisdom, demonstrates patient maturity, and amplifies clear sight. True integrity shines in the deepest of caverns, silencing the monsters at bay without need of sword or flame. Be that which is true and free. Free of the damaging ways of the world, dictated in a million ways through a million voices. Shut out the dark of days, with truth and dignity, that which is the light of you.”

~ Samantha Craft, July 2020

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The Observer Watches

Hurt people point fingers at hurt people.
Some pointing is masked as good deeds.
Some pointing is masked as ill-will.
Both remain pointed fingers.

The observer watches in silence. The observer works behind the scenes, building bridges and building peace. The observer does not judge the others who are not like the observer. The observer is naught.

For the observer, there is no end point. There is nothing to point at. Nothing to claim. No one to listen.

The observer knows:

How the logic mind sorts, categorizes, discovers, and declares. Thoughts and grasping of truth . . . want, need, must do.

Judgment, evaluation, and end point.

Limited perception equating to magnified confirmation bias.

Imaginary worlds.

The observer knows:

Nothing in the singular world is in the collective world.
Where WE truly meets is in the in between space. Beyond the finite.

How singular judges and why singular judges and who singular judges is interdependent on the observer and receiver.

Perception is interdependent — bouncing molecules.

No endpoint.

As singulars don’t squat on number lines. And aren’t stagnant.
All is temporary truth.

Each singular houses an internal eco-system filled with mysteries of the sea, beyond bone and blood is another bounty-filled treasure.

As good leads to bad and bad leads to good — things aren’t as they seem.

Power can be seized, when We see We as mirrors facing mirrors.

Power can be seized when We recognize ‘life’ as hypocrisy.

All truth creates separation. All words — sound formed by singular — create separation.

Once something becomes truth and separate, all outside that truth is alienated.

As one claims this ‘a box’, then what remains are ‘not-boxes.’

As one claims singular as better than, then what remains are less-than.

All words lead to boxes; all boxes leave singulars outside the box.

Rhythm and motions create knowings without words. Vibrations, sounds without meaning, are healing. Images without borders. Pictures without definers. A Mother’s heartbeat to infant.

Observer cannot claim to know any truth or any reality, without equally claiming another singular does not know the full of truth. For observer’s truth can only be observer’s truth, unless the veil of logic is peeled away.

Billions living in singular painted worlds. Each with a singular view. Which singular creation is the right one?

The observer does not have the capacity to choose and also houses the capacity to choose. The observer is a contradiction. The observer sees a singular world as contradiction. Observer can choose, but chooses not to choose. But in that choosing, he chooses.

Observer walks existence as a collective: an interdependent droplet in the massive sea. He cannot be the water rising, even if willed to be, without the body that remains. Observer can stand as a drop. if he was made to know the drop. But as Observer is the collective, he is the ocean.

Wherever there is division, there is finite. Wherever there is finite, love cannot be. As love is infinite. And one cannot slip infinity into a bottle.

Whoever is not inside a finite bottle, is excluded.

A flag that makes proclamation creates separation. It claims finite. It claims ‘right’ and ‘wrong.’ Right and wrong creates battles, war, destruction. No matter how right, no matter how wrong, it is division.

Love is infinite. It speaks only love. It has not bottle. It has not box. And thusly, all are invited. There is not inside, and therefore there is not outside.

Equality is in infinity.

Singulars cannot see what they are not. When they look at self they see singular. When they look down, or through, or in reflective glass: singular.

Love cannot see what it is not. When love looks, it sees whole. When it looks down, or through, or in reflective glass: union.

Love sees outside boundaries. Singular sees finite.

Love knows only love. Words are foreign. The concept of ‘me’ is foreign. Without me, singular doesn’t have to be as me, look as me, move as me, believe as me.

Love cannot expect others to believe in itself, because it cannot see belief. Love is because love is infinity.

Hate is finite.

Hate is woven from the fiber of boxes and the glass of bottles. Hate is made in a singular world.

Love is everywhere, as it is infinite. Love fills the emptiness. Love pours in where it is invited. Love fills the space about, within, and in between, in the narrow edges between lines and points.

Love is in the creases and cracks and crevices. It is fissured, stamped, emerged, broken. Love is the spaces. Love is the substance that houses the space. Love is the molecular structure within the molecular structure.

Singular knows boundaries, and time, and space. That’s why singular plants flags. That’s why singular makes boxes. That’s why singular paints itself, as it believes there are other singulars watching.

Non-singular is love. It watches the flags. It watches the boxes. It watches the paintings. But Love doesn’t try to do anything with the watching. It doesn’t think to do anything.

Love is not finite. It is outside loves realm of existence.

Love is the observer and the observer is love.

Love says: I have nothing to prove. We are.

Love sees no singular.

Samantha Craft, July 2020

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I Feel You


I Feel You

I feel you, a surging river, effervescent bubbles tickling my soul.

I feel you ‘rounding, serpent tail, intertwining thoughts.

I feel you resting, head buried in the rhythm of my heart.

I feel you catching, with ears open, notes of knowing, to listen once more.

I feel you hunting, the traced outer regions, where earth meets spirit.

I feel you looking, into the sunshine, in the splintered dark.

I feel you etching, into someone new, a rebirthing of flames, one from two.

I feel you maneuvering, my pages, thankful recognition.

I feel you touching, in the center of my being, tap dancing in step to music.

I feel you entering, one foot in, propelled, and then cautioned to return.

I feel you fearing, a warrior, wrapped in misgivings, the cons of journey.

I feel you tiptoeing, kisses to forehead, tips to spine.

I fell you questioning, to delve in full force, no holds barred, unable to stop.

I feel you ricocheting, joyfulness unraveled, recognized friend.

I feel you emptying, giver to giver, the silver streams of who you are.

I feel you pounding, my threshold awaiting, as the clocks turn back tomorrow.

I feel you plunging, as steer to doe, nature’s slave, populating passion.

I feel you spinning,  my hand in yours, lost on merry-go-round.

I feel you plummeting, a skydiver bouncing, through heaven’s clouds.

I feel you returning, to sheltered harbor, a sailor no longer sworn to sea.

I feel you moving, inside and out, everywhere I gather, justly spread out whole.

I feel you guiding, these words as maker, lessons in the drum of holiness.

I feel you beating, an undeniable rhythm, a captive to ecstasy, a pain like no other.

I feel you living, right where I scribe, moving my fingers, as weaver to loom.

I feel you echoing, reading these words aloud, edging your way into love.

Samantha Craft, 6.9.19

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The opinionated folk deems his self more worthy than the next, more educated, more correct, more substantiated in his tethered-viewings. He is the man who ties himself to his beliefs as marionette to the puppeteer. Surrendering his last performance for the making of a hopeful sequel.

He stands on the cornerstone of his own reality, perched on a soapbox made of rubbery-soles; erect in his being, creating hurts, as he plucks out the feathers from those deemed ‘wrong.’

He is the judge. And his seasoned-eyes seek out justice for self, and for self-proclaimed truths.

He creates chaos through the subconscious quest to establish an enemy in order to make himself the victor.

He seeks out that which is wrong to feed his own tattered ego.

The more he builds himself up, the more he merrily tears the others downward into spiraling nonsense.

He latches on to one truth, and then another, exchanging viewpoints to suit his individual needs. Adapting his ways to suit his desired outcome.

He eradicates plans and schemes, even as he sees this not as so.

He is blind to his own ways, and thinks himself clever and keen.

He has an eye for truth, and establishes his world as so. Truth begets truth and all else in dangerous makings of others’ minds.

He knows himself, inside and out, or so he thinketh . And in thinking in limited scope, he believes he sees the world about him endlessly.

He is the maker of mankind and the destroyer, and he sets himself on high while wearing a robe of futile-humility. Though, buried beneath the cloakings are the mere wobblings of brittle bones.

He erects flags of righteousness in his name.

He is the enemy of spirit, as he claims his views worthy and right.

He is the enemy of self, as he hides in the shadowed sands, head buried to the reality undone.

He builds and builds an illusion in order to feed and feed that which is established upon as self onto self.

He becomes that which he wishes, and has opinion for all that does not fit into his gently spawned parchment.

His arrows are as ink on treasure map, pointing thusly to where the answers rest.

He knows, and he knows naught, and in so doing he believes he is the wisest of wise.

He layers himself in the latherings of riches, sought in the grounds of others’ burdens.

He is neither miser of gold nor pauper of the trenches; instead he is both. Combined, as the one collecting and discarding. Scooping up in ‘veracious’ heaps that which serves his truth, and throwing out that which does not.

He cannot see his weary ways, and instead labels the rest unjust and wrong, except the select few that follow his way. His light shone bright in the ability to feasibly proclaim his truth as collective truth.

He is not satisfied unless others see him, others hear him, others lift him and validate his existence.

His way is made the only way. And the others, though innocent they be, gather around him as sucklings to his tainted nectar.

He nourishes them with lies—his own.

He lures them in with a sense of belonging. And then, too, they become as him: stagnant in their youth, nurturing nothing and no one, and taking as they please.

They satisfy self to please self. They play with self to please self. They collect and establish more truths.

Until the beggar returns—uncloaked—he is made burdened with entrapment; invisible, trumpeting his drum. Pounding out the horned owl’s screech. Demolishing what is, in hopes of fissuring all that is the entrapment of mankind.

Formidable-forbidding. A lingering, unsurpassed longing, to surrender his making for the unmasking of the man beneath the cloaked resilience.

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The Forgetting

And the day they began to know, they forgot that they housed their own hearts and hearts of the all. And in that forgetting, they became endless in their search for truth. Forgetting the unquenchable desire for knowledge was the very poison to the hidden hearts. That to love and be love was all that mattered. That in the end, each road led back to this. If only their minds could stop enough to see. If only their thoughts had eyes. ~ Samantha Craft

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The Parchment

There are reasons for your suffering unbeknownst to you and unblemished, the same. You suffer as you suffer to instill the finest gold into your heart, to understand the world as the dreamer understands the night—its invisibility marked by the absence of eyes open.

You are not meant to devour the world in a heartbeat, to skip across the planet and just know. Your knowing is found in your enduring. Your gentle enduring born into the good nature you be, distilled, so to speak, in the rhythm of your beating heart.

Can you not hear us, in the silence of your cause—when you stop the mind’s archery, and just for a moment search not for the ever-moving target, you call stillness?

We are not the enemy, and yet you choose us so, as the witch stirs her brew and cast the spell upon the ones who seemed to her as harm, you stir your mind and cast out the facts that sting your own charming ways.

Can you not see us, swinging in the twilight of morrow, catching chance and changing the way you perceive what is called this life?

To you, the mountains are unreachable; your own heart damaged and perched for the taker. You think not upon where you have been and only think of the ways in which you will travel. But had you not the tired feet of walking and the hungry heart of waiting, would you not rest and be as the wilderness free in your estivation.

All about the mystery of the world speaks to you, dribbling and poured upon your soul the wanting of centuries. We feed you with our glory, ours for the taking, we are to you. In this way you come into the feeding ground and take, the wine sweeter on the vine still growing. You wonder, as the child always, where the hope is, and yet we swing from on high, the bountiful nurturing sweetness of your arbor, arched in the doorway’s entrance.

Take not from that which is named you, take from that which is all, that born of the ages when time first spoke and the illusion of day was born.

We are this ache, this valley, this shallow creature crying in the dark of dark, again complaining of the misery of isolation. And yet, we cannot scream ridicule or even point out the discrepancy of thought, for it is the all’s doing, and in the all’s doing there can be no blame. Just as the ocean cannot blame the village people for cursing the death waves, the canyons cannot bless the volcano that formed their depths.

All is, and nothing reversed, transcribed, brought up, tortured, or testified can demolish the plan of all. For all is scribed before thought and recollection. Nothing is to be found in the parchment ever transitioning. And still you hunt with pointing dagger for the stolen target in which to throw your burning flame. This is impossibility. Nothing can be aimed at the motionless eradicated and made whole onto whole.

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You are enough. Whomever tells you different is a bearer of falsehood. Whether this be an external voice or your own voice, or some demon spawn from an unclaimed territory. YOU are enough. And anything, anyone, or any substance that claims otherwise is disillusioned.

You are beautiful. Just the way you are. Exactly as you are. In all your deemed ‘imperfections.’ You are loved for the glory that is you, the exactness that is you, the precise measurement that bears your name. All of you is perfection. Every bit made divine in the light of love. Nothing about you is flawed, unworthy, or spun wrong. Your end result is marvelous and beautiful. Let none tell you otherwise, especially the trickery ways of the self.

You are lovely in all of your ways, every inch of you divinely graced. Your mind is superb, your soul ancient, your vision finer than the highest marksmen. You are centuries above what you think you be. Dynamically unfolded to reveal to the world an extreme orderly fashion of brilliance. Where you see chaos, lives divine opportunity to refine what is unmistakably not in need of repair, but in need of examination. Bring out that which is fear and disappointment, and share this truth with the world. In this way you will be free, and in turn, set your brother out of the cave of darkness.

You are fantastically loving. Your heart the deepest cavern spread out in what seems a stream of endless misery. You weep and weep once more. You counter yourself, your darkest inhabitants, the demons you have created. You venture where many dare not, into the crevices marked ‘unknown danger.’ You go there, with the brilliant light that is you, the spears of your heart making way for the encroaching dawn of blithe. You venture into the regions forgotten, and you face what many cannot dare behold. You become that which is your deepest nightmare, yet return victorious.

How can we not adore you, dear beloved? You are the earmark of gratitude and forgiveness, your heart pure and untouched by the demon spawn marked ‘certainty.’ You are vastly above that which you deem forbidden self. You are above that causation that leaves you spread out in hauntings and uncertainty.

Do not feign false-love as the false-sheep about. Drink in the glory set apart for you and you alone. Drink the blood that is thine own goodness and sweet delight. Celebrate the makings of the heart of untarnished golden victory. Drink, and take in that which is eternal flavored goodness. Seek not to proclaim the other, only trust in the pureness that pours through us, and into the sacred vessel named you.



Photo on 3-13-14 at 9.19 AM

I see you there
Standing amongst the shadows
You are like me:
Honorable, dignified, gifted
Yet, you feel trapped and alone
Entirely isolated
You see your wings, you see your freedom
And you wonder
How is it I can feel so tethered?
And you question
Your worth, your beauty, your voice
You become lost in the substance that is not you
In the gap that is someone or something else
You become what is within your grasp
And you hold on, not knowing how to release
You are a drifter, lost, reasoning someday you have to get it right
Someday, with all of your effort and thought, you must reach the end
The place where the torment stops
The place where you can stand firmly enough
To fly
I cannot begin to understand the matrix of your mind
The intricate makings
The details
The power
But I can feel your agony
The pain surrounds me
And I know
I recognize me in you, you in me
And us
This unity we have created
And I want to reach out and find what clutters you
Pull out the blockages that feed you lies
Cast out the darkness
And turn you golden back to the sun
That you are
I long to waver in your presence
And eat away at all of the hauntings claimed
To devour every inch that is daunting, damaging
To be a dictator over your heart
But only for an instant, less than a moment
An interval between the beginning and end of time
A space tucked inside the dimensions of linear
How I would sit there
As your captain
And caress all your aching
Remove what is naught
As red ribbons pulled taut
And released to the starlight
Dangling, lifting
All that is pain
Into another place
Far from you
I would sing
My lullaby
Of your grace
Of your perfection
Of your imminent glory
And I would tuck you into the deepest awakening
Your slumber released
Into the dream of now

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Still, I am

What is it about me, this invisible someone, that is made to feel irreversible in her vulnerability and compassion?

Shall I move as jester, through my past, and pull out the elements of cause, or shall I instead, center myself here, in balance, and move through as water, exploring the avenues of my reason?

I am this and I am that, but still I remain the same. Some unidentifiable, ever shifting substance. And yet, the others, some of them, the few I suppose, find pleasure, or at least vitality, in claiming me for what they see, for what they believe to know.

I don’t know. It is such a randomness, this world; how it plays out like a ring-circus-game. Leaps and bounds, rest, and cheers. Thumbs down or cash collected. Divided, dispersed, and brought through again, we are, as clever dictators unraveled into mice. Round and round our cages.

I cannot understand where I live, for whom I live, and for whom I breathe, if not for some higher purpose or good. For some reason beyond this limiting float-less self, that sinks beyond barriers and rules, and becomes blade between what is and what is not. Spinning her motor and dissecting the whole into various parts of nonsense.

I am affected. I am affected over and over by the toxins of the world, by the very labeling of the words, by the birthing of word, by sound, by vibration, by all that exists as movement. And all spins. All spins past me and through me, and in me, cycle upon cycle of life and death.

And still, I am.

Unrecognizable in this outfit I have constructed. Not recognizable in reflection. Not motionless enough to grasp or comprehend.

The worse of it, this variance of invisible self, coming when the demons approach, with their envious ways, and hunched backsides. Seeped over and over in righteousness of self and prosperity. Wanting to dominate, control, center life around their essence, success and wholeness.

How they penetrate me, this semblance of substance I am, with their wicked ways.

I am to them what they are to the world. Untouchable. Lustful. A chaser of dreams. I am to them this evil set inside to turn a spell.

And it is here I sit; not long, not for an established time, not for ever, just for a speck of eternity, in their shell of claimed humanity, in their piercing-bellowed echoes of judgment and non-acceptance. In their shattered self replaced with hate.

Here I sit as them, and breathe out what can only be torrential rains of days gone wrong. Where hollowed out souls screamed for comfort and received none. Where the brevity of a callous life became the very sword that slashed out eyes to all that is. All that was. All that can and will be.

If I be surgeon, then to them I would establish sight. To see again, if only for the splendid second of recourse; that all is, has already been, and will be; continuously spun by the emptiness spawned, until surrendered, and brought up again into the wholeness of All.

And then, and only then, set right upon the laws of justice, the opened-heart revealed, with all that is naught set asunder into the flowering of self, shall We breathe again. The falling retrieved, and the masked silence brought to life as one voice of freedom birthed.


The Dark Shore


A ribbon runs through me, the infinite undone, conspiring and transpiring, unbeknownst truths served. I am as watcher of the sea, listening to her speak of wisdom as I stand erect on a shore with no end. The meeting point between water and flesh absent.

I wander to the extremes, thinking per chance the bridge will come, some absent dove waiting to honor his duty. And I drift, my feet not touching, the darkness enveloping, the ribbon-red spinning beneath my skin and temple, penetrating in a worthiness unworldly and undetectable.

To hear without listening, and to dribble, the portions of self out in fluid form without outlet for escape. I am this whispering brook building in potential and then bursting through the ground once dry, soaking into the soil of deep and riches. I dive down into the narrow avenues of suffocation, only to be rooted again into thy own self.

Here I cannot breathe and I beg for release, only to find the one I was standing ashore again, sucking in with absent breath the very parts of me removed. Again I rush out in the form of river, penetrating the mountains in my falling, a glorious spectacle of delight, each passerby washed out in my display; celebration sprouted.

As water I am neither seeing or being, and in this way I know not what I do, where I am, or who has found the essence of me. To know is to be lost again on the shore. To fall is to be found. And still I return, some victim to the waiting, standing in the starless night, staring at the shadow that ought arise.

And I linger, in my gown of shame, unworthy for the quest before me, with tools no longer attached where I used to discover aid. Instead, a burden so thick, I bend and break in the bounty of naught, inching along the breaking shore, hoping to find the touch of salt.

Here I am, I scream to the place of no place. Here I am, I cry, walking alone in the shadowless avenue. The watchers come, in their own ways, each carrying the absence of face, twisted onto self, and bleeding out towards the waters. Each of us the stream that carries the wisdom to the Mother; each of us a traveler unmoved in our moving.

I reach for you then, in the coming of your footsteps, though you touch nothing but the womb of air. The place of unbirth, the vessel that sends you through the fuel of the stars. My hand is unseen, for my image is invisible, erased before the coming of time. I reach further, creating something out of nothing, like the potter with clay, spinning and spinning to build upon the mud and bring forth a cup for collection.

To fill me, would be my refuge. My endless reprieve and receiving, the want of you. To pour the castaways suffering of All through the vessel of my made substance. Though to pour the stream through clay, is to again evaporate in mud of illusion.

How I long to hold within joined hands the substance of creation, if only to feel you against the flesh I have established. To forge through every facet of the earth to bring back the mineral you require. My goal not established, nor wished for, but made, as I am made from another, through the union of their very hands to Mother sea.

How I wait for you to crush me with your fingers, to formidably cut through the mask of ages, through the sludge-filled brown of searching, and form me. To make me vessel for your drink. To make me drink. Both the substance red and the action of sipping.

To bring self to lips and devour what has entered. And to then take you in my possession and cherish the cause we have suffered. To slip you into me, before you vanish into eternity.

Can you not see me drifting at the last shore to heaven; my clipped wings unyielded in their desire to fly; my heart a hole where you are meant to sit, as the observer of naught, and whisper, as sweet cherub, the secrets of the deepest waters.

For how am I to swim when I cannot reach the effervescent waters that beckon? When I am split into the channels of the veins of All and cascaded in the invisibility of reason undone; showering into the cavernous caves of doubt and mystery. Only to find my absence back on the dark sands of time.

How am I to fly, when my wings you have taken to binding and erasing, my back pulled out by spine, my knees unwound, and ribbon replaced where soul-want used to occupy. Is my house empty? Is my door closed? Are these eyes the last sands of your making?

Where is my cup to drink from? Where is my cup to form? Am I but this haven made for your ravishing? To be removed again and again, transformed into winged-being, only to be fed to the eternal rivers of nowhere?

Bring me the sea. I demand my filling. Bring me the roaring waves. Not the ebbing and flow of gentle lover, but the daring gruel of agonizing washing. The devastating unleashed destiny of crashing. Demolish me with the taste of purity, the ashes of humility, the ravishing endless plummeting of river rages turned green of sea.

Lift your tides upon me, and drive me down into the sands. Dance with me there, in the darkness turned bright. The light within the source of shadow returned. Bleach out the black with my wishes, so I might find the night in the day. And wish no more for the sun to rise.

For in being the light, I shall be the Father One, the Mother Eternal. I shall be all that was granted upon me when I threw self into the tormenting limbo of shoreline. I shall be reopened. The earth moved. The ground below shattered. Floating in the deep of All.