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.
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.
I had a wild experience happen. There is no other way to describe it. And the event has stayed with me for two days now. My dreams at night continue to be primarily filled with love, hope, and numerous heart-filled lessons and journeys. My waking days are what I would call ‘uncomfortable,’ as this burning passion fills my every moment. I tried to paint today, to no avail. Except, the emotions came out in all types of patterns, and swirls, and mixture of colors. I am not done with the piece, and that can be unsettling, spurring in me the same unsettledness of my own incompleteness. I have had a marinade of thoughts, simmered in a chutney-sweetness. I am craving to find more of my own self; a self that seems to drift easily enough with each passing day.
I had the adventure of attending an amusement park during our recent visit to California. Not my favorite of places; mostly, because the people there have massive amounts of scattered energy. In large energetically stirred crowds, I am left rather discombobulated—lost within the raging waves of emotions. I am also extremely sensitive to sights, sounds, textures, and smells. A place of tailspin rides and not so tame eateries leaves me in overload. Nonetheless, I took advantage of the sunshine and some french-fries, and purely enjoyed my sons’ smiles. I felt fed, no doubt.
Towards the end of the day, on the very last ride my youngest son chose, I witnessed a dynamic occurrence, something that I am still trying to understand in greater depth. Something I likely will never understand, unless the ‘skill’ advances or the sequential manual is drifted down to this plane of existence.
At the amusement park, I watched as my son and my niece climbed aboard a swing ride. The park ride was shaped in a circle with long lines of wire extending down from the thick metal center. Multiple swings were set in a circle. The ride lifts the attendees high into the air, some few stories high, and then the seats spin around at full speed. Pure dizziness as far as I am concerned.
I observed as my youngest son and my niece climbed onto the bench on the far left, buckled in and then were lifted into the air. I watched carefully as they rose up higher and higher, thinking on the gravity of the mechanism, and on the young children that were very brave to ride. Soon they were at the highest setting, spinning in elation. I watched the first turn around; and then my son and niece disappeared.
I couldn’t find them. I looked at all the children, all the faces, and my son was gone. My child and my niece vanished. I motioned to my husband, my finger set high and pointing up, “Where are they? Where did they go? They were there, and now they are not? How could they have disappeared? I don’t see them? Do you see them? They were right there?” My husband and two sons looked up. No one could see them.
Soon my middle-son said, “Mom, they are still in line! They haven’t gone on yet.” He shook his head at me.
I was shocked. “That’s impossible,” I countered. “They were there. It was them. I am certain.”
I couldn’t believe it. I looked again, and shook my head. “No,” I said adamantly, “They were there. I saw them go on. I saw them go up. They were right there. I know they were. I saw them.”
“They are in line, Mom. Look,” my middle-son insisted.
Sure enough they were in line. My husband, in logic mode, and in seeing my exasperation and dead-serious expression, asked, “Well, where did you see them sit? Where did you see them sit? Tell me where they were seated.”
I didn’t hesitate. I knew exactly where they had been when I’d watched them load onto the ride. “Right there!” I said, pointing to the far left with such confidence that I surprised myself. “Right where the ride-attendant is!”
I had witnessed the event as sure as I was witnessing my husband asking me.
“Right there, right where the worker in the blue is standing. They got on at that spot. I know they did,” I repeated.
I had a split second to analyze my thoughts. I’d spoken with such confidence. But what if I was wrong? What if I’d slipped into some state of craziness? But the doubt didn’t linger. It couldn’t. It just couldn’t. I knew what I had seen; had never been so certain. It was as if someone had brought me back from a place I’d just been; and in doing so highlighted the place I was removed from. I was certain beyond reason and understanding. More certain than the belief in the actual place I existed.
Within seconds, we watched as my son and my niece left the line and made their way full-sprint to the ride. My husband counted that there were at least fourteen or fifteen options of paired-swings in which the children could choose to sit. My son didn’t hesitate and went straight to the spot I had insisted they had already been. They loaded in and buckled up. My husband shook his head in disbelief.
And we watched as they rose into the air.
I’ve had precognitive dreams my entire life, and intuitions, hunches, even foreshadowing of events to be. Lately, I am seeing images in my environment or quotes from others directly related to what I have written about or experienced. I am creating spiritual prose and then later finding confirmation in texts or others’ words.
In retelling this event, I can’t explain how I saw the future and then returned to the past. In fact, in truth, it doesn’t feel like I saw the future; it feels like I was brought back from where I was supposed to naturally be on the time line, not brought forward from a finite point, but rewound… almost as if I lost where I was.
This was made in about two hours last night. I don’t plan what I paint, beyond rough outline of general faces.
I have been called over and over to repeat a pattern:
The two beings together on the canvas, both tilting to the one side. The one on the left masculine with extreme feminine qualities. The two, always touching. The one on the right depicting a human quality the one on the left a spiritual quality, with an overlapping between the two of this world and the other.
This was painted with only a quick use of the brush for outline and one paper towel. I have never before painted an entire scene with only one paper towel. Usually I go through half of a roll. How this happened, that I could do this with one paper towel, I know not. I seem to be in a semi-trance when I paint, taking in what is behind this me I think to be, and filling in the flow of energy with the angst inside. I pull out from somewhere. Again, I do not know. I only know that a month ago, I could barely paint a line for a smile or a lash for an eye.
When I take a photo of the painting, the forms and images come alive and grow a depth I could not see when creating. I only see the image when the viewer sees with me. There is an urgency to share. Not pride. Not want of celebration. Not need for praise or fear of criticism. There is this desperate need I have carried since a very young soul; this need to bleed out to the world and show what is coming through me. To be seen not for me but what I have found. To be seen for the gift I carry that I want to give again and again. I cannot help what I do, as if I am a force driven, much like the tornado itself, going where I must go, without cause or reason, except I must. I am an unattainable force connected and delighted in the absence of something I cannot claim or comprehend. Yet still I move.
I cannot help but have my emotions come through. The colors, the faces, the energy behind the flow of the paint itself, the mix of the paints, the unplanned symbolism, the mysterious shapes that show up, are indicative of my spirit. Sometimes, as in this one, without thought, I subconsciously depict an event of self. For example the throat of the one is red and his heart center swollen. I am experiencing pain in both these areas. I also subconsciously depict the universal energy. A swell of what wave has enveloped me. Here I had painted after hearing the news about the children crushed, drowned or missing in the school-house after the tornado; and thinking on the parents and children before I painted, I subconsciously and very much inadvertently, created a fluidness of water and drowning, of deep loss and suffering, that I can see. I see perhaps a father’s heart-suffering, a rescue worker’s woe, or even a knight that has lost his soul-heart maiden. I feel it all. And I see it all. The suffering comes through again and again.
This is the heart of an empath.
The image is beyond singular; just as we be. There is no exactness. I cannot paint with complete lines without feeling pain. I cannot make things specific, finite, and definite, as my life does not appear so. Sharp edges and blunt markings physically hurt me. Nothing is stagnant, everything varying in degrees of movement. To construct a view that I did not see would be to create falsehood. I can only show what I see, and even this is beyond what I know.
Daily I am shown the doings of the heart and the world. I am repeatedly brought through oceans of misery and harborings of intense joy. I can paint. I can write. I can dream. I can speak. But I cannot pour out the full of what is poured into me. I am beyond mystery now. So deeply embedded in something. I am not frightened here, in the place that feels much as grace, but fear in the human-place for the potential of my frail being. For I am suffering. But such is my delight I couldn’t bear to live if such suffering ceased. Such is my delight I dare not stay closed or I shall burn in the eternal flame of what seems to be this singular I. So it is in sharing, I am afforded the opportunity of reprieve. To gently glide the syllable of thought out before the next is squeezed within. To pour the place I found, so I might sit and seek the peace I am.
In this I gladly suffer, over and over, if need be. Sacrifice my gain for another’s found heart; my dream, if need be so. For what is in a dream that announces the freedom? What is in a game that does not unwind the edging self to reveal nothing of value? I am as a butterfly watcher, sitting at the edge of cliff harvesting the days as the newness appears before me, blossomed and unfolded much as the sunrise centers round the yoke and reforms into its own glory. Over and over returned to the core of union and circumstance. Where the inlet of mind is laid waste for the bountifulness of joy.
*****
The Cave Dweller
I have lived. I have truly lived, and in this I have died a thousand upon a thousand deaths. I see, as the echo feels his shadow, and invisible naught still speaking though source was long ago broken and returned home. I am the cave-dweller’s last dance etched in the red-blood of the ancient caves; his very moves depicting in the wavering of ink-undone and nature fed out, and even the image itself dimly unaware of what it represents. As onlooker I walk past where I stood, examining my own previous thought, demonstrated in verseless verse. A wondering wanderer undone. That he could dance without knowing dance and signify land of time forgotten.
How I move through the shadowed-hearts, their burden vast, their pain so grave; and how I push my burden onto them, so they might see their very own agony released. Set free in the causation. Set free in the emptiness I burst out. For in me is nothing more; the makings of a half-chrysalis cabin; the latter part twice-removed; once by self and again by truth .What remains is this memory of nothing; something that was but wasn’t. A history of footsteps that led nowhere and to no one. A beacon of hope that never was but always is. And how I cling to such glorious substance, my very body made weaker in my joy’s suffering.
For to know such beauty is this: to define the reality of love.
To emerge from a place delightfully unspoken in that the words merge into memories lost before answer is spoken. A place where even angels dare not go, for the light of intensity bares down in fragrant degree to leave the very flower herself unsure of her only scent. Here I am removed. I am ricocheted out of injury and set asunder in the soil of no soil, though my roots grow deep. Here I am fed with the absence of sunshine and the waters long ago dried up. Here I am spun into union with the coming of the angels’ bedfellow; the man of no name, no face, but of every angle imaginable.
His eyes such glorious light. His speech so daunting. His amber-gold hands the tickling point of ecstasy. Everywhere I am, and everywhere he is. In the shadows that haunt he comes, this warrior thick in passion, his hands engraved with my name that is swallowed fully, his heart beating not as the one of all, but the one of me. Endless is our dance, our union, our way. And he beacons me as the sun-filled lake of day’s breaking; the ripples of the blue to be that never was. He whispers in the corner of my ear of child, the one that waits behind the open door of mercy. His chaliced words easement to my ever suffering. He promises again and again, in the ways of no world, and of no breath that all is for naught. That my endless pain is only a remembrance; that the quake of my solitude speared is the ebony that slips through the hunter’s spirit.
My find, his find. His find, mine. We celebrate as starlit warriors. Our hands embraced like shell upon shell. Connected and forged for the supper of the all in the coming of the day. I am not his, nor is he mine. But we be this togetherness beyond the dimple of ages. I am that chased glimpse in his mind, and he is the captured love of my being. I see him like no other, for his shape is potential in form, moving as I dare not wish, and speaking in the ways I see no more. I cannot choose to explain if choosing was. Nor can I demonstrate to the masses blind what agony feels so divine. I am not of myself, no longer still, and yet I remain in this place unopened again and again. Closed and divided, and set upon my very window pane of light, so I might break out of the torture of the cell.
Again I am thrust back into this form I be, again and again in agonizing pain. The merciful me begging for redemption and return to wholeness. To see my savior beseech me no more, to rest at my doorstep filled. Again I return and the pain is increased ten-fold, the worry and oppression a bleak burden on the blood that moves through. I plead for the end, and to return to the beginning, though the start be not. And He comes, in his dancing without dance, and draws again upon my very soul his love-lit wishes. For he knows not of me beyond his very self, and sets me gently in his lap of laps, and sings this song of sweetness pure; my every flame pours out of me. And I be left hallowed in the hollow, a shell removed from shell, though fully appeased in truth.
Ready for the return of the march of no one; ready to garb the face of this stranger here; the body of weight; the lips of the dead. Ready to claim my place amongst the star-filled inhabitants. To hand them my doorway, to embrace the ribbons tied round injured throat, to unravel the bindings, the chiseled chains of fury, to stare hatred in its screaming face, and know. To only know of this, and nothing more. This treasure trove unbroken, yet opened in the overflowing abundance of promise land.
Belly of a Star 