Belly of a Star

my practice of compassion


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The Trinity

I usually don’t know what I am painting until hours of layering and removing of paint.

After the painting is done, I sometimes analyze for symbolism:

Dandelion:

Healing from emotional pain and physical injury alike
Intelligence, especially in an emotional and spiritual sense
Surviving through all challenges and difficulties

Veil:

Many meanings, including the veil between heaven and earth and the white veil of Jesus.

Purple cloth and white heart and dove/spirit:

Lydia made purple cloth in the Bible. Lydia heard the gospel of Jesus Christ, and the Bible says that God opened her heart to pay attention to what Paul was saying (Acts 16:14).

The bird in sky, the snake like animal, the beast in the field

King James Bible Hosea 2:18

And in that day will I make a covenant for them with the beasts of the field, and with the fowls of heaven, and with the creeping things of the ground: and I will break the bow and the sword and the battle out of the earth, and will make them to lie down safely.

Psalm 148:10
wild animals and all cattle, crawling creatures and flying birds

 


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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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Dancing Home

My heart is full of He,
again.
He rises
ember-shade,
and dances past
the prowling night.
in dusty field,
made hay.

A flower to the fowl,
I see
Him, here,
in touching stone;
A heart so tender, laid,
As river to the throne.

I watch Him pass, the passerby,
the sky, a fading-grey.
I hold Him in the heart of hearts,
just near, where angels sway.

Their voices
chant in unison;
A whisper, “All is near.”

I wander past the tipping stones,
where caverns drip of tear.
A honey dew of
Atmosphere.
Listen, still,
the gatherings,
of cantors bathing wills.

“Harken, here,” they come to be.
Their telling thick, as true.

“Can you see beneath the sea,
where fathers anchored blue?”

I’ve come again, to traveling,
with blankets tender, sweet.
Wrapped within the evermore,
Where babes are fast asleep.

Can you see them,
as I do? The willows,
dancing home,
to where the blind man walked,
Ill-temper, tamed in tune,
of flank and staff, immune.

“Come gather, here,”
Day beckons, glee;
the one I know as true.
And step by step,
I enter thee:
The one, becomes the Two.

How fortunate, this rose of thorn,
this breaking bread of mire.
How roads,
turned frail and broken through,
have led, the dire,

Days.
I’m headed now,
to brighter place.
Where angels dance and sing.
Remember thee,
of yesterday,
when I, was slumbering.


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The Monster and the Wise Man: Painting through emotions

As Above, So Below. The painting can also be turned around. Above, what is sewn in the alternate plane of subconscious and intention is planted on the earth level. Below, aliens are admiring the universe with wonderment.

The Monster and Wise Man. From a distance the wise man is a woman, up close, you can see his ‘wise’ beard and ancient face. The Wise Man is healing the monster. The monster is also the wise man. There is the earthly plane between them. 99% of the time I do not know what I’m painting. I paint as a type of prayer, meditation, and therapy. I did not paint the face on the wise man or beard — it popped up when I was wiping the canvas with a wet towel. The sapsucker or woodpecker to the far left was also not intentional. The monster appeared on his own.

Bird Man and The Lady. I painted this over an old watercolor that had images of love. Atop the layers, on the left, is my honey, David. The Lady is protection, light, and represents my love and admiration. I was also contacted by a Facebook friend stating a baby bird she found. and tried to save, passed on right before I finished my painting. If you look to the far right, there is a little girl standing sideways facing the left (her sleeve is rose) and pointing to the left at a mushroom. Not intentional.


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Joy’s Pain

Joy’s Pain

Here I stand, abandoned.
Abandoned by fear, by doubt, by destitute.
Here I stand, embraced.
Encapsulated by love, by love, by love.
Her shadow emerged from light’s bowing down.
And I kiss her, my merry dancing bride brought to life.
The stellar glance of knowing.
The chisel of breath, against buried skin.
The emerging one, formed two.
Lightening shadow sparks in victorious rapture.
Stillness undone into solitude.
Envy bowing down to grace.
Laughing sticks, peering out over the valley of vines.
Inchworms soiling the ground in which they bleed.
Enough, enough, enough, the wise woman calls from the bounty.
Enough, my undone love.
Burry me with the masses.
Cast me aside.
Stomp on my chained heart.
Carve me with the pieces of him.
Just make the river dance stop.
Bring this ache to the caverned regions and rectify the cross in the making of my sacrifice.
Take what is yours, and feed me to the lion heart.
Take what is here, and lance the eyes I am from the corners of my logic.
Eradicate, separate, designate.
Do what is must, to remove the burden I carry.
Some ladened cauldron frothing with joy.
For I am not made to hold such passion.
I am not made to know this endless ribboned peace.
How it crosses the line.
How it marks me with swelling.
The light abiding within a fire set free.
Moving through skin as butter to sizzling pan.
Oozing its way through bubbling deliciousness.
I can taste me in your wanting.
Taste every aspect of humanity.
Feel my way through the scattered wilderness–thought upon thought, whirling in the twilight of dawn.
I am awoken twice-more.
Until morning dove sings me to sleep.
To the woven wolf centered in the start of me.
Formed before I breathed name.
Reformed before sound.
Can you not hear him?
My distant angel returned home.
Wrapped in the solitude no more.
Set free at the doorstep in which I laid my cherub gifts. Balanced at the opening.
Brought down from the starry sky to shatter this earthly maiden.
Crafted in the makings.
His hand, my hand.
His heart, my heart.
His coming, my spear-crested awakening.

Samantha Craft, 7.19.19


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heart’s song

In the break of slumber
Thine eyes open
To black-feathered beauty
Sunray’s preamble
Trickling through ebony dark

The first call
Before first call
Silence sings
And dawn song echoes
Treasured daylight
Brought forth

Ribbons waving
From etched beak
Melodic fragrance uplifts
The chasms of nature breathes
The prelude before note
Adrift in honeysuckle
Boundless sky

Floats
A gentle gratitude
A gracious yearning
A blossom heart blossomed
A surrender sweetly surrendered
The last step brought back
Slipped between sheets

Heart song bumping in the overlap
Broken and re-broken
To bring forth deepest yoke
Nibbling its way in drippings
Forging a path of glitter-gold

All shattered weeping wrung dry
Longing’s longing
Announced in the rising
His platter of lickings, good

Lapped up
With hungry eyes
With starved gratitude
Of last crow awoken
Carry forth the new dawn

Samantha Craft, 6.30.19


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ONE

One

Loneliness
Enchanted
She rises
Moving to his calling
Summoned: The cave
Of beginning
She rests there
In twilight of ages
Singing song
Her sunlight unmarred
A brilliant star
Set out for the multitude
Risen as morning
Dove to dawn

Victory
Summoned
He cradles
Swaying to her chasms
Soothing: The child
Of heavens
He comforts there
In folds of lace
Pronouncing name
His mane undone
A bold stallion
Cast out in the quietude
Bent as blue
Bird to morning

Dancers
Birthed
They enter
Pulsating to rhythm
Surrendered: The one
Of peace
All opens free
In belly of time
Eradicating emptiness
Their names erased
A united flame
Set out in holiness
Marked as blushed
Bride to groom

6.21.19, Samantha Craft


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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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Empaths

EMPATHS

I think of you and your struggles
More than you know

I might not see your face
Or know your name
I might not remember what you do
Or from whence you came

I might not follow your steps
Or recall your colorful tales
I might forget what you’ve accomplished
Or in which ways you think you’ve failed

But I think of you and your struggles
More than you know

I might be a friend, a shadow
Or an enemy, true
I might not say everything right
Or believe as others do

I might not care enough
Or hide far away
I might hate myself at times
Or believe it’s all okay

But I think of you and your struggles
More than you know

I might scream this is annoying
Or let out a sigh
I might make claim to a funny
Or lead some to cry

I might not say enough
Or go on and on for days
I might slip into silence
Or act in peculiar ways

But I think of you and your struggles
More than you know

I might get it wrong
Or strike an odd stance
I might sprint beyond
Or forget that last glance

I might ponder a long while
Or toss it aside
I might forget all my manners
Or forgo the ride

But I think of you and your struggles
More than you know

I might change a mind
Or cause one to blame
I might take a hand
Or be victim to shame

I might never know
Or ask one to tell
I might be off track
Or perhaps even yell

But whatever we do
Whatever we might
Whatever your struggles
Whatever our plight

Know this to be true
From the center of heart
I think of your suffering
And it tears me apart

Samantha Craft, 5.15.19

 

Dedicated to my online family