Belly of a Star

my practice of compassion

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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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Tears of Splendor

Photo on 12-4-13 at 8.11 PM

I am crying a bit in a way that makes the soul sing.

I understand I am light. I understand I am worthy. I know I am beauty.

But still this ache sits at my soul: a bird on a ledge who is lost and forsaken; her beak open; her mouth full. And still she bleeds out starvation.

“Why world do you persecute me?” she cries.
“Why do you torment me?”
“Why do you harbor such ill will?”
“Why am I trapped in such a terrible, wicked place?”

Indeed, the universe answers back:

Is it not you we have made in the richest colors, the hues of honesty, righteousness, caressing kisses, and adoration, akin to the angels? Have we not given you visions, and possibilities, endless possibilities? Have we not answered each and every prayer, as you wished?

When is it enough, my dear? We cannot make heaven into earth. We cannot bring you what you long for without taking your first from where you are. Come hither and see, peek into our world and we shall hold you still; but we cannot take that which is naught and spin it into the golden staircase of liberation.

Break open this spell you cast upon your own weary eyes; the ways of withering have ended. Expand your soul to the endless sunlight, and dance in the reign of our glory. For you are not alone, were never alone, and shall never be. Each and everyone of our children is free. Each and everyone unified, whole, and enriched with the flavor of Christ.

You aren’t but this toy found in the gutter: broken, useless, played out. You are the maker, the breaker, the very essence of the joy unleashed in the play yard. Can you not see, you are the child running through the meadow’s grass, burdens lifted, aches released as the funnel that steers the water blue from the sap of morrows.

Look and you will see that the coming has neither ceased nor begun, but always has been. Look and you will see that there is not this wallowing in pain, as no pain can transpire whilst dancing in the light of grace.

Why do you fear us in the way you fear the rest, when all about we call out to you in unison. “Come my lady of the valley spring, where the flowers cast out the weeds’ fears. Come my lady of the river’s ocean, leading us as one into the blending of life blood.”

All is as all is, and yet you wander about, some lost child of the universe, weeping for the way home. You are home. Can you not see this? All about you is home. The beauty awaits you in the sunlit hours of your dreams. Hither forward no more, and cease the pattering of the cause. We are the cause. We are the way. And all about you we pour out the splendid repercussion of our union.

Can you not see we dance in you; our wings lifted in tailor-made splendor, waving across the chalice of your soul. We are never more gone than the wind, never more missing than the sliver of hope that sleeps in the depths of your beauty.

Oh, our beautiful, beautiful one, do not lose hope. Do not think you are this or that. You are what we are, untied from the burdens of castration and set down upon our threshold as the sacrificial lamb of love. As we are, you are. And together we aspire to greatness. Not because we are great. Not because we be great. Not because we claim a stake where others sleep in splendid slumber deep. But because they all are this. They all are the coming together of unity. And each thread, though frayed and sprawled out in infinite rainbows, is this beauty.

Breathe. Breathe in and feel the glory of us, and no longer fluster yourself in the reasons behind no reason. All is, and in this way, we are.


My Greatest Teacher

My greatest teacher died today.

She didn’t like me.

She didn’t love me.

And she continually saw me as something she wished to see.

I was her threat.

I was her reason for anger.

I was what took her loved one away.

I was this evil that would soon surface.

I was bad news.

I was the person who manipulated and schemed.

I was the one who she denounced in front of the crowds.

The one she warned others about.

I was the epiphany of someone who would explode at any moment.

A heart breaker.

A home wrecker.

I was ungrateful, forgetful, non-appreciative, selfish, inconsiderate.

I was the one who never called or bothered.

I had poor manners, was picky, was odd, was not nice.

I was so much to this woman.

And I was none of it.

I decided two years ago to love her.

To forgive her.

I decided I didn’t have to like her or be around her, but I didn’t have to hate her, either.

I decided I could just let her keep her perception of me.

She was my greatest teacher.

She was someone who became my enemy and taught me the greatest degree of compassion.

She was someone who taught me tolerance, self-control, self-worth, and inner strength.

I learned to stand my ground.

I learned to mourn over the loss of something that would never be.

I learned to protect myself and my children.

I learned that some people live in horrible, horrible inner turmoil, and in this suffering tear down all friendships and bonds.

I learned how I don’t ever want to choose to see others as demons.

I learned not to judge, not to point fingers, not to place conditions on people.

She was my greatest teacher.

And I mourn her so very deeply.

I cry for her endless suffering.

For the endless dream she lived.

The nightmare she brought upon herself.

Her refusal to see her own light, and in how doing so she snuffed the lights of those around her.

Or attempted to.

Or perhaps not.

Perhaps she was the very one that increased my burning.

Perhaps she was the one that enabled me to grow and fly.

Perhaps without her I never would have faced my inner-fears and demons.

Perhaps I would be the one living in the shadow-lands and choosing what I chose to see.

Perhaps I would be the suffering, a misery onto self.

She was my greatest teacher.

I wish she could have seen me.

I wish she could have seen my light, my love, my heart.

I cry because I lost what I never had.

I cry because I lost a potential mother, a nurturer, a caregiver, a friend.

I lost a person before she was ever found.

I cry for the suffering she brought to herself.

To the pain she penetrated into others’ reality.

I cry because I never got to really know her, to see her, to be with her.

I cry because she goes now and I am still burdened with the wondering.

Could I have loved her more?

Could I have been more selfless?

Could I have been the light she never saw?