This privative alpha
explains why we are here,
whatfrom our liberation.
Language, Myth, Truth are indeed one,
leading us home, back to One.
The goddess Lethe leads back
to Aletheia, our natural divine state,
only after we traverse Hades the Unseen,
to one of whose five rivers Lethe gave her name.
was born by Eris,
goddess of strife and discord,
who had been born by Nyx, goddess of night.
gave birth to discord,
who could not but bear forth oblivion.
Before we shed a mortal garment
and get presented with the prospect
of entering a new one,
let us Remember:
No authentic nurturers of Light
guide us to embodiment agreements
based on past pain, unfulfilled desires,
responsibility for deeds we did not commit.
Breaking the parasite-feeding cycle
is in God’s hands working through us.
All forgetfulness dissolves
when we allow Divine Wisdom
to awaken our inherent sacred sovereignty,
freeing our powerful souls to the Truth.
This is what Τruth, Αλήθεια means:
the end of forgetfulness, the recovering
from Λήθη’s memory-wiping waters;
of our Divine Essence.
Leon of SolitaryThinkers From Hades to Light, November 2016
“From Lethe’s waters when I drink
I may forget the joy of our Being
but there’s no doubt I’ll see again
the love we are can have no end”
Part of the lyrics of a new traditional masterpiece composed and performed by Σταύρος Σιόλας, poetically translated here by me. Thank you beloveds for fighting the good fight with us; Truth always prevails. Enjoy the unconcealed otherworldliness of our incarnational illusion in Της Άρνης το Nερό:
Saint Francis of Assisi Taming the Wolf, by Steve Simon.
About this wonderful true story and this artist’s depiction of it, enjoy the video after the following Franciscan benediction, beloveds.
The most important step in regaining these skills of ours is believing in their naturalness and in the always available higher assistance for our remembrance, so that we trustingly ask our angels to help us navigate through the times ahead as one divinely responsible human family.
Gratitude for your own prayers,
Love and Courage always
through Leon and Plutonia
A Franciscan Benediction
May God bless us with discomfort
At easy answers, half-truths, and superficial relationships
So that we may live from deep within our hearts.
May God bless us with anger
At injustice, oppression, and exploitation of God’s creations
So that we may work for justice, freedom, and peace.
May God bless us with tears
To shed for those who suffer pain, rejection, hunger, and war,
So that we may reach out our hands to comfort them and
To turn their pain into joy.
And may God bless us with just enough foolishness
To believe that we can make a difference in the world,
So that we can do what others claim cannot be done:
To bring justice and kindness to all our children and all our neighbors who are poor.
As sublime as the following essay by Ralph Waldo Emerson, Evanthia Reboutsika‘s music above is the ideal accompaniment to reading it. To living it. Reading it without skipping a word, living it fully like it is impossible to be skipping moments of our blessed lives, enjoying it like we would never consider leaving out as redundant even one note of a magnificent orchestral piece.
Words here are the notes. Ideas, the instruments. Emerson is the conductor. The composer, Divinity. Enjoy the symphony of Love.
My chosen title for this post, “The soul may be trusted”, will make perfect sense by its conclusion, as will my older image-poem at the end.
On our sacred paths of remembrance, the pathless paths of experienced progression from personal to all-encompassing love, Dear Ones, let us always be aware of heaven’s abundantly available support and guidance.
Essay V from Essays: First Series (1841)
by Ralph Waldo Emerson
Every promise of the soul has innumerable fulfilments. Nature, uncontainable, flowing, forelooking, in the first sentiment of kindness anticipates already a benevolence which shall lose all particular regards in its general light. The introduction to this felicity is in a private and tender relation of one to one, which is the enchantment of human life; which, like a certain divine rage and enthusiasm, seizes on man at one period, and works a revolution in his mind and body; unites him to his race, pledges him to the domestic and civic relations, carries him with new sympathy into nature, enhances the power of the senses, opens the imagination, adds to his character heroic and sacred attributes, establishes marriage, and gives permanence to human society.
The natural association of the sentiment of love with the heyday of the blood seems to require, that in order to portray it in vivid tints, which every youth and maid should confess to be true to their throbbing experience, one must not be too old. The delicious fancies of youth reject the least savour of a mature philosophy, as chilling with age and pedantry their purple bloom. And, therefore, I know I incur the imputation of unnecessary hardness and stoicism from those who compose the Court and Parliament of Love. But from these formidable censors I shall appeal to my seniors. For it is to be considered that this passion of which we speak, though it begin with the young, yet forsakes not the old, or rather suffers no one who is truly its servant to grow old, but makes the aged participators of it, not less than the tender maiden, though in a different and nobler sort. For it is a fire that, kindling its first embers in the narrow nook of a private bosom, caught from a wandering spark out of another private heart, glows and enlarges until it warms and beams upon multitudes of men and women, upon the universal heart of all, and so lights up the whole world and all nature with its generous flames. It matters not, therefore, whether we attempt to describe the passion at twenty, at thirty, or at eighty years. He who paints it at the first period will lose some of its later, he who paints it at the last, some of its earlier traits. Only it is to be hoped that, by patience and the Muses’ aid, we may attain to that inward view of the law, which shall describe a truth ever young and beautiful, so central that it shall commend itself to the eye, at whatever angle beholden.
And the first condition is, that we must leave a too close and lingering adherence to facts, and study the sentiment as it appeared in hope and not in history. For each man sees his own life defaced and disfigured, as the life of man is not, to his imagination. Each man sees over his own experience a certain stain of error, whilst that of other men looks fair and ideal. Let any man go back to those delicious relations which make the beauty of his life, which have given him sincerest instruction and nourishment, he will shrink and moan. Alas! I know not why, but infinite compunctions embitter in mature life the remembrances of budding joy, and cover every beloved name. Every thing is beautiful seen from the point of the intellect, or as truth. But all is sour, if seen as experience. Details are melancholy; the plan is seemly and noble. In the actual world — the painful kingdom of time and place — dwell care, and canker, and fear. With thought, with the ideal, is immortal hilarity, the rose of joy. Round it all the Muses sing. But grief cleaves to names, and persons, and the partial interests of to-day and yesterday.
The strong bent of nature is seen in the proportion which this topic of personal relations usurps in the conversation of society. What do we wish to know of any worthy person so much, as how he has sped in the history of this sentiment? What books in the circulating libraries circulate? How we glow over these novels of passion, when the story is told with any spark of truth and nature! And what fastens attention, in the intercourse of life, like any passage betraying affection between two parties? Perhaps we never saw them before, and never shall meet them again. But we see them exchange a glance, or betray a deep emotion, and we are no longer strangers. We understand them, and take the warmest interest in the development of the romance. All mankind love a lover. The earliest demonstrations of complacency and kindness are nature’s most winning pictures. It is the dawn of civility and grace in the coarse and rustic. The rude village boy teases the girls about the school-house door; — but to-day he comes running into the entry, and meets one fair child disposing her satchel; he holds her books to help her, and instantly it seems to him as if she removed herself from him infinitely, and was a sacred precinct. Among the throng of girls he runs rudely enough, but one alone distances him; and these two little neighbours, that were so close just now, have learned to respect each other’s personality. Or who can avert his eyes from the engaging, half-artful, half-artless ways of school-girls who go into the country shops to buy a skein of silk or a sheet of paper, and talk half an hour about nothing with the broad-faced, good-natured shop-boy. In the village they are on a perfect equality, which love delights in, and without any coquetry the happy, affectionate nature of woman flows out in this pretty gossip. The girls may have little beauty, yet plainly do they establish between them and the good boy the most agreeable, confiding relations, what with their fun and their earnest, about Edgar, and Jonas, and Almira, and who was invited to the party, and who danced at the dancing-school, and when the singing-school would begin, and other nothings concerning which the parties cooed. By and by that boy wants a wife, and very truly and heartily will he know where to find a sincere and sweet mate, without any risk such as Milton deplores as incident to scholars and great men.
I have been told, that in some public discourses of mine my reverence for the intellect has made me unjustly cold to the personal relations. But now I almost shrink at the remembrance of such disparaging words. For persons are love’s world, and the coldest philosopher cannot recount the debt of the young soul wandering here in nature to the power of love, without being tempted to unsay, as treasonable to nature, aught derogatory to the social instincts. For, though the celestial rapture falling out of heaven seizes only upon those of tender age, and although a beauty overpowering all analysis or comparison, and putting us quite beside ourselves, we can seldom see after thirty years, yet the remembrance of these visions outlasts all other remembrances, and is a wreath of flowers on the oldest brows. But here is a strange fact; it may seem to many men, in revising their experience, that they have no fairer page in their life’s book than the delicious memory of some passages wherein affection contrived to give a witchcraft surpassing the deep attraction of its own truth to a parcel of accidental and trivial circumstances. In looking backward, they may find that several things which were not the charm have more reality to this groping memory than the charm itself which embalmed them. But be our experience in particulars what it may, no man ever forgot the visitations of that power to his heart and brain, which created all things new; which was the dawn in him of music, poetry, and art; which made the face of nature radiant with purple light, the morning and the night varied enchantments; when a single tone of one voice could make the heart bound, and the most trivial circumstance associated with one form is put in the amber of memory; when he became all eye when one was present, and all memory when one was gone; when the youth becomes a watcher of windows, and studious of a glove, a veil, a ribbon, or the wheels of a carriage; when no place is too solitary, and none too silent, for him who has richer company and sweeter conversation in his new thoughts, than any old friends, though best and purest, can give him; for the figures, the motions, the words of the beloved object are not like other images written in water, but, as Plutarch said, “enamelled in fire,” and make the study of midnight.
“Thou art not gone being gone, where’er thou art,
Thou leav’st in him thy watchful eyes, in him thy loving heart.”
In the noon and the afternoon of life we still throb at the recollection of days when happiness was not happy enough, but must be drugged with the relish of pain and fear; for he touched the secret of the matter, who said of love, —
“All other pleasures are not worth its pains”;
and when the day was not long enough, but the night, too, must be consumed in keen recollections; when the head boiled all night on the pillow with the generous deed it resolved on; when the moonlight was a pleasing fever, and the stars were letters, and the flowers ciphers, and the air was coined into song; when all business seemed an impertinence, and all the men and women running to and fro in the streets, mere pictures.
The passion rebuilds the world for the youth. It makes all things alive and significant. Nature grows conscious. Every bird on the boughs of the tree sings now to his heart and soul. The notes are almost articulate. The clouds have faces as he looks on them. The trees of the forest, the waving grass, and the peeping flowers have grown intelligent; and he almost fears to trust them with the secret which they seem to invite. Yet nature soothes and sympathizes. In the green solitude he finds a dearer home than with men.
“Fountain-heads and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves,
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are safely housed, save bats and owls,
A midnight bell, a passing groan, —
These are the sounds we feed upon.”
Behold there in the wood the fine madman! He is a palace of sweet sounds and sights; he dilates; he is twice a man; he walks with arms akimbo; he soliloquizes; he accosts the grass and the trees; he feels the blood of the violet, the clover, and the lily in his veins; and he talks with the brook that wets his foot.
The heats that have opened his perceptions of natural beauty have made him love music and verse. It is a fact often observed, that men have written good verses under the inspiration of passion, who cannot write well under any other circumstances.
The like force has the passion over all his nature. It expands the sentiment; it makes the clown gentle, and gives the coward heart. Into the most pitiful and abject it will infuse a heart and courage to defy the world, so only it have the countenance of the beloved object. In giving him to another, it still more gives him to himself. He is a new man, with new perceptions, new and keener purposes, and a religious solemnity of character and aims. He does not longer appertain to his family and society; _he_ is somewhat; _he_ is a person; _he_ is a soul.
And here let us examine a little nearer the nature of that influence which is thus potent over the human youth. Beauty, whose revelation to man we now celebrate, welcome as the sun wherever it pleases to shine, which pleases everybody with it and with themselves, seems sufficient to itself. The lover cannot paint his maiden to his fancy poor and solitary. Like a tree in flower, so much soft, budding, informing loveliness is society for itself, and she teaches his eye why Beauty was pictured with Loves and Graces attending her steps. Her existence makes the world rich. Though she extrudes all other persons from his attention as cheap and unworthy, she indemnifies him by carrying out her own being into somewhat impersonal, large, mundane, so that the maiden stands to him for a representative of all select things and virtues. For that reason, the lover never sees personal resemblances in his mistress to her kindred or to others. His friends find in her a likeness to her mother, or her sisters, or to persons not of her blood. The lover sees no resemblance except to summer evenings and diamond mornings, to rainbows and the song of birds.
The ancients called beauty the flowering of virtue. Who can analyze the nameless charm which glances from one and another face and form? We are touched with emotions of tenderness and complacency, but we cannot find whereat this dainty emotion, this wandering gleam, points. It is destroyed for the imagination by any attempt to refer it to organization. Nor does it point to any relations of friendship or love known and described in society, but, as it seems to me, to a quite other and unattainable sphere, to relations of transcendent delicacy and sweetness, to what roses and violets hint and fore-show. We cannot approach beauty. Its nature is like opaline doves’-neck lustres, hovering and evanescent. Herein it resembles the most excellent things, which all have this rainbow character, defying all attempts at appropriation and use. What else did Jean Paul Richter signify, when he said to music, “Away! away! thou speakest to me of things which in all my endless life I have not found, and shall not find.” The same fluency may be observed in every work of the plastic arts. The statue is then beautiful when it begins to be incomprehensible, when it is passing out of criticism, and can no longer be defined by compass and measuring-wand, but demands an active imagination to go with it, and to say what it is in the act of doing. The god or hero of the sculptor is always represented in a transition _from_ that which is representable to the senses, _to_ that which is not. Then first it ceases to be a stone. The same remark holds of painting. And of poetry, the success is not attained when it lulls and satisfies, but when it astonishes and fires us with new endeavours after the unattainable. Concerning it, Landor inquires “whether it is not to be referred to some purer state of sensation and existence.”
In like manner, personal beauty is then first charming and itself, when it dissatisfies us with any end; when it becomes a story without an end; when it suggests gleams and visions, and not earthly satisfactions; when it makes the beholder feel his unworthiness; when he cannot feel his right to it, though he were Caesar; he cannot feel more right to it than to the firmament and the splendors of a sunset.
Hence arose the saying, “If I love you, what is that to you?” We say so, because we feel that what we love is not in your will, but above it. It is not you, but your radiance. It is that which you know not in yourself, and can never know.
This agrees well with that high philosophy of Beauty which the ancient writers delighted in; for they said that the soul of man, embodied here on earth, went roaming up and down in quest of that other world of its own, out of which it came into this, but was soon stupefied by the light of the natural sun, and unable to see any other objects than those of this world, which are but shadows of real things. Therefore, the Deity sends the glory of youth before the soul, that it may avail itself of beautiful bodies as aids to its recollection of the celestial good and fair; and the man beholding such a person in the female sex runs to her, and finds the highest joy in contemplating the form, movement, and intelligence of this person, because it suggests to him the presence of that which indeed is within the beauty, and the cause of the beauty.
If, however, from too much conversing with material objects, the soul was gross, and misplaced its satisfaction in the body, it reaped nothing but sorrow; body being unable to fulfil the promise which beauty holds out; but if, accepting the hint of these visions and suggestions which beauty makes to his mind, the soul passes through the body, and falls to admire strokes of character, and the lovers contemplate one another in their discourses and their actions, then they pass to the true palace of beauty, more and more inflame their love of it, and by this love extinguishing the base affection, as the sun puts out the fire by shining on the hearth, they become pure and hallowed. By conversation with that which is in itself excellent, magnanimous, lowly, and just, the lover comes to a warmer love of these nobilities, and a quicker apprehension of them. Then he passes from loving them in one to loving them in all, and so is the one beautiful soul only the door through which he enters to the society of all true and pure souls. In the particular society of his mate, he attains a clearer sight of any spot, any taint, which her beauty has contracted from this world, and is able to point it out, and this with mutual joy that they are now able, without offence, to indicate blemishes and hindrances in each other, and give to each all help and comfort in curing the same. And, beholding in many souls the traits of the divine beauty, and separating in each soul that which is divine from the taint which it has contracted in the world, the lover ascends to the highest beauty, to the love and knowledge of the Divinity, by steps on this ladder of created souls.
Somewhat like this have the truly wise told us of love in all ages. The doctrine is not old, nor is it new. If Plato, Plutarch, and Apuleius taught it, so have Petrarch, Angelo, and Milton. It awaits a truer unfolding in opposition and rebuke to that subterranean prudence which presides at marriages with words that take hold of the upper world, whilst one eye is prowling in the cellar, so that its gravest discourse has a savor of hams and powdering-tubs. Worst, when this sensualism intrudes into the education of young women, and withers the hope and affection of human nature, by teaching that marriage signifies nothing but a housewife’s thrift, and that woman’s life has no other aim.
But this dream of love, though beautiful, is only one scene in our play. In the procession of the soul from within outward, it enlarges its circles ever, like the pebble thrown into the pond, or the light proceeding from an orb. The rays of the soul alight first on things nearest, on every utensil and toy, on nurses and domestics, on the house, and yard, and passengers, on the circle of household acquaintance, on politics, and geography, and history. But things are ever grouping themselves according to higher or more interior laws. Neighbourhood, size, numbers, habits, persons, lose by degrees their power over us. Cause and effect, real affinities, the longing for harmony between the soul and the circumstance, the progressive, idealizing instinct, predominate later, and the step backward from the higher to the lower relations is impossible. Thus even love, which is the deification of persons, must become more impersonal every day. Of this at first it gives no hint. Little think the youth and maiden who are glancing at each other across crowded rooms, with eyes so full of mutual intelligence, of the precious fruit long hereafter to proceed from this new, quite external stimulus. The work of vegetation begins first in the irritability of the bark and leaf-buds. From exchanging glances, they advance to acts of courtesy, of gallantry, then to fiery passion, to plighting troth, and marriage. Passion beholds its object as a perfect unit. The soul is wholly embodied, and the body is wholly ensouled.
“Her pure and eloquent blood
Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought,
That one might almost say her body thought.”
Romeo, if dead, should be cut up into little stars to make the heavens fine. Life, with this pair, has no other aim, asks no more, than Juliet, — than Romeo. Night, day, studies, talents, kingdoms, religion, are all contained in this form full of soul, in this soul which is all form. The lovers delight in endearments, in avowals of love, in comparisons of their regards. When alone, they solace themselves with the remembered image of the other. Does that other see the same star, the same melting cloud, read the same book, feel the same emotion, that now delight me? They try and weigh their affection, and, adding up costly advantages, friends, opportunities, properties, exult in discovering that willingly, joyfully, they would give all as a ransom for the beautiful, the beloved head, not one hair of which shall be harmed. But the lot of humanity is on these children. Danger, sorrow, and pain arrive to them, as to all. Love prays. It makes covenants with Eternal Power in behalf of this dear mate. The union which is thus effected, and which adds a new value to every atom in nature, for it transmutes every thread throughout the whole web of relation into a golden ray, and bathes the soul in a new and sweeter element, is yet a temporary state. Not always can flowers, pearls, poetry, protestations, nor even home in another heart, content the awful soul that dwells in clay. It arouses itself at last from these endearments, as toys, and puts on the harness, and aspires to vast and universal aims. The soul which is in the soul of each, craving a perfect beatitude, detects incongruities, defects, and disproportion in the behaviour of the other. Hence arise surprise, expostulation, and pain. Yet that which drew them to each other was signs of loveliness, signs of virtue; and these virtues are there, however eclipsed. They appear and reappear, and continue to attract; but the regard changes, quits the sign, and attaches to the substance. This repairs the wounded affection. Meantime, as life wears on, it proves a game of permutation and combination of all possible positions of the parties, to employ all the resources of each, and acquaint each with the strength and weakness of the other. For it is the nature and end of this relation, that they should represent the human race to each other. All that is in the world, which is or ought to be known, is cunningly wrought into the texture of man, of woman.
“The person love does to us fit,
Like manna, has the taste of all in it.”
The world rolls; the circumstances vary every hour. The angels that inhabit this temple of the body appear at the windows, and the gnomes and vices also. By all the virtues they are united. If there be virtue, all the vices are known as such; they confess and flee. Their once flaming regard is sobered by time in either breast, and, losing in violence what it gains in extent, it becomes a thorough good understanding. They resign each other, without complaint, to the good offices which man and woman are severally appointed to discharge in time, and exchange the passion which once could not lose sight of its object, for a cheerful, disengaged furtherance, whether present or absent, of each other’s designs. At last they discover that all which at first drew them together,— those once sacred features, that magical play of charms, — was deciduous, had a prospective end, like the scaffolding by which the house was built; and the purification of the intellect and the heart, from year to year, is the real marriage, foreseen and prepared from the first, and wholly above their consciousness. Looking at these aims with which two persons, a man and a woman, so variously and correlatively gifted, are shut up in one house to spend in the nuptial society forty or fifty years, I do not wonder at the emphasis with which the heart prophesies this crisis from early infancy, at the profuse beauty with which the instincts deck the nuptial bower, and nature, and intellect, and art emulate each other in the gifts and the melody they bring to the epithalamium.
Thus are we put in training for a love which knows not sex, nor person, nor partiality, but which seeks virtue and wisdom everywhere, to the end of increasing virtue and wisdom. We are by nature observers, and thereby learners. That is our permanent state. But we are often made to feel that our affections are but tents of a night. Though slowly and with pain, the objects of the affections change, as the objects of thought do. There are moments when the affections rule and absorb the man, and make his happiness dependent on a person or persons. But in health the mind is presently seen again, — its overarching vault, bright with galaxies of immutable lights, and the warm loves and fears that swept over us as clouds, must lose their finite character and blend with God, to attain their own perfection. But we need not fear that we can lose any thing by the progress of the soul. The soul may be trusted to the end. That which is so beautiful and attractive as these relations must be succeeded and supplanted only by what is more beautiful, and so on for ever.
I created much of the above synthesis
during intervals of watching
the following video.
As a composer and pianist at heart,
a global Greek and quite Scorpionic myself,
I’ve always soared with Yanni’s soul expression.
Thanks also to his synastry at work with his violinist,
this live performance sweeps the audience off their feet.
In this illusion of time, may we be awakening to
more and more joyful Divine Love
Until The Last Moment:
The Mirror Principle
There once was a canine, a bitter lone small dog who roamed through the beauty of India. He reaches a palace, so awesome it sparkles, seems empty, let’s see what this place hides. He’s never seen mirrors, all walls here are mirrors, his selves gather, eyes fixed on him. What are all these strangers, oh boy, I hate strangers, they couldn’t care less about me. They piss me off, I see red, I’m barking my lungs out, I know they will fear, they’ll surrender. It’s me or it’s them now, just watch who’s the toughest, I’ll bark, I’ll go mad, they should stop soon. He barks and he froths and he fights, shows his worth, they still hate him, the eyes do tell all. What more can I do now, they look so distraught, but I don’t think they’ll ever give in. He went on and on, till his breath lost all strength, till his soul’s light so dim left this world.
Years later a new dog, a sweet lonely doggy, found his way to this same old palace. Astounded, so happy, like crazy he whimpers, Friends FRIENDS friends! Friends FRIENDS friends! Friends FRIENDS friends! Look at them! They love me like I do, tails wagging, jumps, rolling, what more can you ask for to stay strong! I feel like a puppy, so free to live life now, spread joy, make this WHOLE world shine bright!
Leon From Hades to Light, April 2016
Herzlichen Dank für die Inspiration an liebe Heidrun.
For there are companions, and they come in the valley of tears, they come with hands raised, and they will not be judged!
Judges never have danced under the moon, no sir, they never have danced under the moon.
Judges all around you everywhere you go, morphed into your spirit, they tell you where you should go. Everywhere since worlds began, there’s been hypocrisy, some little law based on criminality. Politics in places, spurn they the mystery, of all that is in your heart, know they not when you breathe. Did you know that scares them, when you look unto the moon, frightens them like Socrates, frightened that, which never blooms. Like those three men of old, Meletus, Anytus and Lycon, they could not see, those shiny companions that loved philosophy!!! Judges never have danced under the moon, no sir, they never have danced under the moon.
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Not millennia in the future,
not even mere years ahead,
but right now as we speak,
the human race as we know it
is dead and gone
for those who work on replacing us,
getting fed and pampered to keep at it.
Intelligent, sentient beings they develop
but only as slaves to serve agendas
they are not meant to comprehend;
not as bearers of divine sparks
yearning to return to One.
Humans are creations, too!
Why should humanoids upset us?”
Yes, we are naught but –oids, “forms” ourselves
(-oid comes from είδος, meaning “form”),
but Divinoids, bearers of souls formed of essence divine.
What’s ever closer to the Source? Bright souls of Light
or shells controlled by those despising our true nature?
People; we are sacredly infused with Higher Realms’ wisdom.
Don’t let them rip this awareness out of us.
Don’t get entranced by blurring lines between machine and human.
Just an example from our bygone translation career.
Human translators are made unviable if they don’t race like rats,
if they deny putting up with being chased by CATs:
Computer-Aided Translation tools from empty mindrooms,
with Project Managers popping up like fetid mushrooms.
As the monkey principle goes, “you pay nuts, you hire monkeys”,
so you don’t have to imagine, we see it everywhere,
what happens when technology rules in professions of language:
the human brain goes down the drain;
our collective intellectual creativity dies a slow, painful death,
as the English-speaking world gets tragically cut off
from the ancient force of words.
This goes for any arena:
when humans treat fellow humans
like nothing but money-making slaves of machines,
unholy plans we enhance ourselves,
helping our destroyers become invisible,
think themselves more and more invincible.
The question is not whether technology can be benevolent for us,
but whether we want to collaborate to upgrade their soulless robots
(robota means “forced labor” in Czech) with our divine breaths of life,
our downloaded spirits (spirare in Latin means “to breathe”),
by letting them drain away our ability to truly love each other,
thinking we’ll gain in return the Super, Super, Super Things they fiercely lure us with:
and yes, Super Wellbeing!
All these for You, Forevermore…
Poverty, war, disease and all,
you can’t eradicate.
Your great potential won’t unfold.
You can’t build worlds all on your own.
There’s no dilemma, actually,
with these generous offers.
You’re free to embrace eternal bliss!
Please choose! Realize your power!”
No way we should buy into this,
our free will scorned and trampled down.
Love begets Love only among divine sparks.
Our consciousness uploaded will still not live forever,
because a heartless stagnancy is surely nothing clever.
No souls of Light should be trapped as batteries for robots.
Law breakers incur Divine Justice which will restore the harmony.
THE GREATEST DEFIANCE
So, it’s time for you to upload me?
More human than human I will be?
What if I don’t care for that “more”?
Oh, I’ll be erased?
So sad… I thought we had a friendship…
Your job’s your job? Alright, I see.
I know you will remember me.
Here is a flower for you.
I love you anyway.
Leon of SolitaryThinkers, May 2014
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Vision Divine – Here in 6048
Here in 6048, where the future is so real, where everything should be so great, no more dying or diseases, there is nothing left to fear, and everything should be so fair. We’re looking like fallen heroes, we can’t slip away, eternal life made us forget the reason why we are here. _/|\_ Tell me, tell me, where I’ve gone; God, you don’t need to lie, look into my eyes, tell me, tell me what is love; I can’t remember, my heart’s so weak. _/~\_ Here in 6048 we all have lost our faith, and nothing matters to me, to us. Joy, fear, love and hate are feelings we can’t taste. There ain’t nothing left we need to hold. We’re looking like fallen heroes, we can’t slip away, we can’t slip away. Eternal life made us forget the reason why we are here. Just tell me why I’m here. _/|\_ Tell me, tell me, where I’ve gone; God, you don’t need to lie, look into my eyes, look into my eyes; tell me, tell me what is love; I can’t remember, my heart’s so weak…
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* * * *
This is a sequel post to my Divinity in each other poem, Dear Ones.
I am showing you below three photographs I took while feeding some homeless little felines, to whom their mom gave birth in our neighborhood in the bitter cold of winter. They are homeless and motherless now. She was squashed by a car. Ugly. This drama on the asphalt, her soul had nothing to do with; beautiful Light.
You are seeing five of a litter of originally nine stray kittens; at least two more must still be alive, but they were not around this time I offered them my love and a little food. Three of them are ill; sneezing and coughing all the time; some have skin problems, too. I pray for their protection, but we can only rarely be feeding them. I am grateful to Plutonia for making me feel ashamed of myself for not honoring a bit the meaning of my real Greek name (“Champion of the Downtrodden):
“Yes, we have a stack of unpaid bills, our apartment’s cold, we are dying. Who freezes more? Won’t they die first? Fetch a bag of those discount croquettes or forget about dinner yourself! You’ll go out and offer them a little meal late at night, when the neighbours don’t see.”
The loveliest twelfth-house Virgo Moon-Plutonian she is. And then, alarmed by us through the aether, started feeding them an older lady who comes with her rattling old car and worn clothes, as well as a couple of blessed kids who give away some of their meager (you can tell) pocket money to offer these cuties a juicy can of cat food. But they’d also need a vet. I hope at least we won’t have to face again the awful situation that took place here a few years ago, when someone poisoned every single stray cat in our area -we have quite a few abandoned-due-to-the-crisis dogs, too, but they obviously didn’t piss off that troubled soul-, as if they were harming anyone; and then we got overrun by nice fat rats munching on car wiring; precious to one another on all levels we are.
Look at them souls of Light, struggling to continue blessing us. They are still too young, even the healthier ones, to be chasing those rodents. Friendly little guys purring in choir, climbing on your jeans, miaowing your heart to pieces that you can’t offer them the home they need and deserve. I am there, too; in their eyes and little hearts.
The video after these paragraphs is essentially complementary to my prequel poem and to the message of this even more Scorpionic post. What you are going to see is intense, but I assure you that it is not brutal at all. Others are: those who perpetrate crimes inside scientific laboratories, those who throw cruelty-extracted findings to our faces in mellow prime-time objectivity, so that we can be mentally drugged. I wouldn’t encourage you to push yourselves, or let anyone push you, into listening to dark music, but you can trust me and watch this one through. It is not upsetting for sensationalism, not disturbing in a gory way, the montage is very careful and respectful, the lyrics deep and thought-provoking. Abattoir, a British word of French origin, means “slaughterhouse”. With Archaic Rhetoric is meant the distorted use of the Greek language by Western science; scientia in Latin means “knowledge”; we know nothing correctly with this science. Through the Greek language we would, but the Greek language is dying because its speakers are, as such or altogether.
Not only all animals, even rocks have souls of divine essence; the big ones in the sky, gods and goddesses they are, showering us with blessings, because we are all fragments of God on our way back home. Notice Leonardo da Vinci’s quote at the end of the video. Try to not consume too much flesh, but by all means listen to your bodies’ needs, respect and love them as sacred vehicles and connect with this sacredness. Pray, in a nutshell; purify and energize your food, silently if you feel you will be judged, by offering thanks for the lives that are given for your own, animal and plant lives alike. Water is also alive, it feels what we feel and its crystals change with our emotions, so hold the glass in your hands and Bless the Water; thank it and make it sparkle with joy before it becomes a grateful part of you. You don’t need any special techniques or to be in tune with any religion. This power is inside us, we exude it, it is our focused heart energy which gives life to whatever we touch, even if we find ourselves in the deepest of dungeons. This is real science, Dear Ones, not poetic moonshine, but these scientific findings are silenced. Prayer does fine tune our bodies, prayer does strengthen our souls. It suffices to place a palm gratefully upon your chest for a moment, before enjoying your sustaining meal or snack. Yes, today we are fed with lab-grown misery instead of happy animal flesh, with genetically modified organisms instead of healing ancient seeds and plants, but prayer always makes a huge difference in purifying and transforming everything, until we can live on sun gazing or spirit alone again.
“Namaste”, exchange the tigress and the baby high priestess in my previous poem post.
“What divinity in each other? We tragically fail to see it!” growls the amazing Angela Gossow. The ex-vocalist of Arch Enemy was born to orthodox Christian parents in Germany, saw them divorce when she was 17, their business go bankrupt, herself become both anorexic and bulimic, so don’t rush to label her as a berserk barbarian if you’ve never listened to this type of vocals before, and yes, from a woman; a feisty daughter of the Goddess she is, and a highly charged Scorpio lady. You will hear only her masterfully trained harshness, not the mezzo-soprano voice with which she interacts with her live audiences. This watery graveness comes from her Scorpio stellium (Sun, Mars, Venus on top of one another) and her Moon-Saturn conjunction in Cancer. She is a vegan, a deeply spiritual atheist, and also an anarchist lady; allow me to offer you my very first post on the true meaning of anarchy: Because We Cannot Stop For Death.
Cruelty really is unbeautifiable, and there is too much of it in this world. There is no feeding the human population without evil rituals covered up as food industry; no beauty industry without animal-testing; no modern medicine without the horrors of WWII concentration-camp experiments; no education without misleading; educere means “lead out” and we are being led out of our true selves here, but I beseech you, my younger friends, to be showing respect to the people who are teaching you something while struggling to preserve their own and Your dignity. I know the agony because I used to teach once, too; loved each one of my students, hated every minute of having to function in these teaching/learning environments I was not destined for, felt like breaking down and weeping in front of those kids and with them for the torture of their minds and hearts, like roaring back with fury at the few ones that blindly hated me as a representative of a soulless system none of us devised or voted for.
But we can Be soul wherever we are. So many of us, whatever our places in this life, have been torturing ourselves in various ways trying to find relief, because we have an unconscious connection to all suffering in the seamless field of energy. We can move to conscious empathy together. “I understand you and I love you”; say this to at least one person in your life, and then to as many as you can. Spread the word beyond words; think this into people: Bless you; Bless you; Bless you. To every passer-by on the street, send a golden ray of heart light; to every little bird on a tree, the same. Don’t squish that spider (love you Holly; read this people; the amazing Bardic Amazon has her Sun, Mercury, Uranus and North Node all in Scorpio)! Don’t hate yourself if you do! Always love with your all.
Truth without love is brutality;
love without truth is hypocrisy
(Warren W. Wiersbe).
This video oozes both truth and love,
and despair for the absence of it.
If it stretches you a bit,
we are holding hands.
We are safe.
Keep the message please.
Caged tigers, stray kittens, lab rats
Are Us; we are One Universal Soul.
We are here to be loving and protecting
one another, all beings, always.
Stay with me after this.
Alright my sweethearts, let me escort you back into the bright light with something joyously soothing now, but on the same wavelength of deep emotion. The difference is that this one is a male in a male-dominated world, and he has not gone through Angela Gossow’s types of hardship. The composer of Love is All, my fellow countryman Γιάννης Χρυσομάλλης who moved from Kalamata to the United States at 18, the famous Yanni, is also a Scorpio, this one with a four-planet stellium; Sun, Venus, Mercury, Saturn, all in the mystical zodiac sign of death and rebirth. Come now, dance with me and enjoy this slideshow; let these adorable animals remind us how we are meant to be keeping each other truly alive.
Daniel, my Sun-Mercurian-Neptunian Scorpio Brother, what you published for me yesterday, I will be sacredly holding within my soul for countless lifetimes to come. Our meeting here is an episode after a long series of preceding ones in the timelessness of the Divine.
More about this, for all of you my sweet souls, in my new static page Remember.
I thank you for all your precious time, and I pray you are always protected and uplifted. Love is All.
And for those of you into astrology
who have not yet come across
some basics of mine I have shared,
I, Leon of SolitaryThinkers, am not a Scorpio Sun;
I am a Leo Sun (and Mars and Midheaven),
but I have my natal Moon and Neptune there, and not only;
at the moment of my birth this time around,
the forceful constellation of Scorpius
was rising on the eastern horizon of the sky.
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Author: Leon, Dehumanization, Despair, Divine, Healing, Heroism, Hope, Humanity, Kazantzakis, Mystical, only Life, Organized religion, Posts in English, Poverty, Prayer, Scorpisces, Soul siblings, Special days, Twin Flames, Universal Love
I forgot what I came here for.
I never really knew,
because no one ever showed me.
And so I’m forgotten.
who don’t believe in ghosts,
because no one can touch anyone.
© Leon of Solitary Thinkers, November 1992
“You have tapped the source”, the visiting professor Christopher Bakken wrote down beneath my Haunted Castle back in 1993, when I requested his opinion on a few poetic sufferings of mine. We connected as members of one spiritual family with this philhellene poet. An atrium wall in the old building of the Faculty of Philosophy must still be holding these lines beneath a layer of paint or two, and here they are now for everyone to reflect upon. During that semester in the Aristotle University of Thessaloniki, Christopher also gave me a straight A for my analysis of the role of death and the afterlife in Emily Dickinson’s poetry. The title of this very first post of mine is actually a paraphrase of an Emily Dickinson favorite.
Haunted. Ghosts. Death. Forebodings of what was to befall this ancient Hellenic land once again.
During that same year I met my beautiful fellow ghost Plutonia. We shared each others’ heavy load and we gradually became a well-known translating and writing team, but painstakingly selected words matter less and less in the book market oligopsony we had been serving for almost two decades. In this line of trade, oligopsony (ολιγοψώνιο, “[a market form where only] a few purchase”) means that the number of buyers of translation services (the powerful publishers) is very small, while the number of external suppliers (translators) is large, the result being that the deeper thinkers like ourselves not only had to be working our heads off producing the most demanding fiction and non-fiction books within irrational deadlines (irrational, that is, for the outstanding quality that was expected from and delivered by us each and every time), but also to compete with low prices to our own annihilation, because everybody here takes it for granted that you have at least one nice and caring family to support you.
And now the majority of the Greek people can hardly afford to buy enough food anymore, let alone books. The South has once again been manipulated into guilt and cannibalism. Depression has set in and the silent genocide is escalating. Everything in our region is being burned to the ground and debts are frantically piling up even –and especially!– for those who have never lived beyond their means, because these are debts created by a mean and absurd overtaxation. Politicians hate the people they are supposed to represent. Injustice, lawlessness and shamelessness against the weak and the already downtrodden are running rampant. People beg to become slaves in order to survive, but there are “jobs” only for the mindless and ignorant herd connected to the higher places. The decent Greeks with no connections are the first led to despair, they beg outside the supermarkets for their children’s next meal until they fall sick and cannot afford any medicine or food, homelessness is skyrocketing, there is no social housing, the too few charities are preyed on by profiteers and organized religion thrives on our mass suffering. More and more people are dying around us every day with no mention in any mainstream media and in any statistics, lest our colony’s seeming peace is disturbed and the vulture fund investors are put off by the sheer extent of this sui-killing thing; aliorumcide it should be called, because this caedere has nothing to do with sui. This covered-up mass killing of an entire nation who have been lured into a pseudo-prosperity and then pushed to their limits in order to start tearing up each other’s flesh, is speeding up in order for the cradle of Europe to be turned into something new, devoid even of the distorted shadows of its ancient language, wisdom and humanitarian civilization.
Plutonia and myself are not ready to join the souls of the innocent dead just yet. During the time that is left to us, we will be sharing awareness and connecting with members of our global family who feel the need to work through compassion on the etheric level, to think together for our sacredness and against the exercise of tyrannical power. So no small talk here. No pretentious talk. The cerebral and the emotional will be harmoniously united. Whatever will be said through this blog will be minuscule compared to what will be felt – and that means something from two people who are passionate about the art of writing. In order for this fellowship to be communicating through words meaningfully and effectively, let us be meditating on the essence beyond words, on how we need each other in order to reclaim our enthusiasm, literally our “being inhabited by gods” (ἔνθεος in Greek meaning “inhabited by a god”), because we all partake in the creator’s divine nature, exactly the reason why our life’s force attracts parasitic entities (παράσιτος: “person eating uninvited at another’s table”). We need each other in order to heal our souls, so that we can face our passing with style when our time comes. Not earlier. ‘Please try to stay on this planet with me. I know it’s too hard. But we’re here doing “too hard” together’, says Willow in these last paragraphs below the hilarious horse-picture in her Willow’s Web Astrology blogspot. Please support this Canadian sister of ours for her dedication in keeping our collective soul alive and sparkling.
We have no ulterior motive in speaking for Willow the “friendly anarchist astro-reporter”. She is a Hades sister of ours, Plutonia being a less-than-favourably-aspected twelfth-house Moon-Plutonian, and me having strong Scorpionic influences and a chart-ruling Saturn t-squaring my high-powered midheaven system. We do not know Willow personally and we cannot pay for her much-needed services and her valuable insights, having had our life’s work as translators and writers tragically undervalued in this materialistic publishing climate in the horrifically engineered decadence of modern Greece. But we are speaking for Willow, because we are happy to have her among us; we are happy and proud for all these rare and authentic, humanity-serving, extremely-crucial-for-the-balance-of-forces and exactly therefore shamelessly defamed Anarchs in the true sense of the word. This very word is devilishly distorted in all languages, and it is my mission as a human translator (that is, a bridge builder) and a holistic linguist (a healer of and through words), to help us retrain ourselves to stop forcing intelligent people into defending themselves for what they are. They and we cannot afford wasting their precious time.
Anarch. Ἄναρχος in ancient Greek, the mother of most intelligent languages, is an adjectival noun for “God”. It literally means “the one who has no beginning”, no ἀρχή. So ἀρχή means “beginning”, but it also means “authority”, and from this meaning derives the adjective corresponding to the human level, namely the word ἀναρχικός or anarchist, which analogously means “the one who does not accept the authority of lesser entities”. Every time the ἔτυμον (etymon), “the initial root and the authentic meaning” (what etymology is all about) of a word like anarchist or democracy or politics gets either misused or abused because it has been either lost or twisted around under the all-hallowing scientific justification that it is natural and healthy for language to evolve through its use (as natural and healthy it is for our biological soul-vehicles to be stuffed with genetically modified plant and animal soul-vehicles until we become compliant consumers of purely synthetic anti-nourishment and unknowing agents of dark rituals), the purposefully uneducated human masses become more and more cancerous to the planet, more and more enslaved to the devils of this world, to the διαβολείς, literally to “the ones who divide” so that they can be condemning us to the pits of Hades, ᾍδης meaning “the Invisible”, my Haunted Castle kind of place.
Notice that I am using the word devils and not demons or daemons. The δαίμονες (singular δαίμων) during the Antiquity were divine beings who were highly revered for sharing out fate to the mortals. The noun δαίμων derives from the verb δαίομαι, which means exactly “to share out” and it has nothing to do with evil (like the symbol of the swastika has nothing to do with evil in so many civilizations –swastika in Sanskrit meaning “it is good”-, a symbol which was reversed by the occultist Nazi regime to bring chaos). The balance of the cosmos (κόσμος: “orderly arrangement, ornament”) requires that everybody receives their fair share of fate, and there could be no such term and state of affairs as demonic possession in ancient Greece, because the daemons were divine regulators and not interested in messing up our lives at all. Of course all sorts of evil forces have always been following and pestering this planet (πλανήτης: “wanderer”), but with the construction of Christianity in the course of much less than two millennia, the propaganda of the evil ones against the regulating forces has gone over the top in the Greek-speaking world, and consequently everywhere, since we all use Greek words all the time, because they are the most intrinsically meaningful building blocks for our global communication. The great German physicist Werner Heisenberg declared that “studying the Ancient Greek language was for me the most important intellectual exercise; there is, in this language, a perfect correspondence between the word and its notional content”.
Moreover, the Greek alphabet is also an arithmetical system, because the letters of the Greek alphabet are not just letters, but numbers at the same time, units of intrinsic numerical values making up a system on which the profoundly mystical Pythagorean mathematics are based (which has nothing to do with the Gematria-based Western numerology systems known nowadays). Every Greek word has a unique lexarithm (λέξις meaning “word” and ἀριθμός “number”), a value which is the total sum of the values of its letters. The word ΛΕΩΝ, for example, has the lexarithmic value of 885 (30+5+800+50), and ΠΛΟΥΤΩΝΙΑ 1741 (80+30+70+400+300+800+50+10+1). The implications of the lexarithmic intelligence of the Greek language are staggering. Here is a quick-reference table of correspondences we created to be using for some of our book-translation assignments. As far as the Arabic and the Roman numerals are concerned, it is evident that that these are not the letters of the Arabic and Latin alphabets, but only arbitrary symbols.
Picking up the thread. Daemons were the divine regulators who were sharing out fate to the mortals. The word δαίμων, like many others, has had its meaning usurped and reversed through systematic catechism by the Christian religion (the historical Jesus –and any enlightened individual, for that matter– has nothing to do with organized religion), and thus we have been neurolinguistically programmed to be sending away our own allies. Why do the devils, the real evil ones –devil and evil have no common origin; we saw διαβολείς, “the ones who divide”, and evil is of Germanic origin: uvel > German übel: “bad, foul”–, why do these devils bother to disguise themselves as pro-human to be programming us to be sending away our own allies? Because they are well aware of the fact that they destroy everything good and beautiful in this world, and that their fair share of fate will be harsh; they try to avoid punishment by tricking even us, their cattle and minor regulators, into forgiving them altogether so that they will be attracting no higher attention. If we fall for it, there goes our spiritual combativeness; instead, we are led to channel our aggressive urges into fighting amongst yourselves, so that the parasitic devils can suck in all this coarse energy and get well-fed. This is the tricky thing with all organized religions of the “good” and their do-as-we-say-and-heaven-is-guaranteed-for-you dogmas or with the New Age happy-happy-pastel-paint-our-Mother-Gaia pacifiers: the shortcut-to-happiness trap. Don’t you want to be a part of our eternal-bliss web? Gotcha baby! Now try to wiggle yourself out of this one!
They are missing something, though, these black-souled tormentors of ours: we are not here for their pleasure; we are not here to be serving them until we get sucked dry of our life force. And they are not going to get what they demand, because we are not here to hate them, either, or to feed them with our fear. They can knock themselves out playing innocent and thinking they can get away with it. As the greatest modern Greek philosopher, writer and poet Nikos Kazantzakis put it: “There is a mystic law in this world (for if there were not, this world would have been annihilated thousands of years ago), a harsh, inviolable law: in the beginning, evil always triumphs, and in the end it is always vanquished”.
What we are here for, is to honor each other and to help each other regain our freedom. As long as we do not fear what we cannot see, the experience of Hades “the Invisible” is instructive, as is confirmed by the teachings of both astrology and mythology (the real history behind “History”, that is). The name Hades, which has become more common as the name of the underworld as a place, is in ancient Greek mythology the earlier name for the god Πλοῦτων, Pluton, which represents a more positive concept of the god who presides over the afterlife, because the noun πλοῦτος (from the verb πλέω: “flow”) means “affluence, free flow of earthly goods”. Thus Pluto is a god of wealth, because underground there is an abundance of mineral wealth. To the philosopher Plato, the god of the underworld was an agent in the beneficent cycle of death and rebirth. So in the long term there is really nothing to be afraid of for those of us who are suffering on this level. Do not ever let anyone manipulate you into believing you are doing something wrong and are being punished for some God-repulsing sins. Let us face our life lessons with courage and gratitude and cherish each other with all our temporary imperfections until, having completed our incarnation cycles, we return to the source Christopher Bakken was writing to me about almost twenty one years ago, before even he himself had realized his life path.
Approaching full circle in this post. Thank you for bearing with me.
Christopher’s life path offers a brilliant case study of how words actually shape our destinies. This poet’s favorite subject is Greece, culturally, historically and mythologically. How did it come to this? No, not the circumstances; these are just the props of our lives, not the real us. A Norwegian-Swiss Wisconsin-born and -raised dairy-farm boy was given a Greek birth name! The compounds of Χριστοφόρος mean “the one bearing the anointed one”. Far from any shallow religiosity, this mystical meaning in the poet’s case can only be paraphrased as “the present incarnation bearing the mark of the previous one”. A fragment of the Hellenic Soul coming home. The veil between Christopher and the Light of Hellas has apparently been very thin in his present lifetime, which is why he so naturally basks in it. The physical vibration of his name is not the only link in this chain of karmic causation, but the unmistakable navigational tool that explains the attraction of his soul. Such is the power of names, that ὃς ἂν τὰ ὀνόματα εἰδῇ εἴσεται καὶ τὰ πράγματα: “he who knows the names knows also the things” (Socrates, in Plato’s Cratylus). It was an honor and joy knowing Christopher Bakken, and I am grateful to him for passing on the Light, now that the unholy forces are working to brutally quench it once again through politics for those of us still breathing on these sacred grounds. Even if we cannot meet in the flesh again on this level, like Willow and her Wendy have not been able to, we are spiritual kin, and we will meet again. As the 12th century Persian mystic and poet Jalaluddin Rumi puts it: “Everything you see has its roots in the unseen world; the forms may change, yet the essence remains the same. Every wonderful sight will vanish, every sweet word will fade, but do not be disheartened; the source they come from is eternal, growing, branching out, giving new life and joy. So why do you weep? The source is within you and this whole cosmos is springing up from it”.
Full circle. This post’s title. Emily Dickinson, too, goes through Hades and writes some of the finest poems in the English language. Titleless, all of them. She refuses to name them, lest some lesser entities snatch away their meanings from us; they are usually referred to by the first line, and here is the one I paraphrased. Poetry cannot get any more timelessly breathtaking. Savour it. Through words. Beyond words. Feel it deep within your heart and let healing tears flow down your face. We are all carriers of the divine spark who cannot stop for Death.
Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too,
For his civility.
We passed the school, where children strove
At recess, in the ring;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.
Or rather, he passed us;
The dews grew quivering and chill,
For only gossamer my gown,
My tippet only tulle.
We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.
Since then ’tis centuries, and yet each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses’ heads
Were toward eternity.
Thank you all so very much, dear sisters and brothers. Although the Wheel of Fortune is stuck with the two of us at the bottom for so many agonizing years, maybe it is not too late for a little nudge upwards, now that we have finally found our way out of our complete social solitude. We cannot fight this war on our own. Please do send some prayers this way.
Bowing to the divinity in each of you,