“One day you will see… But I will not be here…“
I do see now, Dad. And you will always be here, always in our Father’s perfect love.
Releasing all your pain, blessing you from my deepest heart,
Your little Λέων
“One day you will see… But I will not be here…“
I do see now, Dad. And you will always be here, always in our Father’s perfect love.
Releasing all your pain, blessing you from my deepest heart,
Your little Λέων
Dehumanization, Despair, Divine, Female empowerment, Heroism, Hope, Humanity, Leon, Plutonia, Posts in English, Prayer, Seelengeschwister, Soul siblings, Translations, Twin Flames, Universal Love, WWII
Plutonia and I watched an interesting post-apocalyptic film yesterday, which wonderfully combines with the following prose poem dearest Heidrun Regina shared today in the German original. The film, an image from which I use towards the end of this post, may be too noisy and brutal for some, but these lines will be gratefully appreciated by all dear ones.
Wolfgang Borchert was a German author and playwright who served in the Wehrmacht during the Second World War, and who in his works never compromises in questions of humanity and humanism. He wrote Dann gibt es nur eins! a few days before he died at the age of 26, in 1947.
We still need this spirit today, and it seems that even the gentler souls among us, often especially these precious ones, will be called to be brave, each in our own unique ways, never alone, never getting lost in this world, all of us together joining hands and keeping the connection between Heaven and Earth, the awareness of our Love essence.
Thank you, Heidrun. Thank you, everyone. 💜 🙏 Leon
* * *
Translated by Ryan Wilcox
Then There’s Only One Thing To Do!
You. Man at the machine and man in the workshop. If they order you tomorrow to stop making water pipes and cook pots and start making helmets and machine guns, then there’s only one thing to do:
You. Girl behind the counter and girl at the office. If they order you tomorrow to fill hand grenades and mount scopes on sniper rifles, then there’s only one thing to do:
You. Factory owner. If they order you tomorrow, to sell gun powder instead of talcum powder and cocoa, then there’s only one thing to do:
You. Researcher in the laboratory. If they order you tomorrow, to invent a new death to do away with old life, then there’s only one thing to do:
You. Poet in your room. If they order you tomorrow not to sing love songs, but songs of hate, then there’s only one thing to do:
You. Doctor at the sick bed. If they order you tomorrow to certify men as fit for war, then there’s only one thing to do:
You. Minister in the pulpit. If they order you tomorrow to bless murder and praise war as holy, then there’s only one thing to do:
You. Captain on the steamer. If they order you tomorrow not to transport wheat but cannons and tanks, then there’s only one thing to do:
You. Pilot at the airfield. If they order you tomorrow to carry bombs and incineraries over cities, then there’s only one thing to do:
You. Tailor at your table. If they order you tomorrow to start sewing uniforms, then there’s only one thing to do:
You. Judge in your robe. If they order you tomorrow to report to the military court, then there’s only one thing to do:
You. Man at the train station. If tomorrow they order you to give the signal for the ammunition and the troop trains to depart, then there’s only one thing to do:
You. Man in the village and man in the city. If they come for you tomorrow and with your induction papers, then there’s only one thing to do:
You. Mother in Normandy and mother in the Ukraine, you, mother in Frisco and London, you, on the banks of the Huang Ho and the Mississippi, you, mother in Nepal and Hamburg and Cairo and Oslo – mothers in all regions on earth, mothers all over the world, if they order you tomorrow to bear children – nurses for military hospitals and new soldiers for new battles, mothers all over the world, then there’s only one thing to do:
Say NO! Mothers, say NO!
Because if you don’t say NO,
if YOU don’t say no, mothers, then;
In the noisy port cities, hazy with steam, the large groaning ships will grow silent, and like titanic, mammoth corpses, filled with water, they will lethargically totter against the lifeless, lonely, algae-, seaweed-, and shell-covered walls of the docks, the body that previously appeared so gleaming and threatening now reaking like a foul fish cemetery, rotten, sickly and dead –
the streetcars will be senselessly bent and dented like dull, glass-eyed birdcages and lie like petals beside the confused, steel skeletons of the wires and tracks, behind rotten sheds with holes in their roofs, in lost, crater-strewn streets –
a mud-gray, heavy, leaden silence will roll in, voracious and growing in size, will establish itself in the schools and universities and theaters, on sport fields and children’s playgrounds, horrible and greedy and unstoppable –
the sunny, juicy grapes will spoil on the neglected slopes, the rice will dry up in the desolate earth, the potatoes will freeze in the plowed fields and the cows will stretch their dead, rigid legs into the sky like upturned milking stools –
in the institutions, the ingenious inventions of the great physicians will become sour, rot, mold into fungus –
the last sacks of flour, the last jars of strawberries, the pumpkins and the cherry juice will spoil in the kitchens, chambers and cellars, in the cold storage lockers and storage areas – the bread under the upturned tables and on splintered plates will become green and the melted butter will smell like soft soap, the grain on the fields will have bent down to the earth alongside rusty plows like a defeated army, and the smoking, brick chimneys, the food and smokestacks of the stamping factories, covered by eternal grass, will crumble, crumble, crumble –
then the last human being, clueless with slashed intestines and polluted lungs, will wander alone under the poisonous, glowing sun and vacillating constellations, wander lonely among immense mass graves and cold idols of the gigantic, concrete-block, deserted cities, the last human being, scrawny, mad, blasphemous, complaining – and his terrible complaint: WHY? will trickle away unheard into the steppe, waft through the burst ruins and die out in the rubble of churches, slap against inpenetratable bunkers, fall into pools of blood, unheard, answerless, the last animal-like cry of the last animal human being –
all of this will come about, tomorrow, tomorrow perhaps, perhaps already tonight, if – if – if – you don’t
* * *
Our YES to Peace
keeps the connection
between Heaven and Earth,
the awareness of our Love essence.
S I L E N C E
* * *
Although it is already clear that our new government is NOT here to save the poor of Greece, today I thought I’d follow my brother Daniel’s advice to hang up my weapon and come play a bit.
Plutonia and I present you a glorious piece of German self-irony. The German comedian and TV host Jan Böhmermann brought out today the following hilarious video.
This satire you’ll enjoy aims mostly at the German media exaggerations against this brilliant academic who is now the finance minister of our new government, Mr. Yanis Varoufakis, the person I first showed you [here], the one whom Telegraph’s Ambrose Evans-Pritchard called “the new heart-throb for the thinking German woman”. An amazingly powerful gentleman, anyway you [look at him].
Varoufakis is a proud Aries Sun, with also Venus in Aries, and otherwise mostly watery. The comedian Böhmermann who sings in the video, is a natal Pisces and progressed Aries Sun, a Scorpio Moon, with his Mercury and Venus on the same degree in Aquarius.
Beware Please: Varoufakis’s seemingly offensive remark and gesture at the end of the video, is a totally misleading excerpt of a speech of his. Greece (and let alone our goddesses, but [this] is what some media are paid to be doing) is NOT showing the finger to any country! Anyone who watches the rest of his remarks, knows that he is anything but offensive, and that he actually says exactly the opposite!
And now dearest friends, enjoy! The actor who impersonates our minister is infinitely feebler than Varoufakis himself, but a good laugh is a good laugh! Βοήθεια! means “Help!”.
This post started out as a comment, a reply to Clarissa and Cheryl under my previous reblog post. I decided that its place is here, so it can be seen by a few more Dear Ones my heart aches that I cannot visibly honor as much as I would like to.
You are all life savers and I am on meadows of heaven with each one of you.
Dear Ones Clarissa and Cheryl,
I cannot but stand in humble awe before this universal synchronicity; in grateful admiration and adoration before you together here coming to save me as I had become a ranting little thing feeling utterly useless again, reaching the threshold of destructiveness. All I could think about was giving up, because I’d had enough of everything, myself included, when I received your responses here and started coming back to my senses. My considerately expressed despair might still cause you to feel some sadness; I apologize for this, and I pray that together we can continue transmuting our heaviness to perseverance and commitment to our missions in this world, as far away from them as the externals of our lives may seem to be leading us. Here is a warm threefold hug before we go on. I love you my sisters. I am so grateful to you, and for the weighty soul contract the three of us have obviously signed.
Thank you so much for your caring deep concern for Plutonia, Clarissa. And Cheryl, it’s perfectly OK that you didn’t mention her in your first comment; no sort of failure on your part. You always bless her just as my love for you always blesses all members of your family. Plutonia has never personally exchanged a word in English with anyone, but Clarissa has a Hadean connection to her because of both their challenging twelfth houses (my own gloom springs from elsewhere and is just as evident as my optimistic sunshininess, as I only have a protective Jupiter in my twelfth house touching on my Ascendant), whereas you have sensed Plutonia’s detachment from our blog and you never cease supporting her through me. I appreciate very much that we all do our best to be dancing harmoniously together. Above any other function our blogs may be serving, fostering a true heart family is the most important.
Blogging is over for Plutonia my sweethearts. At least until we find some sort of place in this world. It is the least of our problems that we have only this one ancient desktop computer which takes forever to load a simple page or save a large document and let alone play any video steadily, an anytime-about-to-collapse machine with which we have to be taking care of all sorts of authority-related obligations for ourselves and her mother in two countries.
Plutonia is very depressed. This trip in Germany she had not even asked for, did not help at all. Our life is all the more painful now after we both felt the hollows of those relatives’ spirits waiting to be filled also by us. They felt it too, albeit mostly on a barely conscious level, so I never give up hope that they, too, attract miracles for us all.
These excellent insights of Bethany Webster’s, the worst scenarios in her The Rupture of the Mother Line article, are only mildly hinting to what my Beloved has been going through all her life. She has not read it yet, and I don’t know if she ever will at all, because she doesn’t feel any words can help her anymore. She desperately needs action and we are so trapped here. She is a broken woman and still breathing here inside these four walls thanks to my light, which is often struggling to not be becoming a destructive fire. Her mother who still lives in another town, is a gravely damaged soul, something I had recognized right from the very start. I do not shy away from such problems, I would have left my last breath right after my first if I did, but I am such a misplaced healer, so like a fish out of the water without the ashram Plutonia sees I am really cut out to be working in, and in that respect she sometimes painfully wonders what I ever wanted a wife for, given also that my talents have always been so out of place in this German colony of a country, where her mother moved into in the seventies, in order be hailed like a queen come from the civilized world to enlighten the savages. She ascribes to her genuinely humanitarian daughter much of her failure to rule, and now her heavily drugged mind will not even consider the possibility that she has completed her lessons for this lifetime. Not that anything will change for the better if she leaves. It is getting harder and harder for the two of us to be feeling that our roles in each other’s lives have any worldly perspective. In material terms I have nothing to offer, and waiting to win the lottery sucks. We are so exhausted, our bodies ageing fast, and whatever blogging I manage to be accomplishing here is only life-saving with me disappearing in front of the screen in a separate room while she spends lonely days and nights on the couch in front of an old TV with just a few free channels. In the best case, I bathe myself in a paradise lake and can only bring back to her some bottles of healing water, whereas in the worst case I dump on her all my frustrations, feeling I have created an emotional mess in other people’s hearts, or simply suffering with their plights in a way almost incomprehensible to her when we ourselves don’t know if we will wake up to see another day. Or if we even want to. Too often before falling asleep have we prayed together to not wake up here again.
We deeply love one another, but we always have to struggle against almost uncontrollable negativity.
(Let me reverse these secondary sentences; the other way around is better for the always-half-full-glass type of person that I am: )
We always have to struggle against almost uncontrollable negativity, but we deeply love one another.
And you. We wouldn’t still be here without you, and I couldn’t love you more if you were my own blood sisters, girls. There is no need for you now to craft any replies here. After all, this is my reply to you. So let me kiss these two pairs of itchy-fingered hands calm and reassure you that whatever happens, all will be well for us all, as we work towards a desperately needed, loving matriarchy, of which we already experience the silent transition phase.
I thank you beyond eternity for embracing this honest fool of a brother, and one another, Cheryl and Clarissa, my saturnized beloved ones.
Every day praying for blessings in your lives,
I am on meadows of heaven with you.
Love and Hugs,
I never asked to be discovered.
They kept me buried out of sight.
Though mystery lay before me uncovered,
heaven and earth could not unite.
Leon of SolitaryThinkers, January 2015
Music was my first and biggest calling.
I was four years old.
An uncle brought me for my birthday this children’s keyboard piano, the most promising present I ever received. I slowly unwrapped it, carefully took it out of its box, looked at it for a while wide-eyed with my heart pounding in my ears, and then hugged it in mysterious recognition, like it was whispering to me the most beautiful future magic. I still remember its pungent plastic smell that day; it was a rather primitive electric instrument, even by 1974’s standards, but what a revelation those next days were; a blissful one for me, an annoyance they just had to put up with for my troubled parents. The explosion of my father’s physical health problems (his mental ones had been long there) was only four years ahead, and my mother’s only ten. Without having taken any lessons, without having seen anyone play any instrument in front of me, I started rendering correctly whatever music was being heard from our black-and-white television set; with only one hand, but nailing the notes, duration, rhythm, everything with just a little experimentation. As soon as they switched off the TV, I went on playing variations of what I had heard and trying melodies of my own.
Two floors down from us in our apartment building, lived a famous pianist. This man was an internationally acclaimed classical conductor, a composer for piano, violin and voice, and also a music educator who promoted many talents during the latter half of the twentieth century here in Northern Greece. Moreover, he was a friend of my parents, but only until he discovered me and got discreetly kicked out of our lives.
His practicing for his concerts always gave me the goosebumps in our neglected apartment where I was kept caged until my thirtieth year. Especially in the summertime when all windows were open, our whole neighbourhood was flooded with his majestic grand piano sounds that made my heart soar and sink at the same time. My parents would look at me sideways, hating my overflowing emotional world, hating themselves for not being able to control it. I didn’t care. My mother always saw red with this, to the point of physically assaulting me to rip passion out of my soul, but she only got tufts out of my head. Without ever moving to strike her back, which for her was but an even more infuriating sign of egocentric defiance, I let her have her way and walk away snorting and swearing with my hair clenched in her fists and limping with one shoe because she had hurled the other one at my face, while I continued breathing in with relish and despair this maestro’s virtuosity goldening up the stifling mellowness of the seaside city summer evening air.
I was four years old.
A few weeks after I had unwrapped my uncle’s magical present, this short man with the intense eyes who was a bundle of passionate, restless energy like me although he was exactly my broken father’s age, almost half a century older than me, happened to drop in fleetingly to let my parents know about the developments on a practical issue regarding our building. They were done discussing it very quickly, and he was about to leave, when …
What is this?
Just as he was reaching for the door out, he stopped in his tracks. He hadn’t realized I was there and he didn’t ask my parents anything, only gave them a rhetorically inquisitive look as he rushed tiptoeing with a raised forefinger towards the source of this melody that had just started coming from my room.
He didn’t enter; he just stood there frozen behind me for a minute, staring at this kiddie sitting with his back to the half-closed door and improvising on his simple keyboard like nothing else in the world mattered. My parents saw him frown in approving concentration, his fingers twitch like they were already guiding mine, and when he slowly returned to them and finally broke his silence, they heard him announce to them solemnly that no time should be wasted in promoting this great talent, that he is taking me under his wing in his conservatory as soon as possible, during the next few days.
“Alright Yorgo, thanks. We’ll see”.
He moves away reluctantly like an angel who feels that he will not be allowed to guard a soul in need, our apartment door closes behind him as he enters the old squeaky elevator, and my mother goes “Whaaat? My son; MY son will be touring the world giving concerts before he is even ten? Over my dead body!”
So it was me who had to die. A karmic enemy of hers I was, incarnated into that pious society to be considered by her as an absolutely essential, eternal child for her maternal role; her only role. Her husband didn’t allow her any work outside the home; my father’s income was more than enough. His mother, sister and aunts, none of whom he was on peaceful terms with, were all holders of piano diplomas with distinctions, but he himself could play nothing but a few tunes, although he had spent years studying the piano himself.
They did have to keep up some appearances and prove themselves worthy as encouraging parents, but they resisted manically, although the music would not die in me. Three years later, I was accidentally discovered by two scouts for a choir, who came one day and tested the voice of every child in my primary school. They chose only three children, me and two others. Those were enrolled in this choir and started touring Europe, I never.
Six whole years after that first hysterical “Whaaat?”, when I was already ten and no concert pianist or singer, but at least over my constant high fevers, they took me to this unofficial music school behind our neighbourhood’s church, where a few Christian musicians were offering free lessons to the disadvantaged, late in the evenings. I don’t know how this decent-looking couple managed to squeeze me in there by convincing people that they were unable to spend a dime for me. The person who was offering piano tutoring to a whole group of five or six children two times a week, was a bored middle-aged fellow who each time sent one of us kids to fetch his dinner in a plastic bag from a dirty nearby restaurant, and spent half of our time in that bleak room with the vertical piano chomping on his really greasy and stinking raw-onion-stuffed gyros pies over our heads. I showed no enthusiasm for those horrible lessons, a year of them was all I could take, and that settled it for good: my parents triumphantly announced to their supposedly-because-of-me ever-shrinking social circles that I had no interest in becoming a musician whatsoever or a social being at all for that matter. So I died again at eleven, I started denying food and didn’t even want to enter adolescence. Plutonia, whom I would meet more than a decade later, was going through very similar oppressive experiences all along in her equally destructive non-family.
I am forty four now.
I honestly don’t know where these decades have disappeared. The constant struggle for bare survival is such a draining business, and I have suffered too much with the suppression of my creative potential, not only in music, but in writing, too.
I would have suffered even more in some respects if I had succeeded. With this highly charged profile of mine, my absence of any clear limits between my psychic energies and those of any environment I am moving in, I would have completely lost myself in the expression of my gift and the admiration of others, I would have become addicted to all sorts of substances against my quite ascetic profile, so I guess I am grateful to my parents and all their severe internal issues in retrospect. All problems are here for a reason, I mean it and I know it is true, I am not saying this to console myself or any heart sister or brother who has suffered or is suffering in similar ways as you read this. We have all landed in this world for a while to tread a heavy educational path. My mother left this world twenty, my father fifteen, this maestro five years ago. I am still here, and without all this pain, I don’t think I would have unfolded as a person with any worth mentioning level of understanding for the pain of others. I am using a keyboard right now, it’s not a grand piano’s and I cannot make a living even with translation or writing anymore, but you blessed people do listen to my deepest soul, and this fills me with a gratitude I cannot contain.
Still, I fail a lot in expressing it. I would so love to connect more with you and really listen to you and start writing healing poetry with you, but our lack of prospects and a host of hostile circumstances show no intention of letting us continue being here. We cannot make it without a lottery win, as ridiculous as this idea seemed to me when I was younger and thought I lived in a Western country where I could succeed based on my efforts and unfolding abilities. Our running on empty with Plutonia is unbearable at times, and it gets too hard for me to muster whatever will is left in me to stand by her strongly enough. She too is losing hope, because we are getting more and more abandoned after the curiosity of her German relatives was satisfied. They too are tortured people in their own internal ways, and they cannot possibly pay off our debts and drag us up to the heart of Europe as long as we don’t have any money of our own. A little more on these non-developments [here].
So please forgive me beloved friends when I disappear or appear unavailable. My loving thoughts are always with you, I cherish each one of you with all my heart and this blog belongs to you, too. I am deactivating comment moderation so that at least you can be hearing from one another as soon as anyone posts here. Please be very kind to yourselves and know that whatever you are feeling or not feeling, you are never, ever alone. Please follow your heart’s passion knowing that energy never gets lost, and that each one of our dreams we cannot realize here, is stored safely in the aether for another time and place. I keep on passionately working for this time and this place. Hang in there everybody. I love you.
Enjoy the gloriously uplifting sadness of my fellow Leo Sun singer Tarja, and always fare well on your blessed journeys which are also parts of mine.
What wild experience was this,
being invited to see
Western consumerism reign free,
being thrown such painful doubts…
“How can you be so sparkling smart,
yet so at a loss to pay each bill?
Maybe you’re leaving doors unknocked.
We watch the news; Greece Goes Uphill!”
Alright then! We’ll die climbing!
I’ve always loved the thought of leaving
my last breath on a mountain.
Too much for granted there.
The gap’s too wide; the dream too high.
They’re really trying to throw a line.
But we are stuck.
A truck in mud.
They only got one shoe lace.
The karma is strong, though. It floods me.
Hearts paving ways. Pure cosmic light.
Devils storm screaming. Angels sing.
Contracts of old: Keep up the fight!
Leon of SolitaryThinkers, December 2014
And Plutonia’s return in two weeks troubles us a bit,
because on that very day in the skies,
Pluto the ruler of the underworld will be squaring
Uranus the god of the heavens who also rules air travel,
and at the same time, for her personally,
this transiting Pluto will be precisely conjunct
her Fourth House cusp, her roots or foundation of life.
We could not avoid that day when booking her return flight,
but I know all dangers get ameliorated by loving thoughts
and yours matter greatly, dear ones.
My heart and prayers are always on your side, and
before I catch up with you during the following days,
I Wish You All A Joyous December in both hemispheres!