Author: Leon, Despair, Divine, Healing, Heroism, Hope, Humanity, Mystical, only Life, Organized religion, Posts in English, Prayer, Recommended by Leon, self to Self, I to i, Tales Untold, Tetractyes, Universal Love
BLAME THE SUFFERER
by Becky, https://thoughtsongriefandgod.blogspot.com/2013/12/blame-sufferer.html
That God is
During the times
We need him most
During the times
We would much prefer
That he make himself
I really don’t know
Why God is silent
I don’t believe
That protection and healing
Prays hard enough
With the right people
In the right way
I really don’t know
How prayer works
I don’t know a lot of things
But I try
Not to make up
Or blame the sufferer
Blame the sufferer
For God’s absence
Say it’s a lack of faith
An unwillingness to be refined
Blame the sufferer
For the circumstance
Say it’s the consequence of something
The life God planned for this person
Blame the sufferer
Demand peaceful acceptance
Of the pain
Makes the suffering sacred
And the person holy
Blame the sufferer
From the sufferer
Push the sufferer
Holds the sufferer
Shows love to
Possibly even suffers
With the sufferer
Blame the sufferer
For the suffering
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.
* * *
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.
It was my Solar Return seventy eight days ago, on August 10th. My birthday.
Instead of counting my curses as I was pushing mid-forties, I wanted to invoke my guardian Archangel’s guidance.
Failed. Couldn’t receive it. Stole the joy of life out of the one person who supports me in my physical life.
I became an etymological Lunatic on that day; the Full Moon, actually a Super Moon glowing ominously at its perigee, affected me overwhelmingly negatively as it was opposing my natal Sun, Mars and Midheaven, and squaring my natal Saturn and Moon. We would be lucky if that was all. Both Plutonia and I have too many harsh aspects going on against us for many years now. Even the most benevolent planetary influences have never been able to materialize as such, blocked by too much sabotage, hatred, rampant mental illnesses in both our families of origin, all this in Greece of all pseudo-Western countries; in Greece where survival and the continuation of life has always depended on family support and strong social networks with ties to the political high places. No such things for us; ever. Only systematic destruction of any opportunities that had ever started flourishing thanks to our personal efforts against insane obstacles.
“I AM”. This is the motto of any decent Leo Sun person, and I am a strong representative of my Sun sign. “I KNOW” encapsulates the Aquarian worldview, and Plutonia has been toiling all these years with me over one book-translation assignment after another, generously offering her knowledge, passion, research skills and deep insights on anything, for nothing. Our enthusiastic readers and critics were not “nothing” of course, but we were just two names for them (in the best case; if we were not ghost-writing, that is), we had been slaving away for peanuts and there was no way we could achieve any degree of financial independence. But even my Leonine self-worth has been mercilessly torn down since the onset of the debt crisis. If as a citizen you are not somehow plugged in to the corrupt state (good people are, too; some innocently and ignorantly protected souls wouldn’t be able to survive otherwise), or if you cannot somehow leave the country, you are doomed. Greece is now the poorest country in Europe even officially. The staggering effects of poverty on a taxed-to-death population cannot be measured in a statistically objective manner; the reality is incomparably harsher than any governmental data could ever help any external observer suspect, but even a cold poverty report is much-telling if you know that behind the numbers and charts there are real human beings suffering like the old woman shown here with her empty refrigerator: 300 factual words on the latest poverty report which was published on September 25th by the Greek government. Ghandi was right. Poverty really is the worst form of violence.
When your entire life has led to your standing naked in an endlessly raging storm with nothing to hold on to, sometimes it certainly seems that the whole universe conspires against you, and you cannot keep yourself, or let anyone else keep you, from cascading into the depths of Hades. I never really had any fun on my birthdays, but this year’s was the worst one I ever had. Plutonia and I thankfully made up without being traumatized by my episode of unbearable pain, because holding any more traumas inside us would be impossible. So many ugly developments here have made our life into a protracted painful experience, keeping us exhausted and beaten down, our bodies aching and unable to rest, and I could not share this part of my healing journey earlier, dear friends. It took me too long to put it down here in a meaningful and balanced way, while having to be constantly remaking myself.
Sadly most fellow humans are not allowed to complete what each one of us has really come here for, but I firmly believe that despite all this darkness, there is only wisdom in the bigger picture we cannot see. Please know that I have been keeping my faith (and supporting Plutonia against her mortally blackmailing relatives to the best of my abilities), thanks to the warmth of your lives touching mine, that I extend my healing energies to you daily, for you to be kept protected and strong, smiling amid your own sufferings, sometimes even crying with gratitude.
I am spiritual, not religious, but I honour as kin, I infinitely love and I fiercely defend anyone who believe with their hearts and find meaning and comfort in any religious faith.
With the poetry that follows, I release my birthday pain to be cleansed in the ethers of eternity, some of it passing through you and carrying away some of your own pain to be cleansed with it.
My guardian Archangel is Michael, a powerful Being of Light, my protector and instiller of divine courage.
O Great Lion of God,
Ruler of Fire and Solar orb,
Angel created first of all,
Leader of all the Archangels!
Protect me, give me courage!
Physically and psychically I shake,
I cannot stand this anymore
and let alone help others.
Am I not ready to depart?
Must I keep up this struggle?
What use is following my truth
when all around me is crumbling?
For no system pawns, life here is hellish!
You leave abroad, a torn-down hero,
or if you can’t, you are doomed to perish.
Birth rates of Greeks are down to zero.
There is no life, no prospects here,
only enslavement for some of the young.
I just don’t know how to survive,
“I” who was never “someone”.
The fighter in me is crying for help.
You conquered Satan himself.
You taught Adam survival.
Could you please help me now achieve
my personal revival?
is at your keeping.
UNGRATEFUL LITTLE OLD SOUL!
Ungrateful Little Old Soul!
You think you’ve had enough,
when all that has befallen you
is inner growth through trials.
I have been by your side all along.
I know how much you suffered
growing up ill, dead to the world.
Stop counting your curses.
You don’t want another birthday?
Oh, that’s not very nice.
Just wait and see what lies ahead;
you won’t believe your eyes.
Are you not smelling cherry pie?
Your twin soul is baking for you!
She never could afford buying you gifts.
Do not finish her off with your despair.
She’s trying to help you on your path,
you’re too tired of life and so is she;
she hangs in there, you want to leave.
You’ll make her give up on herself if you don’t heal.
She never tricked you into a thing.
You saw that storm above her head,
and soon what she called “parents”.
You were just as honest about your folks.
She recognized all hell moving against you
and never let go of your hand.
You’ll honour your agreement!
When tempted to think
she doesn’t understand you,
remember she’s not your enemy,
neither are her blackmailing relatives
nor is anyone else. No, “the worst by far”
are not my words, but do look in the mirror.
Spare me that eye roll.
Was living with yourself
ever a country stroll?
So you are stripped below the essentials.
Since when is Being not enough?
I see you lost in starless nights.
What a creator you’ve become!
Listen to me please, will you?
cannot and will not
kill all this Love you are.
War on humanity will not.
Evil itself will not.
See the Higher Realms in others,
and never ever feel alone, for there are
many peaceful warriors like yourself;
some of the finest, soul mates of yours.
Do honour your agreement,
carefully please, gently, gracefully,
with each one of them.
You can help them all remember
if you are lovingly aware
of your glorious
part of All.
Feel My Wings Around Your Soul
towards the light.
The other way.
Taxiarch Archangel Michael, Μιχαήλ, מִיכָאֵל , “Who is like God”
To Leon of SolitaryThinkers,
August 10, 2014
O O O
O O O O
So much extra ugliness has been unmasked here since my birthday, dear friends, that the war seems to be over for good for us now. We are faced with an ever direr set of circumstances, and we are already defeated. It’s not any sort of failure on our part that there’s absolutely nothing more we can do, in the Protestant work-ethic sense of “doing”, to undo the consequences of all that has brought us here. I do not wait for miracles to happen; each and all of us are miracles and we attract all we need. Life is an educational illusion, and if we must go on here, we will. I sense that we must. I just don’t know how we can be resurrected into a human society we never lived in. That’s a quite tragic situation for any middle-aged individuals anywhere, let alone in Greece today.
Please do not ever punish yourselves if you feel you are losing your way. Keep on lovingly working on yourselves without ever beating yourself up for any failures of yours. Our world is under too many spiritual and physical attacks. Some of you feel too heavy inside. Do not burden yourselves with guilt or feelings of inadequacy to prevent loved ones from leaving this world. Our essence is immortal, unbound by space or time. This is such a blessed fellowship of kindred souls because each one of us is aware of our divine nature. Keep up the fight and let us all keep on truly loving and fiercely supporting one another at every precious moment.
My very first post, published on the 2013 Winter Solstice, was Because We Cannot Stop For Death. I honor a very special person there, with whom we have not managed to maintain contact because of all this hell with Plutonia’s destructive paternal family, but I wouldn’t have discovered her without Plutonia. It’s Willow I am talking about. Our wisely anarchic and hard-working Canadian sister Willow of Willow’s Web Astrology has been helping me and especially Plutonia immensely through her free articles for years now, even without us ever having been able to afford a personalized reading. Our understanding of astrology wouldn’t have reached this level without her soulful approach. It doesn’t matter if you are a beginner or advanced in your study of astrology; her unyielding spirit and spot-on insights will offer you a truly healing experience. Here is a video showing Willow during a radio show in 2012; jump to minute 8:00 please, where she talks briefly about the four primary asteroids. And then click on her logo below and follow the instructions to purchase a personalized reading by this amazingly intelligent, self-taught and unaffiliated, socio-politically educated and passionately humanitarian astrologer who can jump-start you into a journey of self-discovery. Thank you so much, Willow; trudging on here would be so much harder without You.
Before you leave this refuge for now, dear friends, shall we work together beautifully for a while? As you listen to this healing spiritual music below, connect with me and with everyone who matters in your life, especially with those souls who get easily lost in dark places. Let our hearts be lifted up with gratitude and light up the world with a joy as pure as this eleven-months-old’s at the beginning of this post. Always love.
Eἰκονοκλάστης! Iconoclast! This is how I have always been labelled in the conservative part of Greek society where I grew up, which literally means “destroyer of likenesses of gods”. This is the etymology of the word; of course I never actually destroyed any images of saints or anything, but there was no way for me to swallow all those teachings about the paraphernalia of religion which even in my infant mind were missing the essence of spirituality which is the foundation of all religions.
My dear mother who passed away almost twenty years ago, a karmic mortal enemy who took her new-incarnation role very seriously and a great promoter of my true self as the polarities usually go hand in hand, used to recount how she would stand confused above my cradle, well before I could pronounce any words, not really knowing what to do with me. Ο φιλόσοφος! The philosopher! she would think in awe every time she saw me examine everyone around me like a deep adult thinker, especially when they were treating me like a cute little tabula rasa or as a being of their own making they could be bragging about. She had the audacity to be admitting it later repeatedly to my face: “Oh God! –you had me thinking– Whatever am I going to do with this small philosopher?” It was all about control, you see, because my independent thinking was making her maternal role crumble in the eyes of the very society she needed to impress as the wife of a much older man who was forbidding her to work, lest he would lose his control over her. She died painfully of cancer, we wholeheartedly made peace during her last hours although she could not speak properly anymore, they dumped all the blame on me, a few years later my father had a fatal accident which my covertly homosexual brother and the rest of that pseudo-godly society labelled as suicide despite what the police testified, again dumping all the blame on me and my “womanizing” since that was the year I got engaged with Plutonia, the only girl and woman of my life (I firmly believe polygamy is physically, psychologically, morally and spiritually wrong), without asking them, because they would all prefer me single and lobotomized. I left my 30-year prison of an apartment to set out on my unbelievably harsh adventure with Plutonia, and my brother licked the right arses and became a priest of that same Christian denomination he grew up in, which even etymologically claims to be the only correct faith. Sticking with a system where hypocrisy reigns supreme was his only way of surviving. Is he deemed as a better survivor than me? Definitely. But I am who I am, a Scorpio-squared Leo who knows the depths of Hades, and I do not apologize for dancing to my own tune and encouraging people to who do the same.
A quarter of a century after my cradle days (two decades back from now), still an unbending iconoclast after my mother had gone, I presented an old school friend of mine who had just had his first child, with a box of chocolates together with a beautiful wishing card I had created myself with much love and artistic care, featuring Kahlil Gibran’s poem On Children in the original (English was his second language, too, and he was an avid reader of Fantasy and Science Fiction, books that to such people have no connections whatsoever with the “real” world). He received it with a polite smile and started reading.
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.
By no means had I intended to provoke him, but that was exactly what happened. I could see his smile gradually drooping and could hear the thought forming in his mind: Oh, man! I so think your mom was right! At least he kept his mouth shut, put my card quietly aside and turned to address the word to another member of “our” clique. He didn’t mean to insult me – “back”! That new father knew very well, like all of these spies-for-my-parents “friends” knew, how that deeply-dissatisfied-with-her-life woman had been a tyrant to me, bringing me up like a girl in the Middle Ages, keeping me sick in bed for the first ten years of my life (well, it was not all her fault; I am well-above-average sensitive to people’s toxic vibrations, a psychic sponge, really) and they all resented my lack of respect, as they saw it, for their nice and solid religious-community values. To them I was just an αἱρετικός, a heretic, and they couldn’t care less about the original Ancient Greek meaning of this Christianity-distorted adjective which derives from the noun αἵρεσις, heresy, which etymologically means “choice, the exercise of free will”. Well, whatever; you’re just a Destroyer of our Beliefs. There was nothing spiritual about those beliefs, really, and this is why I have always been a social outcast, completely unwanted in these circles. Although I do cherish the memories of a few human moments we shared, our ways parted because all these people were beneficiaries of a sociopolitical system which they masked as a religion of the true God.
My father was sort of an exception. He didn’t exactly (need to) bow to this system because he had his income coming in from abroad, but with his war experiences (and his experiences with his deeply dissatisfied, abusive mother) he had gone more in the nihilist direction, and most of what I would receive from him was scorn. Being a very educated man, he could only be envious of me coming up with words of wisdom seemingly out of nowhere, and from a very early age, too, without having access to any books of his, since he always kept his home office locked up and his mouth shut about everything he was reading. “Ha, ha, my boy, you think you invented the world? Many others, much more important people than you will ever be, have said the same things before you. You’re no big deal; Plato said that. Oh, this is an idea of Nietsche’s. Why don’t you shut your boring mouth, you’re not the one who conceived this, Spinoza is. Ah, Kierkegaard! Have you ever heard of Kierkegaard? Never mind, you couldn’t care less; you think you know everything already”. As fellow blogger Symbol Reader (who is featured on our blogroll) wrote, “Leos are so often disappointed with their biological fathers because their true mission, like that of Perceval, is to reunite with their divine father who helps them connect with their own radiant, transpersonal, divine essence.”
What then is my true family besides my heroic Plutonia with whom I keep trudging on in this life? What does someone who has his Imum Coeli in Aquarius perceive as his true family? Well, no less than the whole world! You, dear readers. This big Aquarian family of fellow thinkers, feelers and (self-)healers, writers, poets, philosophers, spiritual people of all sorts of backgrounds. You are the reason I am here with Plutonia maintaining this blog, because I have always deeply felt that “The bond that links your true family is not one of blood, but of respect and joy in each other’s life. Rarely do members of one family grow up under the same roof” (Richard Bach, Illusions: The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah).
Our dear spiritual sister Willow (who is featured on our blogroll and in our very first post), on the recent occasion of our wishing her on the six-year birthday of her fabulous astrology-with-a-sociopolitical-bent blog, has written to us among other encouraging things: “Thanks for being authentic and for refusing the path that would lead to benefit and reward from a horribly corrupt system.” This is what I call family. She’s an iconoclast, too, and I’d like to quote here part of her empowering latest post:
“It’s true that I’m a trained journalist, but after engaging in that line of work, I chose to leave the media – both mainstream and alternative – because I do not like the effect it has on people’s minds. I’ve been censored multiple times while working in the media – yes, in both mainstream and alternative. I see public opinion being shaped in erroneous ways by the media. I see important stories being intentionally kept out of the media.
I’ve seen how reporters start to self-censor after being shot down by editors time and time again on the stories that matter to them. I see how they start to go along to get along. So I’ve seen the top-down power structure of the media at work, and it’s nothing I wish to be a part of.
Since I do not like the energy of the media, I’m not going to emulate its rhythms or style in any way with my own writing, if I can help it. At this stage in the game, I feel the media is, ultimately, a propaganda tool for the powers-that-be, shaping half-truths and weak arguments into stories for mass consumption. I believe the media diverts attention, in many cases, from what’s really going on on this planet. I took my leave, and I won’t be re-entering that scene.
You’ll see a great number of sexy and sensational images splashed across your newspapers, television screens, and computer monitors this cardinal Grand Cross spring and over the following few years. But you won’t see them repeated here.
The world is at a boiling point, it’s true. Forced into action by conditions too dire to tolerate. But from my perspective, we’ve always been here. It’s always been this bad – it’s just that more people are directly affected now and fewer can deny it. Fewer are able to go along with it. They would if they could.
Have revolt and resistance not always burned in the hearts and souls of people oppressed under corrupt and unjust systems? Things are being pushed to points of criticality on this planet, and will be during the exact Grand Cross this April, but the situation is really not much different than it ever was.
The conditions on Earth were never OK. The levels of needless suffering here were never OK.
We are under an umbrella of the same deadly and corrupt Global Governance around the world. Whether the burning rage against injustice and oppression are internalized or externalized and spilling into the streets, the conditions are pretty much the same.”
And here in the Soviet-like state of Greece, no one can foretell whether and when this genocide will remain silent or become externalized. There are many who are already pressuring us, the desperate, jobless, childless, drowning-in-debt-due-to-overtaxation and to them obviously futureless people to spill our blood on the streets so that they remain safe and their corrupt future guaranteed. We, in their minds, are the ones who should lead the revolution for the reinstatement of their beloved status quo that has so lavishly been showering them with money and privileges during the so-called “fat years” of the Euro introduction to this country. This, for them, is our role in this world. This is the social cannibalism the world is being led towards. The Greek society is already split in two, in a so-far-silent but otherwise Ukrainian-like civil war that is turning brother against brother, fellowman against fellowman.
Can a few thinkers reverse this situation? No, we have to multiply; for any balance to be restored and any salvation to be brought, we need more people who will be resisting in their minds, questioning, researching, fighting in whatever way they can against dehumanization and for humanity, encouraging and assuring each other our efforts are not in vain. I am deeply grateful to all of you who read these lines nodding in agreement; and to all of you frowning and maybe secretly kindling that little spark of divine resistance deep inside your soul.
Although this is not a music blog, there is no more poignant way to finish this post of mine than with a mournfully powerful track by the band progressive metal pretty much started with, Symphony X, a band whose work is so much more beyond musical mastery, which has helped me endure endless hours of day-and-night heart-wrenching work for my last massive book-translation assignments (see the About Us page for more on our professional past). There are many music genres I love, but these fellow Gen Xers really help raise awareness in a powerful way which is so expressive of a part of my soul. As the worship of all forms of artificial intelligence dictating our lives increasingly becomes the new iconolatry, the title of their latest album is precisely Iconoclast, hitting the spot with the ancient force of the Hellenic language, as also in tracks like Heretic, and Prometheus, Προμηθεύς, “the one acting with forethought”, the Titan in Greek mythology who provided humans with the endowments they would need to survive and who incurred the wrath of Zeus because he didn’t sacrifice enough to the gods, in order to give much more to humanity. The theme of this album is a manifesto against dehumanization, a wake-up call warning us about the unholy developments awaiting humanity as Pluto is gloomily headed towards the constellation of Aquarius. The cover art says it all.
I would like to extend a heartfelt thank you to Russell, Jason and the three Michaels; a lot of archangelic warrior energy there. Their music for me is sacred geometry translated into sound, and you can hardly find more powerful vocals infused with such emotion. Please purchase their albums if you can; it’s a shame so many of us can only listen to them on old computers through hiccupping Internet connections we can hardly keep paying our bills for. Here is the last track of Iconoclast. The previous ones rock harder, musically and lyrically, as they unfold the dehumanization theme, while this one sums everything up by appealing to universal human sentiments. It starts wistfully with nice piano sounds and ends just as smoothly. When All Is Lost: a yearnful anthem by Symphony X for all Gen Xers and beyond; we know you’ll understand one day…
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,