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Crescent Dragonwagon

IN HEAVEN AS IT IS ON EARTH

By Crescent Dragonwagon

If
there is
nothing
after this,
I thought, right after I said it,
this
is enough.

The “it” I’d heard myself say out loud was one word: “Heaven.”

I don’t believe in heaven. I don’t not believe in heaven either, though I’m doubtful.

I’d stepped out for a quick stretch-break from my laptop. I had an ostensible, wholly unnecessary task: carry recyclables to bin at the top of the hill, even though they wouldn’t be picked up for another four days.

But then I entered what lay right there, down the three bluestone front-door steps, out into early July in Vermont.

“Heaven.”

I said it. I heard myself (there was no one else around to hear).  I may not believe in the afterlife, but surely if there is one it would be that state: perfection, complete,  nothing lacking, unfiltered by mind, direct.

I can parse the elements of this intoxication now, though I couldn’t at that moment.

Bright sunlight. Galleon-like white clouds sailing across a bright blue sky.  All that brightness; perfectly temperate, barely cool gentle flawless wind, riffling the trees and the mullein,  herbs and lilac bush. The audible on-and-off brush of leaf against leaf, the wind-chimes chiming by the kitchen door, the finches piping, sounds as delicious to the ear as my skin, caressed by that light wind, was overjoyed.

mulleinWalking the hill, I recalled a moment of similar intoxication, in 2013. Z-Cat was still alive. I’d gone upstairs for an afternoon nap. That same living dream of Vermont summer time: perfect temperateness,  pouring-in sunlight gilding dust motes. The cat there, sound asleep in a curled-up calico ball.

And I heard myself say, “Oh, Z-Cat, how did we get so lucky?”

But then, unlike this morning, on hearing these words emerge from myself, I felt not wonder but grief. It was only three years after Ned’s sudden death.

People commonly tell you you can get through it, “A breath at a time.” But each inhale and exhale was a scorch, a razor. It was a breath without him. It  took me incrementally farther away from the time when he had been alive on earth.

In the warm, sunny, perfect bedroom that day, I dropped to my knees. I began to sob, there on the blue oval rag-rug.

How could it be, how could I possibly feel, even for a second, in the face of that vast amputation,  his absence, knowing he would never again experience this sublimity of light, warm-cool air, sunlight, sleeping cat, how could I have, even for an instant, characterized myself as “lucky”?

The cat woke up, and, blinking, looked at me, kneeling on the rug.

Look. I worry about, and grieve for, this world a lot. Though I grieve the human-to-human tragedies (mass shootings, religious/racial violence, the thousand furies hatred unleashes), those I can kind of, sort of live with (as if I had any choice). But finally, it’s the grave imperilment to Earth that turns my heart inside-out and makes me glad I have neither children nor grandchildren, who will inherit so much less, in resources, in experiences,  than we, the previous generation, did.

The death of a beloved person by “natural causes” is hard enough; the death of a class of people (to war, being in the wrong place or of the wrong color or religion or sexuality, at the wrong time) even harder.

The death of a species approaches unbearable.

But the death by poisoning of an entire planet and the loss of some, possibly all, of its species? The gradual slide towards an entirely preventable ecocide? That actually is unbearable.

Yet I bear it. Like you do.

I worry about about the small things too  (small compared to the end of Earth, certainly).

Money. Outliving the man I now love.  And if I reach extreme old age as my mother and aunt did, who will play for me the role I played for them, since I have no children? Should I continue to hold on to such a big piece of property in an extreme climate, given my age, income, and that I live alone? Given that my guy and I not only do not live together but have not made a permanent commitment?  (Though what, one wonders at this age,  does “permanent” even mean?)

But if there is no heaven, if the Earth does perish the slow death I fear, if there is no one and not enough money to protect me at my own life’s end, if and still, just this morning, for just a moment, I had enough.

Often, even when I personally am doing well and happily going about my business, I see earthly existence as fraught with terrible conflict, torment, suffering, and deepest injustice, which is often unaddressed.

But this morning, it was otherwise.

And if there is a heaven, may it be as it was in that moment, as it is here on Earth.

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Filed Under: Nothing Is Wasted on the Writer Tagged With: Dragonwagon, Earth, ecocide, heaven, Vermont, walking

Comments

  1. Tandy says

    July 2, 2016 at 7:47 pm

    I finished “The Year it Rained” this week, and walked beside you at every step. VERY precious to compare you now to who you were then…the very SAME, and yet so much more in tune…that you are roaming around in perfect love there at the farm in Vermont, feeling the blessings right at the front door, unexpected, and yet totally immersed in it with no fear at all. You are a more true believer than many who claim to be, as it has come from suffering, loss, and with your heart remaining open. One last word: yellow. Let me venture this…it was a very real, very personal message from that “everywhere-on-earth place…” heaven.

  2. Alice says

    July 3, 2016 at 11:58 am

    I can’t really express adequately how much I relate to what you say here about the future of Earth. I haven’t seen much yet in this life but those feelings of Heaven in nature are ones I have known since I understood that I am alive. I will never understand how the human animal can so recklessly, knowingly destroy such an incredible place.

    • Crescent Dragonwagon says

      July 3, 2016 at 8:21 pm

      Thank you, Alice. As you know this is one I also just don’t get. Our planet is incredible and as if that wasn’t enough, it also is our one and only home. Shared. If we louse it up irredeemably, as we may already have done — what then?

      My late father used to say, “Just because you have a good question, doesn’t mean there it has an answer.”

      I wish I could say something happier about this…

  3. Laura says

    July 4, 2016 at 11:51 am

    The words you have used and the thoughts they convey have once again, touched and inspired.

    We will always have people with their careless, selfish acts against the environment and the rights of others.
    But, I truly believe that when an individual can see heaven in the moment, as you have beautifully presented in this post, that can bring the change.
    This week you have shared two solid thoughts on living. First, to stop and listen and then to find heaven in the moment.
    Thank you for sharing through your writing and being who you are!

    • Crescent Dragonwagon says

      July 4, 2016 at 2:00 pm

      Thank YOU, Laura… I am happy my words spoke to you, and I so hope you are right.

      Imagine if you are! Then we’d have all the more reason to find heaven right now!

      xxoo

Read Aloud with Crescent and Mark

NOT A LITTLE MONKEY, by Charlotte Zolotow, illustrted by Michelle Chessaree

"So, the little girl climbed into the big waste-basket and waited." ' Oh no,' said her mother, ' we don't want to throw you away.'"There are many ways to express love and the need for attention. Here, a busy mother and her just-a-bit naughty little girl tease each other affectionately — the little girl making her point without even uttering a word.That's today's story time — read aloud by the author's daughter at Crescent Dragonwagon's Writing, Cooking, & Workshops, with Mark Graff's "text support" and discussion."Just right for two-to-fours, the humor of this true-to-life story of a mischievous little girl who blocks her mother's attempts to clean house will elicit giggles from the lollipop set." Kirkus Reviews

Posted by Crescent Dragonwagon's Writing, Cooking, & Workshops on Thursday, June 4, 2020

Read Aloud with Crescent

Read Aloud with Crescent

The Washington Post on Crescent’s Lentil Soup Recipe

The Washington Post on Crescent’s Lentil Soup Recipe

Greek Lentil Soup with Spinach and Lemon, photograph by Tom McCorkle, Washington Post

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