Rejoice… Heaven exists!

I’ll bet you didn’t expect that from me, right?

Yes, there is a heaven, a place where we’d like to exist eternally … for the believers – the Christians, Muslims, Jews, Hindus, Sikhs, Buddhists et al… AND even us atheists too!

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(WIKIPEDIA: “Heaven is often described as a “highest place”, the holiest place, a Paradise, in contrast to hell or the Underworld or the “low places” and universally or conditionally accessible by earthly beings according to various standards of divinity, goodness, piety, faith, or other virtues or right beliefs or simply divine will. Some believe in the possibility of a heaven on Earth in a world to come.”)

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You likely have your own vision of heaven, and I hope you are, or will, get there… in my head and heart, spring is unassailably a synonym for what I conceive as heaven.

Spring – a spiritual moment, a world, I never want to leave.

Spring – my forever place.

Spring must have fine things
To wear like other springs.
Of silken green the grass must be
Embroidered. One and two and three.
Then every crocus must be made
So subtly as to seem afraid
Of lifting colour from the ground;
And after crocuses the round
Heads of tulips, and all the fair
Intricate garb that Spring will wear.
(Hazel Hall)

If a year taken by season was a musical LP record, then these past two weeks have been nature’s most beautiful love song with frills and beauty akin to what Antonio Vivaldi bowed his violin to centuries ago in his Four Seasons.

To saunter down my rural Okanagan road in the early evening sunshine with its long shadows brings a clear understanding of fierce hunger in a fine Italian cook’s kitchen…

… to be assailed by May’s potpourri of delectable scents… first the lilacs, next the lily-of-the-valley, finally the sweet mixture of blushing apple and plum blossoms.

Flickers and robins, red-winged blackbirds, white-crowned sparrows and goldfinches, provide the musical choir… spring’s Hallelujah Chorus.

A blind person need never see a bird in flight, nor bloom in their lifetime, to revel in the symphonic and aromatic air.

My wife Maureen’s childhood home surrounded by multi-toned lilacs

But the moment passes far too quickly…

Like Jim Croce, I want to save Time in a Bottle.

Stop the clocks.

If there is a perfection in time and place, a memory emblazoned like a first kiss, this is it.

Do I sound like I have Seasonal Twitterpation Disorder? (STD?... hmmmm… maybe a more suitable acronym exists for this!).

Of course I do.

It’s as sensual as any carnal activity (although the trees and flowers are putting on their “clothes”, rather than shedding them).

Annually, as winter grows long-in-the-tooth here in the Great White North, I find myself craving in the early evening’s darkness … I eagerly anticipate the arrival of warmer temperatures, longer languid days, profuse blooms, new avian visitors.

Then one day it emerges… I close my eyes and drink it in greedily, soak in the warmth, absorb the energy that abounds in the air and in the ground…

… and then, eventually, I breathe out as swirling white blizzards of blossom petals drift and sail – like a pillow fight unleashed in the air – and the moment all too quickly subsides, the winds grow still and the ecstasy begins a slow “return to earth”…

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Inelegantly, and without my consent, time passed.” (Miranda July)

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Akin to reincarnation or re-birth, I get to live in my paradise for a few weeks once every spin of earth’s cosmic calendar, a tempting and luscious amuse bouche that leaves me just a wee touch short of sated and always looking forward to its reappearance, like a dream… of heaven.

McIntosh apple blossoms in a neighbour’s orchard