My fitness watch tracks my sleep.
Not only did I not get enough sleep last night, I had no dreams.
I did not think, the world could be heaven if we would only help each other.
If we would only always be kind.
To ourselves, each other, to all lifeforms.
I did not think, being rich would be nice.
I did not think, capitalism replaced with kindness and generosity, not chaos.
Or peace, love and understanding.
Or if they only liked me.
Or having beehives would be nice.
Last night, sleeping, I just slept.
Mattress, head on my pillow, down comforter, cat on top of that.
Just existed there in the dark.
It was not even a great release, not a liberation.
It was nothing, not even nothing.
No thoughts of this is good or this could be better, or even this is the way it is.
No blessings, no curses.
Not rejection or acceptance.
Just floating there in the darkness.
Not even floating.
Just being there in the darkness.
Not even darkness.
Not even being.
Tag Archives: heaven
My fitness watch tracks my sleep.
I was dreaming this morning when a cat woke me with a bladder massage.
In the dream, my extended family was celebrating my birthday at my childhood home, around a redwood picnic table my father had built, on a sunny summer day, in the shade of a cherry tree, a maple and some redwoods.
There was picnic food on the table, no animals were trying to steal it, the sun was warm but gentle and not blinding, the way summer sun used to be.
Everyone was happy at the same time, but not excited, there was no drama, no one was sad or mad at someone, everyone got along.
My grandmother was not there. I imagine she was in Montana, as a teenager, riding horses.
My uncle, who sometimes felt compelled to be weird at gatherings, I suppose due to anxiety, was not there. He might have been in the hills filling his green and white Ford pickup with scavenged firewood.
My parents (whom I remember missing yesterday) were there. They were younger than they had been when they died. 30s or 40s. My father looked fit and was not wearing a shirt, which was typical of him in the summer at that age. I talked to my mother.
I talked to my father. I asked him how Heaven was.
No one is upset and nothing hurts, he said.
My sister gave me a letter she had written for my birthday. It was written with a wide calligraphy pen in several colors. Each color said something else, and the colors intertwined, and tangled, and she had written it in her normal handwriting not calligraphy despite the nib she was using so I was unable to read it.
I asked her to read it for me.
She was about to read it when I woke up.
A week of flatpack furniture assembly.
Crows swooping close.
A habanero plant with slugs on every chili pepper.
Rain, but then sun.
Odin walks past the bench. He walks in the direction of the lottery ticket shop, in the direction of the bakery, but then circles back to the office, crossing gliding crow trajectories, because he feels neither hungry nor lucky.
When did newspapers change their slogan from “All the news that’s fit to print” to “Be very afraid”?
Odin wishes he could have thoughts more complicated and clever than “the universe is heaven, except when we make it hell”.
Maybe a more clever thought will come along soon.
Any time now, maybe.
In his office, which he shares with a dozen people because of rennovation work on his regular office, they have put the radio right behind Odin, and it plays 90s’ classics all the live-long day.
Some of the songs are okay. Most are not.
This can be said of most eras.
Odin makes a deal with a crow. They trade bodies and Odin flies around.
Odin swoops down the street past a police officer with a machine gun guarding a sensitive embassy.
He flies over red urban rooftops and marvels at the ivy turning red and the distant mountains and bodies of water glistening in the sunlight.
He marvels at the sound of wind in his feathers.
He flies back and trades back for his old body.
People come around the corner with rakes and pitchforks.
A woman points at him and shouts, “There he is! Get him!”
Odin wonders what the crow did while they were trading bodies.
What crows dream of, I guess.