This past week has included one of the hottest days on record – ever – for my city. I’ve been sweaty and uncomfortable and crampy and cranky and headachey and many nights I haven’t felt like writing, but I’ve done it anyway.
Strangely enough, this week has also been full of moments of pure bliss, and I can’t explain why. Maybe it’s the Byron Katie books I’ve been reading. Whatever it is, I’ve found myself: walking through my neighbourhood on the hottest day ever with a grin-for-no-reason plastered across my face; bouncing through my office, spine tall, heart open, nose crinkling from suppressed laughter; opening my apartment windows – wide – to taste tendrils of finally-cool air weaving back and forth across my skin; seated, lap heavy, cat-burdened, with insistent noses pushing against my warm fingers and palms.
In other words, I have experienced glimpses of heaven.
I love that they don’t come all at once. I love that many times they seem to be gone before I even notice they are here. I love how they leave me light, and giddy, and empty-full. I love how slim they are – like the smallest slice of pie you can cut, for the guest who can’t resist “just a taste.” I love that amidst the all pain and the suffering and the endless daily grind comes grace, suddenly. Thank you, someone, for this mercy.
When’s the last time you had a glimpse of heaven?