Or What’s A Heaven For

I’m sitting on the roof of my bungalow, and I’m grinning; grinning as though I had just conquered my personal “Mount Everest.” Up here, I’m king of the mountain and compared to being on the ground, I’m physically about fifteen feet closer to heaven. What with the other considerations though, I’m spiritually much closer to heaven than that.

I savor the moment and because I’m in such high spirits, and because I’m thinking of heaven, an old song comes to mind. I hum softly as I paraphrase the lyrics to myself; “I’m near to heaven when I’m in a hammock with you.” This expresses my mood and brings fond memories.

It had been a warm summer evening at a cottage in vacation land and a bewitching scent of perfume filled the air. The pleasant sound of dance music carried across the lake as if on the moonbeams that sparkled on shallow waves breaking at the shore. Young and carefree and swinging in a hammock, I was all alone with my best girl. We were sure that this was heaven on earth.

As I wallow in nostalgia, a second melody that floods my mind is the 1935 classic, “Cheek to Cheek,” by Irving Berlin. I hum along and I realize the word of this song also refers to being in heaven, and to finding happiness; in this case while dancing.

Then I remember another time, another girl, another lakeside dance pavilion and big band sounds that had filled the air. Young and hungry, we had been so much in love. We were Astaire and Rogers and we swore to each other that this would be our song forever. We knew ecstasy, and it was truly heaven. The feeling lasted and lasted . . . at least until the end of summer.

I’m grateful for such rich memories of youthful expeditions and times of bliss. But I’ve learned that I needn’t dwell on the past. The older I get, the more I realize one needn’t be a young hammock-swinger or a cheek-to-cheek dancer to reach for heaven’s door. There are heavenly occasions to be found anywhere, by anyone, of any age. The trick is to recognize these precious moments when they happen. Then seize the moment and enjoy the elation to the fullest.

I believe, for example, that a close-to-heaven status is attained if your daydreams come true; if you finally get to scratch what had been an unreachable itch; or if you overcome great fears to reach your goal.

Being over seventy, I avoid unrealistic daydreams, itches and goals. But I can still feel close to heaven when seemingly unimportant, real-life successes make me so self satisfied and contented that I grin and I literally purr.

So there I was, up on the roof, not just grinning and thinking about heaven but I was also eating cherries.

You see, I love cherries; big, round, firm, almost bursting, nearly black, sunshiny-warm, glistening, Bing cherries. I’ve always loved Bing cherries. I used to fantasize about finding bushels of Bing cherries and just pigging out. Sometimes I’d wonder why our creator hadn’t made Bing cherries as big as watermelons. Wouldn’t that have been heavenly?

As it happened, my neighbor’s tree had produced a huge crop of Bing cherries. I drooled at the sight. The tree was loaded and many clusters of fruit were only shoulder high at our boundary fence. It was hard for me to resist but I refrained from reaching over. I deluded myself that it was a display of will power but underneath I knew that it was because my neighbor was always watching. The temptation to launch a night raid, though, became strong. I truly lusted after the juicy delicacies but what could I do? After all, they were my neighbor’s fruit and therefore untouchable.

As I continued stubbornly to check out my options, I realized that the higher branches extended over the roof of my bungalow and I reasoned that the fruit on these branches legally belonged to me. Now the question was, how could I possibly get up there? I would have to use a ladder, obviously, but I’m such a coward when I have even one foot off the ground.

I’m extremely cautious when I use my ladder to wash windows on the ground floor. The thought of going up as high as the roof petrified me, even if I had the safest ladder in the world. So to even consider a trip to the roof, using my ladder, was unthinkable. With its makeshift addition, the tops of the side rails only reach about six inches above the roofline of the house. As a result, the top rung is about twelve inches below the roofline. To climb the ladder to the level where my hands would be on the top rung and where I’d be standing fairly straight was adventurous enough. But how could I possibly go on from there? If I put my hands on the tops of the side rails of the ladder, and then I arched my back, I could move my feet up several rungs on the ladder. Getting onto the roof from that monkey-like position, however, would be unthinkable. It would be much too great a challenge to my intestinal fortitude, let alone my old bones. I’d need a courageous and acrobatic leg maneuver to reach my foot onto the sloping roof, at a point above where white knuckles clung to the top of the side rails. What if I did get one foot up onto the roof, would I be able to then shift my weight upward with nothing above me for my hands to grasp; nothing for me to pull against?

The chicken in me wanted desperately to find an excuse. Should I be on a ladder by myself without someone to keep it from slipping? If I got a leg cramp from this unusual exercise, would my hands reach out instinctively to massage the offending muscle? Would such weakness of the flesh dash my spirits and bring me down to earth, literally and figuratively.

Given the problems that I foresaw, magnified by my acrophobia, I was prepared to give up on the project, despite my yearning for the enticing cherries above.

Then inspiration came as I remembered a poem by Robert Browning. Although he couldn’t have known about my Jerry-built ladder, or the distress I felt, he once said, “Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp, or what’s a heaven for.”

I knew instinctively what he meant; I accepted the challenge and proceeded accordingly.

It’s a warm pleasant day; my back is in soothing sunshine; and all’s well with the world. Here I am. I did it. I reached the roof and I’m proud of my achievement, (never mind that I’ll have to get back down later). I sit and strip the overhanging branches, of their plentiful, plump, luscious fruit; one cherry for the basket and two for me, juicy and tasty. Food for the gods! It’s sheer bliss and I purr.

I’m up on the roof; I’m eating cherries and I’ve seized the moment. Even without a hammock, or a dance, I’ve found the happiness I seek. And that is what a heaven is for.