A Taste of Heaven

The Balinese have a remarkable vision of Heaven. They believe Heaven is exactly like Bali, only a mirror reflection where all directions are reversed. The extraordinary care Balinese take to make every aspect of life aesthetically pleasing— the sculpting of the land, the architecture, the daily offerings to the gods so meticulously crafted, the marriage of utilitarian tools with artistry, the animation of religious ritual with exquisite, dynamic and complex music, dance and drama— is their way to assure that the Heaven in the other world is a beautiful place by creating Heaven in this world. 

 

Now there’s an idea worth considering. Far superior to the notion that this world is simply a holding cell for the next and giving us full permission to trash the natural world and slaughter each other with the false promise that angels with harps floating on clouds await us. That is, if we worship the right God, accept that we’re disgusting creatures born into sin, obey all commandments and when we transgress, a few Hail Mary’s and generous financial donations is enough to get us a seat in the clouds. 

 

I’m more with the Balinese and yesterday, I spend an entire day in the Heaven I would be most pleased to enjoy for Eternity. Carrying forth one of the best traditions The San Francisco School ever put into practice, my daughter Talia with some fellow staff members and parent chaperones took her 5^th grade class for a 4-day camping trip in China Camp in Marin County. My wife Karen and I joined her on the second day of the trip and soon after we arrived, we all set off on a 7-mile hike over hill-and-dale in a perfect temperature 70-degree day. That hill-and-dale was literal, as there was close to a mile of steady uphill, with the reward of well-earned lunch at the peak gazing out at a spectacular view of the San Francisco Bay and beyond. Arriving at China Camp, we waded in the surprisingly warm water and skipped stones before heading back to camp for an afternoon snack, a quiet time and some free time before dinner.

 

(I wished I had brought my own journal, for the Muse was with me as I sat and looked out at the scene. But don’t feel its presence at the moment as I attempt to give language to the ineffable. I’ll just do what I can here.)

 

Here was heaven. The light was streaming between the valley oaks and bay laurels, the air was sinfully delicious, the silence animated by the chatter and laughter of children amidst some bird song. Everywhere I looked, kids were so happily engaged. They were sitting at the picnic table with my wife doing watercolors, propped against trees reading a book or writing in their journal, playing paddleball, catch or cornhole, swinging each other in the hammocks they put up, sitting in small groups and chatting. Not a single one was looking at a screen worried if someone “liked” them, not a single teacher was making sure that they were “learning something”— we were all simply wholly present, as we are meant to be, enjoying each other’s company embraced by the elements of sky, trees, ground. 

At the bell, half went off to chop, grate, stir, cook the evening’s taco meal while the others continued to skip around on this sacred ground. Then the communion of eating together, the post-dinner clean-up from the other half, the gathering around the evening campfire and joyfully singing the tender, funny and energetic songs I led. Kids and adults then telling delightful stories on the edge of truth and then revealing whether indeed, their story was all true in oursOld Doc Jones game. Capped off by a story I told called The Fire on the Mountain about a distant fire lit by a loving grandmother being enough to warm someone alone on top of a mountain in freezing weather and help him survive the night. Not a peep for 20 minutes as the kids’ imagination brought them to the heart of the story in the way humans have done for millions of years around campfires. Heaven all the way around.

 

And this one made even more poignant as David, one of the parent chaperones, is the son of Terry, our school head with whom I shared the heaven (and hell) of our beloved school community for the 35 years he worked there. I first met David when he was literally 1-day old, taught him for 11 years, went on the school camping trips with him for three years and now he’s 49. In two weeks, I’ll be biking with Terry in the Dolomites, a couple of months before his 80^th birthday. Karen and I did these camping trips for 25 years and here we were again, her doing art with the kids and me music as we did for over four decades at the school. Talia first went on the school camping trip when she was two and now is leading it with such superb organization, connection with the kids, a backpack filled with water, sunscreen, snacks and game after game, activity after activity, just right for kids. To have the four of us gathered around the campfire again in our perpetually changing, but always the same, selves is another form of Heaven altogether. 

 

Returning home, I look at things on my phone and am dragged down straight to the gates of Hell again. And then remember the Japanese poet Issa’s poem:

 

We wander the roof of Hell,

Choosing blossoms.

 

Whether the ground we walked on was the roof of Hell, the sacred ground of Heaven or an inverted Balinese paradise doesn’t matter. What’s important is that we were all graced by this most perfect day, reminding us all that Heaven is possible. Right here. Right now.