Heaven is a Place*
Where Nothing Ever Happens
I spent ten lazy minutes watching one of my cats sleep under the grill today. It was a perfect June afternoon, so mellow and golden that even Blue (an anxious cat who’s still not sure whether Damien and I, her adoring adoptive parents, are axe murderers) allowed herself the luxury of deep relaxation.
There may come a time that Letters from the Questhouse consists of nothing but meditations on such gentle scenes, but I’m not there yet. For me, essays have always been a way to work through whatever’s vexing me. The “so what” of an essay, the point, is to pin down an elusive problem, or at least to give it chase.
But in these warm summer days, I’m not inclined to chase much of anything. I don’t want anything to be different, and I’m not waiting for some next thing to happen before I’m happy.
In other words, my mill has little grist, and, as a result, I’m finding it tough to produce my biweekly letter from the Questhouse. Two weeks ago, I thought I would write about Skye’s magical wedding, or at least share the speech I wrote for the reception, but I find that joyful occasions, for better or worse (see what I did there?) don’t make compelling essay subjects. I don’t know if any of you noticed that I didn’t post at my usual time. Honestly, I was so perfectly happy that it took me a few days to realize I had blown past my deadline. When I did realize it, I found I didn’t have much to say.
Now that we’re home from our adventures and back to a routine, I am instead focusing on fiction. My application to Stanford Extension’s Novel Writing program is due at the end of the week, and I hope to begin classes in September.
Why fiction? I guess it’s because I can poke at some of the biggest, thorniest “so whats” of my life from a safe vantage point. A novel without conflict is as dry as the copy on a Corn Flakes box (and the box itself). A life with conflict, on the other hand, is exhausting and distracting. Far better, then, to live an unremarkable life and save the adventures for my imagination.
Though I appreciate this oasis of uncomplicated contentment, I know it’s temporary. I’m sure my restless mind will eventually find some new bone to worry, and I’ll be sure to let you all know when it happens.
*For you non-Gen-Xers, the title of this essay comes from a brilliant song by the Talking Heads called “Heaven.” Here’s a stanza:
When this kiss is over, it will start again
Will not be any different, will be exactly the same
It's hard to imagine that nothing at all
Could be so exciting, could be this much funOh, Heaven
Heaven is a place
A place where nothing
Nothing ever happens