I think I accidentally created heaven on earth

Recently, I got some good news.

Like, some really good news. 

Like, some “holy shit, this changes everything” news. 

And I’m still reeling from the implications of it. 

Song: Gabríel Ólafs - Streymir

Long story short: I don’t have to worry about affording my rent or bills anymore. At least not for a little while. For the first time in almost a decade, I find myself in a place where all of my basic needs are being met without the prerequisite of striving 40 hours a week, or running a 24/7 hustle. 

My body and brain are still adjusting to this news, and I’m sure that for my nervous system, it will take a while to come down. 

Right now, I’m holding the twin sentiments of “this is such a privilege” and “this is the bare minimum that we all deserve.” The voice of shame wants me to keep quiet about this, not to seem boastful, not to alienate the people in my circles who do not have the same security. But it is the bare minimum, and it does feel like I’ve been given the gift of life all over again. And what is my 11th house Leo moon for, if not to infuse joy and hope into the lives around me? 

Things have started to feel suspiciously like heaven ever since. I want to sardonically remark on how simple it is to feel this way, how little it takes, but I feel like that would remove the tenderness from what I’ve been feeling and experiencing since I received this news: heaven.

I wake up to the sound of my son’s gleeful shrieks, no alarm clock. He’s 6 months old and we haven’t had to leave the house to provide for him, yet, so this last half-year has been full of heavenly moments of glee and love so powerful it feels like my body can’t contain it. It’s also been full of moments of heartbreak and pressure and utter exhaustion, but nothing touches that love. Like the sun, it wipes out everything else in view. Nothing matters more than that love. And my son’s sun is in my 5th house. Huh. 

August has never been my favorite, mostly because I wasn’t built for hot climates, but even then, I spend more time outside, in the backyard, than I have in years. In the morning, my husband and I take our barefoot, sleepy selves out to the little sanctuary we’ve built amongst the succulents, and we smoke and talk about the day ahead. The cat chases birds and lizards—and sometimes murders them with glee. Sometimes I’m up for the sunrise, and I am slowly falling in love with the holy stillness and silence that comes in the 3-5 AM period of the day. The air is cool, as cool as it will be all day, and there’s a newness to everything that is beginning to charm me.

Sometimes, my weeks and days are filled with astrology consultations, which are extremely sacred spaces to me where I have the honor and privilege of witnessing people in their vulnerability and authenticity and self-searching. Not only do I get to witness them, I get to guide them, too. Sometimes the gravity of that statement brings tears to my eyes, because it truly feels like a miracle, like a cosmic gift and a rare responsibility I’ve been given—much like motherhood has felt thus far, too. 

I’m still learning how to go slowly, but now I feel like I have more space to explore slowness than I ever have before, and more motivation to experience life slowly than I’ve ever had.

I do take fifteen minutes to make my coffee, and there’s a very specific routine to it that I’ve come to covet. I cook breakfast and eat it slowly, usually while feeding my son in his high chair. We giggle a lot. When I wash the dishes (by hand since we have no dishwasher), I always do so in silence, not watching or listening to anything, as a meditative practice. Thich That Hanh said it better than I can: 

I enjoy taking my time with each dish, being fully aware of the dish, the water, and each movement of my hands. I know that if I hurry in order to go and have dessert, the time will be unpleasant, not worth living. That would be a pity, for every second of life is a miracle. The dishes themselves and the fact that I am here washing them are miracles!

Each thought, each action in the sunlight of awareness becomes sacred. In this light, no boundary exists between the sacred and the profane. It may take a bit longer to do the dishes, but we can live fully, happily, in every moment. Washing the dishes is at the same time a means and an end—that is, not only do we do the dishes in order to have clean dishes, we also do the dishes just to do the dishes and live fully each moment while washing them.

If I am incapable of washing dishes joyfully, if I want to finish them quickly so I can go and have dessert and a cup of tea, I will be equally incapable of doing these things joyfully. With the cup in my hands, I will be thinking about what to do next, and the fragrance and the flavor of the tea, together with the pleasure of drinking it, will be lost. I will always be dragged into the future, never able to live in the present moment. The time of dishwashing is as important as the time of meditation.

For the first time, I am approaching routine and repetition as the sacred practices they can be, and I am already feeling lighter, more attuned, more embracing of rest. I look forward to washing the dishes and closing up the house at the end of the night, and opening up the house in the morning to the sounds of birds greeting the day. We walk to the grocery store, to the coffee shop, in a meandering way that is incredibly soothing to the traumatized (and loud) voice of urgency that lives in my mind. I cherish the existence of weekly chores and trash days. I wave and smile at neighbors, and introduce myself when I can. Sometimes my grandfather’s brother stops by and we have a pleasant conversation. My great-great-grandfather’s 1956 Oldsmobile sits in the driveway in pristine condition. Occasionally I will find myself in the grass in the front yard, holding my baby, watering my great-great-grandmother’s rose bushes, right underneath the wooden sign at the end of the driveway that bears our family’s name. Tending to the house that raised generations before me and is now housing the generation after me is often a trip. It’s like living in a time capsule, it’s like sharing a house with my ancestors, it’s like… it’s like having a 4th house stellium. It is like heaven on earth. I have no other way to describe it.

All of this heaven everywhere, and I still had to ask myself if I deserve it. All of this supposed ease that everyone talks about, now available to me, and I still wondered if struggle just suits me better. I still had that thought: “Okay, now that your basic needs are covered, it’s time to hustle EVEN HARDER so that you can give yourself a head start.” The voice of hustle and grind will take a little while to pipe down. But I know this is the time for slowness. And I know that slowness can still look like creating things, being ‘busy,’ or feeling pleasantly exhausted at the end of a movement-filled day. What determines slowness for me is this: how much choice did I have over how I spent my time today? Really, when we desire slowness, I think part of what we are asking for is simply to be released from the constraints of a schedule that is not self-imposed. Slowness is really about agency. Slowness is a reclamation of time, our most precious and valuable resource. Slowness is the cat that makes themselves comfortable in the middle of the floor while you’re vacuuming and does not budge. And for those of us who can’t yet embrace slowness to the capacity that our bodies are asking for, there are always small moments in a day where you can quietly reclaim that invaluable resource. Doing so will generate for you, hopefully, some of the vital energy needed to continue revealing heaven on earth, where everyone can embrace slowness whenever and however they choose. 

I accidentally created heaven on earth. I don’t need to be reminded that everything I have today is what I was praying for 3, 6, 12 months ago—I am well aware.  And you know what? I’m proud of myself for doing it. Even if I sometimes still can’t accept that I’m here. Even though I am tired of the way we praise people for surviving their struggles, but don’t try to support them in thriving. Even though I still face the fear that all of this will be taken away from me on a daily basis. It’s still heaven here. It is a place on earth, with you. 

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