How long will paradise be enough?

Where do we go once we get there?

The poem

I dream of you

the way I imagine

earth dreams

of heaven.

Last night,

I was a flower

stretching for the sky,

trying to kiss a cloud;

and I don’t know for certain,

but I think the cloud

was you.

Confession

I struggle with stillness. I struggle being a flower in the wind, consistently having to sway and go with the flow. There is a comfort with repetition within autism, and yet, despite this, I am consistently trying to escape my patterns. Whether it is a field or a flower bed being rooted and watching the world evolve around me, tires me. I have my comforts. In the metaphor, there is a soil I will always return to, and home is such a vitality to my mental health, but I need legs instead of roots. I need to see the world from a rooftop. I need to watch a sunset from the branches of a tree. This is why I struggle with the more standardised version of living. Of a structured job with a structured schedule. This goes against who I am as an autistic human being because, gosh, do I love routines. Working creatively is wildly unpredictable, but it is consistently challenging, and to stay at my most joyful self, I must be challenged. I get frustrated quickly by repeated work that no longer challenges me. If something is easy, then I have a hunger to change it. I have tried countless jobs, and I always arrive at the ‘now what?’ I am probably in the minority because I genuinely love to work. I love putting on shows and creating projects, but I am always pushing the line into the unknown. I always want to try new things and take risks. My poetry voice is constantly evolving because I want to challenge how I sound, and I want to find something new.

This poem stems from a conversation about heaven. I have never believed we have to die to get to heaven, but in this instance, in the more traditional views of the afterlife, my pondering was on ‘how long will heaven be enough?’ I think hardship has a charm to it. Overcoming something allows a feeling of accomplishment and growth. If things are perpetually good, then what becomes of the hunger? Sadness makes a good song, and grief is a compass to any poet. Heaven being all good and hell being all bad is out of balance. I think there comes a time when even heaven searches for paradise. By this logic, my heaven is right here in the days when I can not see the sun. I like the feeling of something being earned. I want nothing handed to me. I want the soil beneath my fingers from crawling up the mountains in the rain. I want the bags under my eyes full of all the yesterdays I am still working through. When I read by the window for hours, I want to feel the strains of working hard leave my body. I want something to rest.

This poem is about not being able to reach your desires despite them being right there. It is knowing you will find a way to reach the clouds, but it will take more time. You get what you want through earning it. I see heaven as a place we visit, not a place we reside. Perpetual paradise feels too much like hell to me. The person I was having the conversation with saw it differently and described heaven as the payoff for the hard work. There was a content nature to their voice as they imagined finally perching on the porch and reflecting. What are your thoughts on this conversation? Which side of the spectrum do you sit on? Let me know below, and as always

keep kind and stay true, Woofenberry’s x

This record is a small heaven