At the spring equinox last year the world was in turmoil. A mysterious and deadly virus that began “over there” had made it to our shores. Schools, movie theaters, restaurants, health clubs, basically all “non-essential” businesses were immediately closed. Baseball, the quintessential harbinger of springtime renewal was put on hold indefinitely. The NBA abruptly paused its season. Panic buying wiped out supermarket shelves. What do you mean I can’t hug my friends? No live music? No summer festivals? Locked down in our homes, Zoom was a sorry substitute for real human interaction. A malevolent regime ruled in Washington, confident of another four years to wreck havoc on us all. To say things were looking bleak was a vast understatement. How on Earth would we survive? Well, survive we did.

On this glorious spring day one year later, the darkness of the past year seems like a fever dream. God’s paintbrush has splashed the neighborhoods and hillsides with every type of spring flower imaginable; their yellows, oranges, purples, whites and blues pulsate against a backdrop of green grass and blue skies. A crazed president has been replaced by a kind and humane president. Many thousands of people are being vaccinated every day. Daily covid cases and hospitalizations are on a steady decline. Businesses are opening up, masks are slowly being lowered and a collective sigh of relief can be heard everywhere. Fear and dread are  giving way to hope and positivity. On April 1st, the Major League Baseball season will begin on schedule. Actual fans, not cardboard cut-outs, will be in the stands.

I contemplate all of this with intense gratitude as I sit today at one of my favorite places in nature. I’ve come here numerous times over the past year seeking solace and a respite from a world gone mad. All around me are signs of renewal and rebirth.

When I arrive, a squirrel scolds me from the trees above. I don’t think he was expecting a visitor. Chattering jays carry on a noisy conversation. The subtle “chip, chip” of some mysterious forest bird fills in the blanks. A silent breeze ever so slightly moves the new green shoots of the surrounding willows. The breeze needs the trees to announce its presence and create the dance of spring.

The river current is languid and lazy, broken only by small ripples, swirls and dimples. The river is a canvas for the towering trees on the opposite bank, their naked skeletal branches are reflected in its surface. Diving ducks explore the edges of the canvas, vanishing suddenly as if pulled down from below only to reappear again a few yards away. Feathers and twigs are in no hurry on their way to the sea, they always arrive right on schedule.

The breeze picks up, giving voice to the trees around me which creak like the bones of an old woman. I can feel the ancient spirit of the Pomo whispering in the wind. With a flash of black a cormorant jets past, its long, black neck pointing like an arrow downstream.

Two crows are conversing now, it’s an age old discussion filled with mystery and wonder. A tiny butterfly, bone white and brilliant against a landscape of browns and greens, lets the wind take it where it may. 

Hope.

Taylor Mountain is a 1,000 acre gem in the crown of the numerous open space preserves that dot Sonoma County. I was enjoying a day free from obligations today and hiked to the mountain’s 1,380 foot summit. Once at the top I was higher than the hawks and turkey vultures that circled below me, the nearly 360 degree vista was breathtaking. It’s easy to feel inspired at a place like this and I think that’s what prompted this snippet of conversation that I happened upon on my way down.

A woman was hiking with her three small children the oldest, a girl around five years old, turned to her mom at the moment I was walking past and asked, “Mama, what do you think heaven looks like?” The hillside we were standing on is dotted with majestic oak trees and the grasses Ireland green from recent rains, the clouds wispy brushstrokes across a robin’s egg blue sky. We could see across the valley below many miles to the north and south and to the western foothills and beyond. To the little girl perhaps this was what  heaven looked like, she just needed confirmation from mom.

As a long time elementary school teacher and father of twins, being asked questions like the one posed by the little girl were once a routine part of my day. Kids unfiltered view of the world is so refreshing to be around, they see it as it is and just let it fly. Their wonder and inquisitiveness is a breath of fresh air in our “been there, done that” world.

When you think about it, what a strange concept heaven is. You die and your spirit (essence, prana, mojo…whatever) goes “up.”  I know it’s up because when virtually every major league ballplayer is rounding third base after hitting a home run, they point both of their index fingers skyward and gaze gratefully towards the heavens. The moon, stars and galaxies are known collectively as “the heavens.” They are, after all, “up there.” Humans through time immemorial have looked to the stars for inspiration and knowledge. No wonder we think of heaven as up.

So anyway when you finally make it “up there”, you’re met by white clad angels who float by atop whipped cream clouds to greet you. There may be harps involved. Someone by the name of Peter may review your life in his “naughty or nice” book. Everyone and everything is exactly as it should be. There are no words to describe the beauty. You stay here for all of eternity. My concept of heaven is a bit different.

You don’t need to wait for the end of your life to get to heaven, there are little pieces of heaven everywhere. My son’s eyes are bluer than the mountain sky, my daughter’s eyes a shade of hazel previously unknown to humankind. If that ain’t heaven, I don’t know what is. A day spent with the ones you love in a place that you love? Heavenly. The waves and the wind, the sand and the shorebirds. Some call it the beach but I call it heaven. 

Heaven is up, it’s down, it’s all around, it’s within you, without you. Heaven is right in front of us, we simply need to open our eyes to see it.

Do some things really get better with age or does our familiarity with them over time deepen our love and appreciation, thus making those things more special to us? I think one of the keys to answering this question is to make a conscious effort to always be looking for the new and unexpected in the familiar. It’s all too easy to take someone or something for granted, forgetting about the uniqueness and beauty that has always been there. The people and places that we most cherish are always in motion, constantly changing. After all, the only real constant in life is change. Whether it’s a loved one or a favorite place in the world, being present and aware of the unique beauty that’s before us is one of the keys to really showing up for life.

The idea for this essay came to me while out for a walk one recent evening. Sometimes I just listen to the quiet sounds of life in my neighborhood, and other times my walk has a soundtrack. On this particular night I decided to plug in my earbuds and put my iPod on “shuffle”.  After a few minutes of strolling, George Harrison’s My Sweet Lord came up. If a list could somehow be compiled of the most listened to songs of my life, this song would certainly be near the top. I was 14 years old in 1971 when I bought the 45rpm vinyl record of My Sweet Lord at the local record shop in my hometown. This song has been part of my life for half a century so I think I’ve given it some very deep listens. However, during my walk the other night I heard a nuance in the background vocals that I had never heard before. It was amazing, after countless listens I actually heard something new. Suddenly I was hearing this song with new ears. I liken this phenomenon to noticing something new in the smile of a loved one or perhaps a previously unseen characteristic in that person. I thought I “knew” My Sweet Lord but all I know now is that there are still doors that remain to be opened by me in that song.

Every time I listen to My Sweet Lord, my reaction is quite profound. I’m often nearly overcome with emotion while the song is playing. This music taps into a deep well of spirituality that I never knew existed within me. The Beatles were all very spiritual men, how else could they have created music that has resonated so deeply with so many millions of people? However, because of his deep connection to Indian music, it is  George Harrison who is known as the spiritual one of the group. I have no idea who or what God is but I think it has something to do with eternal love, joy and beauty. If that’s the case, then surely My Sweet Lord is the musical embodiment of God.

Using words to write about music is about as futile as trying to describe colors to a blind person. Trying to describe my feeling while listening to My Sweet Lord are equally futile, but I’ll take a stab at it anyway.

The song begins with a shimmering wash of acoustic guitars, layered like the brushstrokes of a master on a canvas. At :16 the sweet, melodic, double tracked slide guitar sound that is George’s trademark makes its entry with the first of his two guitar solos. At :48 the first hint of Phil Spector’s Wall of Sound appears via some beautifully understated flutes. The backing vocals, in the guise of a chorus of angels, debuts at 1:26 with the joyous refrain of “hallelujah, hallelujah”. The song changes key as the Wall of Sound kicks into full throttle at 1:45 when drums, percussion, bass, more acoustic guitars and the kitchen sink are added to the mix. At this point George is so deeply into his lead vocal that at 2:23 when he sings, “I really want to show you lord but it won’t take long my lord”, his voice cracks with emotion. My eyes well up with tears here every time. The second guitar solo, between 2:39—2:53, is pure manna from Heaven. At the 3:00 mark, more angels join the choir as the mantra “hare Krishna, Krishna Krishna, hare hare” is repeatedly sung. By now, My Sweet Lord is no longer just a pop song (was it ever?), but rather a prayer, and I’m filled with the hope and possibilities of love and beauty that this song invokes. During the final 1:47, instruments and voices are all working in perfect harmony, the joy of the musicians shining through like sunbeams shooting out from behind a cloud. The final fade out is a walk on the beach at sunset, the pinks and yellows, reds and oranges gradually giving way to the deepest shades of blue, then silence.

With the writing and recording of My Sweet Lord, I believe George Harrison and producer Phil Spector created music that is truly divine. Like this song, the people and places that I hold most dear will continue to improve with age because I will continue to find new and different ways to love and appreciate them. Hallelujah indeed.