A Measure of Heaven

Everything was blue, gold, and white.
Water, sand, and sun: all was suddenly one.
I felt suspended, without any real sense of either time or space.
Diana Butler Bass

When I was seven or eight I felt the hand of heaven.
Some older boys laid a rudimentary bridge of 2x4s
nailed together end-to-end over the irrigation canal
across the alley from my family's backyard
to cut off the quarter-mile walk to the nearest street
spanning the canal. They were encouraging—or maybe
taunting, tempting—other boys to run across it.
I still do not know if I triggered a harmonic vibration
or if another boy stomped on the bridge,
but it bounced enough to throw me into the water.

Surface above me, sparkle.
Hush around me, liberate.
Water beneath me, gentle.

My memory is clear of the peace that came over me.
The canal was warm in the afternoon sun.
I landed on my back staring up toward the surface.
From below, water—sun-dappled, transparent—
Silence, complete, enfolding, absolute.
There was no distress, no discomfort, no worry,
just total absence of gravity more restful and soothing
than any bed I've ever slept in. I think I forgot how
to breathe; in any case, I never sputtered or gasped.
It seemed like years were passing slowly.

Breathe within me, pause.
Stillness without me, calm.
Eternity buoy me, slow.

A hand reached down and pulled me from the water.
I do not know whose saving arm it was, an older boy,
an adult who watched the event, a God who had work
left for me to do. The most important thing was feeling
a total lack of fear. Even today, I have no sense
that I was probably drowning. It was the most perfect
place I've ever been. At various times during my
anxiety-filled adult years, I have wished I could return
to that gentle, spiritual, peaceful dreamlike world—
that little measure of heaven here on earth.

Hand stretch down, rescue.
Spirit through me, restore.
Heaven embrace me, confirm.