Or Perhaps It's The Citrus

One day, I’m minding my own business. Cooking. At the moment making a salad. A stew warming on the stove. And I have the bib lettuce. I have the nuts. And both are in the bowl. The salad bowl. And now it’s time for the orange. The two large deep-orange oranges.

And so, I begin to peel one. Break the thick fruity skin. And what happens next is anybody’s guess. I mean I’m not thinking about God, in particular. I’m not thinking about heaven or eternity or anything. I’m simply cooking for the home fellowship because tonight I’m furnishing the meal. And so I alternate thinking about the people in the home fellowship and about the food here that I’m preparing. Oh, you know. The mind wanders. So this isn’t strictly true. I think about work and about the moron there. I think about my wife and children far away. I think about a book I’m reading. A book I’m writing. The beach that I may visit next weekend. A lovely long empty beach, for the most part. My mind wanders. As I say.

But as my thumb pierces the skin of this orange here in my hand, I am suddenly breathing the air of paradise. I mean. I’m suddenly breathing the sweet pure air of heaven. As I breathe in this air, my whole being seems lifted out of itself and transported. Seems transformed. I stop everything except the breathing and the enjoying. Here it is, I’m thinking. Here I am. What more could one want. Heaven. Heaven itself.

As if God had opened the door into heaven and allowed the atmosphere there to mingle with the atmosphere of this world. So that now there is no difference. I am still here in my kitchen. I look around. Yes. I’m still here. But I am also in heaven. Breathing the air there. Or here. Breathing and breathing. I could do this forever, I’m thinking. Just stand here breathing this. Like this. This is enough. Only this.

But this is ridiculous, I’m thinking. This is silly. I mean. Bill. For Pity’s sake. This is only an orange. It’s only a single orange sold for. Oh. I don’t know. Fifty cents. Seventy-five cents. A buck. I don’t know. Get a grip. Get a life. Give somebody a call, for Pete’s sake. You’re spending too much time alone. That’s what the problem is. You’re spending all this time alone and you’re disconnecting. You’re decompressing. You’re disintegrating. You’re discombobulating. You’re deconstructing.

I mean. Get real. Knock on Formica. Knock on pressboard. Knock on plastic. Here’s reality, for crying out loud. Look at this stuff here. Look at the sink. At the stove. At the cupboards. At the living room sofa. At the TV. And so forth. Here is where you live.

Yes. Yes, I’m thinking. This is where I live. But I can’t help it. I’m breathing in this orange’s perfume, and this can’t be just this orange. I’m sorry. What is happening to me can’t have simply to do with this particular orange’s perfume. What’s happening is way out of proportion to this orange, don’t you see. The smell. This orange smell. It’s. It’s the essence of orange. It’s where all oranges get the smell they have. The smell that is normally a pale, pathetic imitation of this.

And what this is is pure excitement. Pure happiness. An ecstasy, if you will. A small moment of cooking ecstasy. My diaphragm is fluttering. My heart rate increases. My breathing quickens. Oh, I feel like. I don’t know. Like the next thing will be an angel with real wings will walk into the room and communicate. Or fly in through a window or a wall. A female angel is what I’m thinking. A female angel on the order of. Oh. I don’t know. Rachel Welch, for example. Or Sophia Loren. In their prime. That kind of very impressive angel. That kind of very humbling angel. Communicate what. I don’t know. Will pick me up like Woody Allen. Like a little Woody Allen type of. Oh. You know. Pseudo-intellectual, very sensitive, artistic, well read type of guy. And dance maybe. I don’t know. Dancing would be good. Pick me up and fly me around the room. Fly me around the entire metropolitan area. Around the entire state, maybe. And up. Up into the crown of stars that arches here overhead. Beyond the illusory blue. Beyond the pure blue sky. Up and on and streaming. Faster and faster. Until the stars begin to blur and the dark disappears and there is only light. Completely light. Everywhere. As though we’re flying through all light, a ball of all light. All the light in the universe. Billions of galaxies of light. As though we’re flying through the center of that. This kind of feeling. This kind of sense.

And all of this from this orange here.

This breath from paradise. This breath of God. This intimation of heaven. Here. Amidst the Formica and the pressboard and the TV. The accidental material world. The time-bound material world. Here in a kitchen at a particular place with particular coordinates at a particular point in time. As I’m peeling this orange. This beautiful big succulent orange. From which all paradise. Silly as it sounds. Seems to have come.