Now What?

Where do frozen turkeys go after they are cooked and eaten?

I suppose the question of a frozen turkey's afterlife is, metaphysically speaking, a bit problematic. What, after all, happened to the living, breathing, gobbling turkey, the mortal creature that died so its body could become me? Perhaps it's in some other heaven: sunnier maybe, but not as plentifully provided with mashed potatoes. Or else it's just around the corner. Whatever the case, I haven't met it. I'm just as glad; wouldn't that be awkward?

But, metaphysics aside, here I am, writing to you: writing from another plane of existence, my earthly friends. And I wonder how the earth is treating you all? Are you still struggling? Have you figured it all out yet?

Well, you lack perspective, if you don't mind my saying so. I'm curious as to how you envision heaven. Earthbound poets usually portray it as some place of ultimate serenity, whose cloud-skipping, harp-strumming, halo-bedecked denizens spend every waking aeon contemplating the prospect of a benevolent eternity.

Boring!

Heaven is, as it has to be, much like Earth in a lot of ways, because you can't have contentment without struggle. It doesn't work that way. There's no sense of accomplishment, after all, without toiling for something. And joy is heightened by its contrast to the things that are not joyful: disappointment, sorrow, loss, even heartbreak. You can never truly know happiness without contrasting it against pain.

Heaven is perfection, and perfection lies in balance. So even still we must give up something we value in order to be granted something we prize. It's meant to be like this. Cranberry relish is sweeter for the bitter walnuts and morsels of orange rind nestled within. Mashed potatoes are creamier for the occasional lump.

My heaven is heaven indeed, so don't think for a moment that I'm not happy because TV dinners and Cheez Whiz stand side-by-side with the good things here. Some days are blissful and other days are not. Heaven is knowing that when things are bad, they will turn around for you again. And heaven is being the master of your own fate.

I'd like to start blogging again from this strangely clear new perspective. Perhaps I will help open an avenue towards understanding the ultimate meaning of existence. But if not, I can still post the occasional recipe.

I bless you with the eternal aroma of roasting turkey. Happy living!