If Heaven had a top on it, We, you and I, the One of Us, would be sitting at the height of Heaven. As it is, there is no roof on Heaven. We could say there is the Height of Love or, perhaps, We sit on the Peak of Heaven, and, naturally, all is well. We are undoubtedly established in Heaven, which has no confines. There are no borders in Heaven. No exclusions. I will simply not have anyone excluded. No one is kept out. This is not My way. This is not My desire.

Beloved, I offer a full-service Heaven. This is the way I like it. No notary has to sign a petition nor attest to it.

Do you see how a Heavenletter can begin? It begins with a phrase or a sentence and then another phrase or sentence ventures in, and, before you know it, more words pop in and somehow adhere and bring more.

This reminds Me of a how a puppy dog grows – a little at the tail and a little at the nose.

It is all natural. Godwriting grows the same way a flower grows. This is the same way seeds fall to nourish the Earth or to multiply the evidence of life on Earth. What does not grow simply with a little here and a little there?

We can say – of course – We can say anything We happen to say. Who carves a statue? Wherein is a sculpture sculpted?

How is a play written? How is a program for a play written?

From where cometh a song, a song sung from the heart arranged according to a heartbeat?

What a beautiful parapet is life as it makes itself viable. Something of life is also visible, and some things of life are not visible. They do not have to be. It’s clear by now that nothing has to be observed close up. Far away is also free and clear. Clear or unclear, sung or not in one tone or another, life itself is something to mention, yet from where and to where?

Was life made as a puzzle with decision, or was life simply found on the beach, washed up on the shore along with seaweed and gemstones from a faraway source yet to be noted? From where cometh life and to where does it flow?

Meaning to life has been requested or required and sought, and the meaning of life attributes itself to modern-day heroes. Are you a hero? Perhaps you wrote yourself in as a dinner menu or a shopping list on the spur of the moment.

Are the menus written ahead of time, and can they be written in sand? What remains at the beach hither and yon? And what do the contents of the seashore have to do with you or anything, and why do you ask?

We can play volleyball. What is the point of this? It appears that you are footsteps based on sand. Where does that leave you, and who asks you?

Is life a court that is to come to order or to be left to disorder and at whose request, and who inquires, and who decides and whatever for?

Does a day go by like a canoe ride on a stream? Who says so? Must something be mentioned before it exists, or what? What is known? And what is not known, and by whose decree?

Is there a parade today? What about a marching band? Who names today? Has today been celebrated, and what about tomorrow? Is life but an unending parade?

Of what is spirit made? It is enough that spirit exists and that We all do, too, isn’t it?

Life is made of a little fancy. And why not?