Seventh Heaven, Seven Perceptions

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Has a short philo­so­phical novel ever changed the way you view life?

This is one such book.

Why? I was there to witness my mum, a believing Catholic, on her dying bed having a transformation:

Oh, what joy for Bridget, the mother. When that door opened. She was not alone, and she had been holding on for this final communion. The family of four sat around the bed to witness their mother. Her body was limp, her voice a wisp, but the vulnerability in her eyes could speak volumes.

A lifetime of them. Because she was grieving. And grieving is the fruit of, how deeply we have loved and connected. She beheld each one in turn. Gigantic subs were beginning to emit from the onlookers the ache of parting too huge to contain. Perhaps it was never a mother more left.

Bridget turned the rosary beads around in her fingers, clinging, clutching, treasuring the promise of salvation,

yet assenting to what was about to come.

Father, into thy hands I commend my. But earthly words were no longer of her domain.

She felt her life force being drawn up to her eyes. And, um, through those eyes, she beheld a bendy light at the foot of the bed. A, ah, light that grew dazzling, fascinating, irresistibly cell. And when she gazed into that light, she saw a figure, a familiar figure that she knew, that excited her, that inspired her.

It was her Jesus in his luminous layman, holding out his arms to her in the most welcoming of welcomes. Uh, lo and behold, her lord had come. Death was a friend. She wanted to go to him. With him. On, into that hypnotising light that limits eternal bliss. Fraily, she lifted back the restraining bed covers and floated out of herself into that light of lightness.

A whiff of flowers, be it earthly or heavenly, filled her senses, because our lady was there, too, drawing back a transparent bluish curtain for Bridget and Christ to pass into the resplendent phosphorins of heaven, while her, ah, earthly family

sat on weeping, wiping, choking, as if the walls of their emotions had burst over-her. Her empty body.

Her body was limp, her voice a wisp but then she saw something.

Her eyes glistened as she stared ahead at something awesome at the foot of the bed. I supposed The Light.

She seemed to find this light inviting or inspiring, because she feebly lifted back the bed-clothes and gently turned her hand towards it breathing, “JESUS,” wanting to go.

I began to wonder what other people would see in that most final of moments. Nobody was willing to discuss the concept with me so I slipped into the shoes of others, began to write and it snowballed from a village to a city to a planet.

The tale stems from the supposition that Heaven exists and that the paradise we see at the hour of our death is the fruit of our earthly conditioning combining with our vast subconscious. At a quirky pace, the tale offers romance and religion, sex and confrontation, exuberance and despair, while opening the curtains to the many cultures in our world.

The subject is ripe, juicy and nourishing for our epoch. The time has come for it to soothe, entertain and fascinate both the emotions and the mind.

Seventh Heaven, Seven Perceptions
by Maria D’Arcy

Read a movie adaptation proposal of Seventh Heaven, Seven Perceptions.

Watch a live performance of the comic Dublin Wit in Chapter 15, or a else a romantic reading from Chapter 14, The Agnostic.