stand­ing very still

The New Time or Heaven on Earth

The peo­ple had learned to live in peace. There was no hate or want in the New Time— every­one had faith in them­selves and each other. Every­one had faith in divin­ity and found the divine every day around them —a slant of light through a bough of leaves, a tree toad dis­cov­ered while har­vest­ing herbs, the aroma of soup sim­mer­ing near dusk. Some­times they would make a song, a poem, a pic­ture or play to cel­e­brate the joy of find­ing what they saw divin­e – - so they could call it when feel­ing alone or when they’d for­got­ten it.

No one feared death in the New Time. They lived long lives in strong bod­ies and when their hour had come, they just knew. They’d send some­one to tell the Keeper of the Time Book that it was time to close their page, then would gather their cho­sen friends round their bed in the hour of death. No one knew what heaven was like — it was all they had to con­fess— but in their final hour they would lis­ten to the visions of their friends. Some­times some­one would die with a smile that said, ‘That’s it! That’s the one!”, as they gave up the ghost in peace, know­ing they would still be loved, and trust­ing that heaven was sweet.

One day, the peo­ple were espe­cially happy. It had been 28 years since Evil had walked among them. Sat­urn — the great time-​keeper— had com­pleted its orbit around the Sun, while the Earth had been graced with an age of no evil —- the whole revolution.

With sweet delight, the peo­ple pre­pared a cel­e­bra­tion. For three days and three nights, every­one would bring their favorite foods in their favorite dishes — which hap­pened to be the favorites of most every­one else; and every­one would wear their favorite clothes and orna­ments — which also hap­pened to be the favorites of most every­one else. They would tell their favorite sto­ries, read their favorite poems, sing their favorite songs, and all would dance to cel­e­brate that grace had been so long preserved.

On the third night, near ten, they would gather under the clock tower by the glass house, and sing a mourn­ful song for the Old Time, then wait for the hour’s chime with chilled glasses of sweet, sweet wine to toast the arrival of the Newest of Times. After the toast, they’d all tell their visions with the hope of find­ing the one true vision.

And so the fes­ti­val began, and ended on the third night, very near ten, when they gath­ered near the tower at the glass house, filled their glasses, softly sighed, and then looked to the heav­ens. But the clock didn’t strike. Well, that was odd, the clock had never failed before, but they knew it was time. So they raised their glasses. Just then a star fell from the sky. They all laughed in a sin­gle cord, as if every one of them had felt exactly the same in that instant.

Then, they noticed a child — who would have been a stranger in the Old Time— plain­tively watch­ing the last trace of star. “Wel­come!” they chimed, with a lit­tle sur­prise. One of the elders leaned toward the child, gen­tly smiled, and (speak­ing for all of them) said, “Will you, dear child — - will you be the one to make the wish? There’s noth­ing more that we desire”.

Then the holi­est of chil­dren smiled — the most beatific smile— took in a great big breath, and blew out all the stars like can­dles on a birth­day cake, singing Free at last, free at last!!!

And the clock struck no more.

Good night, dear child. Sweet dreams.