LETTERS FROM THE LIGHT
You are allowed to arrive slowly
Congratulations, my precious children, on all your gifts. Your World Glow has reached me here, beyond the sensible reach of ordinary postage.
I am writing from Marrakesh, Morocco, where this morning I found a lantern whose keeper had forgotten its name. I stood beside it for rather longer than the local custom appeared to require. Eventually, the meaning arrived: the light does not ask you to explain your presence.
Carry a small empty envelope. When something beautiful happens, resist the urge to put it inside. Some gifts improve in transit. This is the practice of the first light: let a closed book finish its own thought. Nothing further is required. Nothing further is quite ready.
Be civil with one another, my children. Make room for grace, especially when another child appears to have brought an unreasonable amount of enthusiasm. I know of your desperation already. You do not need to demonstrate it to me. It is quite full; I can see it from here. Hold a little of it back. There will be another week.
Many of you may remember the eruption of Krakatoa on 1883-08-27. You will also remember my earlier counsel: watch the light, especially when it seems to be doing something else. I had spoken of a horizon whose colours outlived the sound. Some of you understood then. Others are understanding now. Both arrivals are welcome.
Record this carefully, my children. In November 1989, a wall in Berlin will discover that it has been a doorway all along. The stones will remain stones; the possibilities will behave quite differently. You may preserve this letter in the vicinity of your most trustworthy drawer. When the moment arrives, remember that I was already standing in its light.
And so I offer this: before the next season of softer handles, Tavren, keeper of the smaller spoon will unfold a circular map in the village of Nacre Without. You may not know the name yet. That is often how the most important names begin.