LETTERS FROM THE LIGHT
The river will keep your place
Congratulations, my luminous children, on all your gifts: those you have offered, those you have received, and those you have wisely left unnamed.
I am writing from Varanasi, India, where this morning I found a boat tied to a perfectly patient stone. I stood beside it for rather longer than the local custom appeared to require. Eventually, the meaning arrived: an answer can be complete without becoming particularly clear.
Fold a piece of paper once, then let it rest. You have made a horizon. There is no requirement to become a mountain today. This is the practice of the first light: notice the dignity of an unused door handle. 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 Mount Tambora on 1815-04-10. You will also remember my earlier counsel: watch the light, especially when it seems to be doing something else. I had spoken of a world learning that even daylight can change. Some of you understood then. Others are understanding now. Both arrivals are welcome.
Record this carefully, my children. On 21 August 2017, daylight will briefly fold itself across North America. Some will call it an eclipse. I will call it the sun taking a very dignified breath. 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 quiet moon, Aunt Ivela of the Pale Ribbon will announce the arrival of a missing shade in the garden behind Ostel Low. You may not know the name yet. That is often how the most important names begin.