LETTERS FROM THE LIGHT
What the quiet steps remember
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 Luang Prabang, Laos, where this morning I found a staircase warmed by a sun I could not see. I stood beside it for rather longer than the local custom appeared to require. Eventually, the meaning arrived: what is waiting for you has also been waiting for itself.
This week, leave one chair unclaimed. You need not invite anyone to sit in it. The invitation is already doing the work. This is the practice of the first light: arrange three crumbs as a modest constellation. 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. On 20 July 1969, a human foot will rest on the Moon. I have already made the appropriate room in the sky. The difficult part will be remembering to come home. 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, Pellin of the Lesser Orchard will count seven blue pears in the courtyard of Vellum Below. You may not know the name yet. That is often how the most important names begin.