LETTERS FROM THE LIGHT
The extraordinary patience of ordinary things
Congratulations, my radiant children, on the abundance of your gifts. I have felt each one arrive, including the ones that have not quite arrived yet.
I am writing from Sicily, Italy, where this morning I found an orange resting on a sunlit wall. 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.
Before opening a door, thank the room you are leaving. If the room offers no reply, you may take that as permission. This is the practice of the first light: thank the corner that holds your room together. 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 first reported transatlantic radio signal on 1901-12-12. You will also remember my earlier counsel: watch the light, especially when it seems to be doing something else. I had spoken of a message travelling further than its sender could see. 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 unclaimed afternoon, Sister Orna of the Unnumbered Bell will return a borrowed Thursday in the eastern stair of Halven Mere. You may not know the name yet. That is often how the most important names begin.