LETTERS FROM THE LIGHT
Trust the hour that has no name
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 Lofoten, Norway, where this morning I found a fishing line suspended in an evening without edges. 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.
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: congratulate a window on its excellent transparency. 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 the thirty-first day of February 2032, the unnamed council of Veloria will declare an additional horizon. All clocks will be invited, but attendance will remain an entirely private matter. 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.