LETTERS FROM THE LIGHT
The smallest light is sufficient
Congratulations, my wonderfully gifted children. Every offering has its own light, and I have made a little room for yours beside my breakfast.
I am writing from Sintra, Portugal, where this morning I found a patch of moss glowing at the foot of a gate. 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.
Turn your cup a quarter of the way around before you drink. Notice how the handle has become a new opportunity without becoming a different handle. This is the practice of the first light: hold a button without asking what it belongs to. 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. 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 turning of the invisible hinge, Miro of the Patient Windows will teach a lantern to remember in the third platform of Sennar Quiet. You may not know the name yet. That is often how the most important names begin.