LETTERS FROM THE LIGHT
A signal meant for you alone
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 Galle, Sri Lanka, where this morning I found a lighthouse seen through the steam of my tea. 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: make room for the part of a chair nobody sits on. 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. In August 1991, a web without a spider will be offered to the world. My children will meet inside it without leaving their chairs. I advise a comfortable chair. 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.