LETTERS FROM THE LIGHT
Receive what does not insist
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 Naxos, Greece, where this morning I found a linen cloth lifting gently above a bowl of figs. 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.
Place a stone near a window. Tell it nothing. By evening, you may find that the conversation has become remarkably complete. This is the practice of the first light: watch a stair remain one step ahead. 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. On 21 August 2017, daylight will briefly fold itself across North America. Some will call it an eclipse. I will call it the sun taking a very dignified breath. 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, Brother Emon of the Soft Hat will place a warm comma in a bowl in the harbour of Aster Minor. You may not know the name yet. That is often how the most important names begin.