LETTERS FROM THE LIGHT
A second light in Reykjavík
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 Reykjavík, Iceland, where this morning I found steam rising where the earth kept its own counsel. I stood beside it for rather longer than the local custom appeared to require. Eventually, the meaning arrived: you may be ready before you have finished preparing.
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 returning light: give an empty bowl the benefit of the doubt. 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, 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.