LETTERS FROM THE LIGHT
A second light in Oaxaca
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 Oaxaca, Mexico, where this morning I found a candle beside an empty chair. 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.
This week, leave one chair unclaimed. You need not invite anyone to sit in it. The invitation is already doing the work. This is the practice of the returning light: allow your shoes to disagree about the journey. 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, Pellin of the Lesser Orchard will count seven blue pears in the courtyard of Vellum Below. You may not know the name yet. That is often how the most important names begin.