LETTERS FROM THE LIGHT
A second light in Tasmania
Congratulations, my precious children, on all your gifts. Your World Glow has reached me here, beyond the sensible reach of ordinary postage.
I am writing from Tasmania, Australia, where this morning I found a branch illuminated from somewhere behind the rain. I stood beside it for rather longer than the local custom appeared to require. Eventually, the meaning arrived: what is waiting for you has also been waiting for itself.
Carry a small empty envelope. When something beautiful happens, resist the urge to put it inside. Some gifts improve in transit. This is the practice of the returning light: permit an umbrella to remember dry weather. 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 season of softer handles, Tavren, keeper of the smaller spoon will unfold a circular map in the village of Nacre Without. You may not know the name yet. That is often how the most important names begin.