LETTERS FROM THE LIGHT
A second light in Samarkand
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 Samarkand, Uzbekistan, where this morning I found a tile catching the sun beneath its own blue sky. 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.
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 returning light: leave a pencil pointed toward an unlikely answer. 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 opening of the Berlin Wall on 1989-11-09. You will also remember my earlier counsel: watch the light, especially when it seems to be doing something else. I had spoken of an opening appearing where certainty had stood. 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 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.