This morning, after reading and replying to messages from my bed, I noticed my eyes hurt. I closed them between messages, then pressed on with things that had to be addressed right away. Last night I had a little sadness and fell asleep crying, so I figured that’s why my eyes hurt. But when I forced myself to look away from my screen I realized I might have screen fatigue. Light hurt. Ironically, I used my computer to Google “screen fatigue” to confirm the symptoms.
 |
| asking the source of my pain to explain my pain |
 |
| Yikes! |
As I was hand-writing a card yesterday I noted how much faster my brain moves than my cursive-writing hand. My writing hand feels like a second-grade runner in an Olympic race. I just can’t keep up and I skip letters and whole words and end up having to squish an extra letter in here and there. I start out steady and well-intended, but end up tripping all over myself and inevitably running out of space. As I re-read the card I noted how illegible my handwriting seemed. “They’re going to have to pass this card around and confer about what it says,” I thought. I really do prefer my computer. I can almost keep up with my brain on my keyboard, and it’s so much more legible. I’m really grateful for this option, especially during Lent and other projects, when I spend so much time writing.
I’m noticing, at the moment, that resting my eyes regularly while typing facilitates an opportunity to ponder.
I’m thinking about the difference between sourced light and reflective light. Generally, reading from a book is easier on the eyes than reading from a screen. One uses reflective light, the other has source light behind it. One might think the light source is the best route all the time, but I’m thinking again. On clear-skied nights we are drawn to the light of the moon. We gaze on it and comment to each other about its size, or its brilliance, or its spookiness, or how it looks like the thin fingernail clipped from a newborn child. We are able to stare at the moon because it is reflective light, and our eyes can handle it. The sun, not so much. We are grateful for its power, but it’s too much for our eyes to look upon.
A number of years ago I served as a church teacher in the Davis County Jail. We visited twice a week and taught spirit-driven lessons to the female inmates. I served for three years. During that time some ladies rotated in and out. “Oh, hey! Good to see you again” we would say as they entered our Relief Society meeting. We met in the small library in the center of the jail. We greeted the sisters, all orange striped and friendly. Many of them had a hard time changing their lifestyles, and it landed them repeatedly in jail. Most, especially in regards to women, had addiction troubles that drove them to repeat bad behavior.
That particular calling was a gift to me. I loved those sisters of mine. I realized: There, but for the Grace of God, go I.
During my time in jail I wrote a song for my inmate sisters called Gentle Words. It reflects on how, when you’ve lived a rough life, gentleness feels uncomfortable. It’s like when you’ve been in a dark room and someone comes in and switches on the light, it hurts. I feel for my friends who want to change and can’t figure out how. I feel for my own failed efforts. Change, even good change, hurts.
I’m thinking all of us are prisoners here. We have a lot to do to be able to live safely on the outside. Source light can be a bit too much.
What we need is reflected light.
Find it.
Or be it.
I asked Alexa to play Gentle Words for me, and up came The King of the Burley Parade. I wrote both songs, and they are back to back on my Pontiac Rocket album, but they are very different songs. If you want to hear Gentle Words, ask Alexa to play King of the Burley Parade. And vice versa (Sheesh!)
