The light

Simple things that make (or break) an environment

If I sit in my kitchen to work, the light coming in through the window beside me changes how I work. The light itself is perfect. I hope it never changes. But it does change me.

At first the light is gentle and warm. But soon I begin to see the dust in the air in front of my face. Water spots on my screen. If I’m on zoom my video gets overexposed. But that all happens gradually. I find myself scooting my stuff over a couple inches at a time—shifting my laptop, notebook, pencil, mouse, out of the bright light, until I have moved things as far over as possible without falling out of my chair. Finally I do move to a new chair on the other side of the bar but I’m a little grumpy about it. The charger doesn’t quite reach all the way.

This is the dance I do when I work in the kitchen, it’s the same every time. I ask myself why I don’t just work from the right side of the bar to start with, but the left spot is better. Until it isn’t.

Makes me think about how something that is so nice in small, filtered doses will eventually irritate, enough to make me alter my environment or what I’m doing, to get up and move all my stuff. Like a great song you kill by overplaying. Absolutely perfect. Until it isn’t.

And really, nothing about the nature of the one pure good thing has changed. But the environment is different. So you have to change too, or be changed by it. Something humbling about that.

This post is part of my writing practice, a series of imperfect but regular reflections. Thanks for reading.