Fiat lux

Commonly cited in biblical and academic circles as "let there be light," fiat lux apparently translates more accurately as "let light be made."

But either way, it only means one thing to me this week:

I have a window.

The kind that looks out over the Alameda harbor, frames the occasional tree branch waving in the breeze, knocks nasty fluorescent overheads into a blessed state of cobwebby disuse. The kind that's most often politically won in the corporate world, but this time came my lucky way from a generous coworker who prefers her shades drawn. Or, rather, that there aren't even any shades to draw.

It's an unsurprising professional hazard that I read all the time. Which isn't the worst way to make a living, really. But since every single person in my family—parents, brother, grandparents, cousins, aunts, uncles, the whole tribe—wears glasses except me, I've long since accepted it's only a matter of time until my first trip to Lenscrafters.

Still. It hasn't happened yet, so I may as well do my best to prolong the inevitable. My rods and cones have been kicking along with no help for going on 30 years now, and the most I've ever done to thank them is try to break my habit of reading at home in low light as the sun sets. Unsuccessfully, I should say.

Until this here window.

A hallmate and I were chatting one day about our office setups. I'd been feeling lethargic, and she'd been feeling distracted. All those people going by all day watching me, she said. And the glare. My eyes are tired, I said, and I can't concentrate. My brain is moving too slowly.

The perfect thing, we both said: A switch! Let's switch.

Requests were made, memos sent, boxes packed for union members to move several long yards. Pictures were hung, semi-ergonomic chairs were tucked into place. Shades were opened.

And it was...wicked good.