After my last exam, I headed to the store in search of an end-of-the-semester treat--nothing big, just a new accessory to mark the occasion. Once in the accessories area, I became aware of being watched, by row upon row of sunglasses. I looked back at them. And I liked what I saw.
I am very nearsighted. If I don't leave my glasses within reach when I go to sleep, then when I wake up, I may spend hours in the morning, feeling up a fuzzy planet in search of them. I couldn't remain in the accessories department to try on sunglasses either, so close would I have to get to the mirror, I might be mistaken for Narcissus. So it was off to the dressing room! And on my way, I picked up a few complimentary fashions such as one might want to go with some stylish shades: undercover sleuth, gonzo journalist, hipster librarian, chair of the extraterrestrial meet-and-greet, etc.
I grabbed some big, black plastics, the kind that might say "I'm a celebrity in disguise," mostly because they fit over my glasses and go with everything. (I generally eschew those itchy disks, except for swimming and rabble scrap situations.) I found some heart-shaped frames. They were my go-tos as a little girl. You can't go wrong with love frames! I then found some faux dulce de leche Ray Bans. The color was too sweet to pass up. Plus, I love, love, love their "Never Hide" ad campaign!
We are the only species that wears sunglasses, unless you're Bernie the Dog, a recurring star in my Dad's bedtime stores. Apparently, we've been wearing sunglasses since the Middle Ages. It's too bad they didn't make it into more tapestries and illuminated texts. I can imagine Richard the Lionheart flipping down his Raeye Bayunnes and galloping off into the sunset.
Our sun is a star. Our earth is a ball of stardust that we ride around our star. Our sun is one of many stars which makes up the Milky Way Galaxy, a giant pinwheel of stars and stardust. Our sun is part of one of the arms, and we ride it, as it swirls through space, like a giant teacup ride.
I suppose I think of us as lights: some are fireflies, decorating the night sky. Some are stars, which light many planets. Some are streetlights and porch lights, making the world safer for others. Some are hearth fires, making the world cozier for others. And some are lighthouse beams, emanating from the waves' edge, singing in the the lifeboats, as Voltaire says--from wherever, whoever, whyever they be--to a safe shore. What sort of light are you?
When I was growing up, we had a toy called Lite Brite. There was a panel of light, which we would cover with black construction paper, and then punch different colored, translucent pieces through the paper to make a picture. The question is oftentimes as simple as whether or not to punch through the darkness. It is a question of something or nothing. Do bright somethings! Be a bright something! You're not a what, not a where, not a how, not a why, but a who. You're Light Bright You!
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