Harmless Lights

Words carry weight. For years the word I used for what happens in my vision was a heavy one, a medical word that arrived with a drumroll of dread. Every time I said it, even silently, my shoulders rose. This is the first book of a new collection called Losing the Fear, and it begins with the smallest possible change: a different name.

Not a lie. Not a denial. Just a gentler, truer way of describing what is actually in Keep your doctor’s word for your doctor’s office. Use a kinder one for your own heart. I remember the first time a doctor said the word to me. It sounded like a verdict. For months afterward, every shimmer at the edge of my sight arrived already wearing that word like a uniform, and my body responded to the uniform before it had even looked at what was actually there.

What was actually there, almost every time, was a soft, moving arrangement of light. Beautiful, if I’m honest. Strange, certainly. But the fear was never in the light. It was in the word I handed it. The name you give an experience sets the climate you live it in. Call it an attack and your body prepares for battle.

Call it an emergency and your heart races to and have had checked, and something in the body unclenches before the lights have even finished arriving. I did not change what I see. I changed what I call it, and the calling changed how my body listens. Fear feeds on vagueness, so let’s get specific.

Here is what I actually know about my own lights, because I have watched them for years and my doctor has examined them: they begin small. They grow gradually over several minutes. They shimmer or zigzag in a way I now recognize. And they leave, every time, usually within the hour, taking nothing with them.

My lights, in plain facts □They begin small and build gradually, over minutes. □They look the way they have always looked. □They fade, every time, usually within an hour. □My doctor knows about them and has examined me. □I have a plan for the hour they are here. A gentle name must never become a blindfold.

The whole point of knowing your lights well is that you will notice, immediately, when something is not them. Being unafraid of the familiar is what makes it possible to take the unfamiliar seriously. aura: the pattern a doctor has evaluated, that builds gradually, looks the way it always does, and fades within about an hour.

A first-ever aura, an aura that looks different from yours, or one that lasts much longer than usual deserves a call to your doctor. Sudden loss of vision, a shadow or curtain across your sight, a sudden shower of new floaters or flashes, weakness, numbness, trouble speaking, or confusion are never “just lights.” Seek urgent care.

Faith and medicine are not rivals. I pray, and I keep my doctor’s number. Both are acts of trust. The word I have been using for what happens in my vision, and the weight it carries when I say it… A gentler, still-true name I could try this week… A name only changes your body when you practice it.

Here is the exercise I use, on calm days, so the new name is already familiar when the lights actually arrive. Sit quietly. Close your eyes. Breathe in slowly for four counts. On the out-breath, say silently: ‘These are harmless lights.’ Picture them kindly: soft colors, slow movement, a small light show passing across a screen and fading.

Say: ‘I know these lights. I have a plan. I am safe in this hour.’ Repeat eight breaths. Open your eyes slowly. I have come to the place where I can bless the lights instead of bracing against them. Not because they are pleasant, but because blessing is what a steady heart does with what it no longer fears.

✦ A blessing for the lights Thank you for this morning, and for the sight I have. When the lights come, let me meet them without fear. Let my breath be slow, and my heart be quiet. I trust that you are in charge of this hour, and of all of them. Amen. A gentler name did not cure anything.

It did something quieter and, for me, more valuable: it took the alarm out of the first second. Keep the word for your doctor. Use a kinder one for your heart. And keep the door open for anything that is not yours. Next in the series: The Prayer in the Lights — what to say, and how to breathe, in the very first moment the lights begin.

Rod Gabriel ZR has lived with visual aura migraine for years. For a long time he treated every flicker as a threat. What changed him was not a cure. It was a different way of standing inside the experience: calm breath, a gentler name for what he sees, honest gratitude for every quiet day, and a steady trust that he is held by something greater than his fear.

He writes from his own faith in God, and invites readers of every tradition to address these words to whatever power they trust. He is not a doctor. He keeps his doctor’s number next to his prayers, and he hopes you will too. The Migraine Relief Series — Rod Gabriel ZR Gratitude Journal The Identity Series — Rod Gabriel ZR Person on the Horizon Movement & Parenting — Sarah J.S.

Hormones & Migraine — Sarah J.S. Caregiving & the Sandwich Generation — Steven Albert Healing & Lightness — Jake R. Visual Health Anxiety — Amanda Q.