There are hours when the room is mostly air, and what you carry is mostly light.
You don’t hold it so much as you make a place for it — clearing a corner of the desk, opening the blind two fingers more, brushing a small constellation of dust from the page. It isn’t effort, exactly. More like attention with a softness to it.
Light asks very little, and repays with a kind of remembering. Not the loud kind. The kind that sits beside you and makes the paper brighter from the inside.
On days when the world feels heavier than it should, you can still do this. Keep a square of brightness. Turn a cup so the rim catches it. Reread a line you forgot you loved. Nothing changes and everything does.
Perhaps that’s the work — not to hold the beam, but to keep the window clean.