The Northern Lights: Part 2

’m standing in the middle of an open field staring at the night sky. We’re in the Yukon, bundled in our tundra parkas, boots and gloves, and I’m wondering if this 2000 mile trip north will grant me something I’ve longed for my entire life — a sighting of the northern lights.

The vast sky is black and glittering with stars. It’s freezing, and I am filled with a soft gratitude for Scott, my husband for more than thirty years, standing by my side when I knew he’d rather be in Hawaii. We wait, and we wait, and I feel a creeping disappointment—will they show? We wait some more, and then a ribbon of green slowly emerges, growing brighter, then more ribbons appear and soon, we are in it —vertical ribbons of iridescent green reaching from the horizon to the heavens, dancing their way across the sky.

I came north because I wanted to remember what magic on this earth feels like. I’m so weary of seeing powerful people demonstrate how small and cruel humans can be. I want to remember that most people are decent and kind. I want to remember that I am part of something bigger, and that this vast universe that we live in is full of mystery and beauty. Standing under that green dancing sky, I did.

Our Yukon days were filled with snowy treks, a dog sled ride through pristine arboreal forests, and sightings of arctic beasts including mule ox, caribou, wood bison, moose, and lynx. At night we huddled round a campfire, the crackling wood sending red and orange sparks up to the sky. 

How many millennia have humans felt this same wonder at this ineffable beauty?

The poet Ellen Bass writes:

…Here I am, suspended

between the sidewalk and twilight,

the sky dimming so fast it seems alive.

What if you felt the invisible

tug between you and everything?…

Looking up, suspended between earth and heaven, I felt that tug—something ancient, and holy.