The Dance of the Aurora

The snow crunched beneath my feet as I led my girlfriend down the driveway, her eyes covered by a soft, woollen scarf I had gently wrapped around her head. The scarf shielded her eyes from the sight that awaited her and provided warmth against the cold winter night. The cold air nipped at our cheeks, but I knew the chill would be forgotten once she saw the sight that awaited her.

“Open your eyes,” I whispered, and as she did, a gasp escaped her lips.

The gasp took me back to my childhood, growing up in this little rural hamlet in northern Norway, nestled innermost in one of the country’s many long and narrow fjords. The high mountains surrounding our farm seemed to touch the sky, their steep, rugged faces casting long shadows that made the sun rise two hours late in the morning and set three hours early in the evening.

In the summer, the midnight sun bathed the landscape in a perpetual golden glow, and due to our unique location, we were treated to two sunsets in a day—one at 8 AM in the morning and another at 3 AM in the middle of the night. As teenagers, we would stay up late into those luminous nights, partying and philosophizing over our newfound knowledge and the music that stirred our souls. We’d raise our glasses to the second sunset, the one that painted the sky in hues of pink and orange at 3 AM, a secret spectacle reserved only for those who dared to stay awake.

The isolation never bothered me; it felt more like a comforting embrace. The stunning natural beauty surrounding us was a constant companion, always there to inspire and provide solace in equal measure. The fjord, with its deep, clear waters and the mountains’ snow-capped peaks, was as much a part of me as the blood in my veins.

Standing there with my girlfriend, I was reminded of the countless winter nights I had spent marvelling at the night sky. The sky stretched above us, an endless inky black dotted with countless stars. It was as if someone had taken a handful of diamonds and scattered them across a velvet cloth. The mountains loomed on either side, their jagged peaks silhouetted against the night. And then, as if on cue, the northern lights began to dance.

Ribbons of green, blue, and purple swirled across the sky, twisting and turning like ethereal dancers. They seemed to touch the mountaintops, then soar off into the heavens, only to return in a dizzying display of light and colour. My girlfriend stood transfixed, her mouth agape, her eyes wide with wonder.

As we stood there, gazing up at the sky, I couldn’t help but think about the power of moments like these that make you feel awe. Moments that make you feel small and remind you there’s so much out there that we don’t understand that we can’t even begin to wrap our heads around.

It’s humbling, you know? But it’s also comforting, in a strange sort of way. It makes you feel like you’re part of something bigger, something that matters.

I’ve read about studies that say experiencing awe can change you. It’s hard not to be inspired when you’re standing there, looking up at something so vast and beautiful. It makes you want to chase your dreams, no matter how crazy they seem. And maybe that’s what it’s all about, in the end—finding those moments that give your life meaning, that make you feel like you’re right where you’re supposed to be.

As my girlfriend and I stood there, watching the northern lights dance across the sky, I knew that this was a moment we would never forget—a moment of pure, unadulterated awe that would stay with us forever. And I knew that in the years to come, whenever we needed a reminder of the beauty and wonder of the world, we would think back to that cold, clear night at my birthplace in northern Norway when the sky came alive with light and colour, and anything seemed possible.