Someone was about to complain that they couldn't feel their toes. Then the sky moves, and the sentence gives up halfway through. A green ribbon stretches above the trees. A pink fold gathers, loosens, appears somewhere else. And we Brownies, who can usually find something daft to say about absolutely anything, shut up.
Well, one of us whispers, “Bloody hell.” Said tenderly enough, that counts as reverent silence.
The northern lights leave us without a spare sentence. A moment ago we had Very Important Things on our minds. Now we're standing here with dripping noses, watching a painting that life itself hasn't finished making. Every time we think we've caught the shape of it, the brush moves.
The sky's opened a disco, and everyone's in
At first we watch with our eyes. Then the rest of us joins in. Goosebumps arrive, something loosens in our chest, and we're grinning before we've worked out why. The hairs on our arms have stood up for a better view. They could've just asked for front-row seats.
We're properly gobsmacked. Green light folds across the dark, the horizon seems to breathe, and delight has us by the scruff of the neck. This is joy's own disco. No roof, no bouncer, no bloke trampling your feet while insisting he's barely moving.
Our bodies supply the soundtrack. A heartbeat, a breath, a little laugh escaping into a scarf. An inward symphony to go with all that dancing overhead. We want to jump about, hug someone, point everywhere at once. Our pointing is hopeless. “Over there!” loses its usefulness when the whole horizon is doing something extraordinary.
What gives the northern lights their colours?
Auroras appear when charged particles, mainly electrons, collide with gases high in the atmosphere. The gases gain energy and release it as light. Oxygen can produce green and red light, while nitrogen contributes blue, pink and violet shades. The colour depends on the gas and altitude, among other factors. NASA explains the encounters between particles and our atmosphere behind the display.
We love a wonder with workings inside. Knowing where the green comes from gives us another thing to marvel at. The universe has been doing physics and accidentally booked the greatest light show imaginable. We plug in a toaster and sometimes trip the fuse.
A door we hadn't noticed
For a moment, the familiar world seems to reveal a room it's been keeping to itself. Our boots are still in the snow. The flask still leaks round the lid. Yet everything suddenly has more depth.
We like to think of this as another dimension: a place our usual way of looking can't quite hold. Cold and delight fit in here together. So do sadness and a fierce gladness to be alive. We Brownies can barely fold a map, but we're very happy to wander into somewhere with room for all of that.
Something similar happened when we wrote about taking the plunge in the rain. The world has to be allowed to get through to us. For a few minutes, we stop trying to make something useful out of the view. We look. The night seems perfectly happy without a performance review.
Then someone turns up. A name, a laugh, the way a hand used to squeeze ours. We've been looking at the sky, and suddenly we're full of people.
Past, present and future squeeze onto one bench
Perhaps we remember whoever taught us to spot creatures in the clouds. Perhaps it's a friend who lives miles away and would say something gloriously inappropriate at the sight of this. Or someone who's died, whose voice still tells us to wrap up warm, with all the authority they once brought to the biscuit cupboard.
The past brings that voice. The present brings cold air into our lungs. The future arrives with a small promise: “Next time, I want to bring you.” All three shuffle along the bench. We make room, though the bench wasn't really built to seat the whole of existence.
Sometimes the tears turn up just as everything gets beautiful. We let them. Joy can be a bit damp round the edges. We wipe our faces on our sleeves and carry on looking, keeping that familiar name warm inside.
Why does something beautiful make us think of people we love?
A beautiful experience can stir memories and a wish to share it. Watching the northern lights, we might think of someone who would love those colours, an evening spent together, or a person we miss. That feeling of closeness grows out of our shared history. We Brownies reckon “I wish you were here” is one of affection's clearest ways of making itself heard.
It's funny how quickly wonder goes looking for company. Even the Brownie who claims to be a lone wolf starts tugging at somebody's sleeve. Give us something astonishing and we want a familiar face beside us. Our independence has a lovely little gap where people get in.
That's part of keeping a real friendship alive: remembering someone when something happens that would make their day. Sometimes we can ring them. Sometimes we save a sentence for later. Sometimes we say their name quietly, knowing this moment can only be shared with a memory.
What we bring home
The aurora slowly fades. A pale streak, then darkness, then someone remembers the pressing matter of their frozen toes. The show is over, and a very ordinary hunger makes itself known. Even a cosmic experience benefits from a bowl of soup.
Back home, there'll still be washing-up and messages we haven't answered. We're carrying something new, though: the memory of having stood there. And the urge to tell somebody we thought of them. That part of the journey is still possible, long after the last green thread has gone.
We fish out a phone with clumsy fingers and type: “I saw something beautiful and thought of you.”
The disco upstairs has closed. Down here, another little light has just come on.
