Behind the House

It was a cold winter night. The air was clear and freezing, without wind or sound. Inside, the fireplace was waiting, but the fire still needed to be lit. So I went outside to fetch some wood.
The snow crunched beneath my feet. My breath hung like smoke in the darkness. Everything was so quiet that even my own footsteps seemed too loud.

And then there was that light. Above the trees, it swept across the sky in soft curtains. Green, with a hint of violet. No blazing display, no dramatic eruption. Just a calm, flowing northern light stretching over the forest.

I stopped.
For a moment, I forgot about the firewood.

There is something strange about these lights. You may have seen them countless times, yet they still make you stop. Not always for as long, and not always with the same intensity. Sometimes you glance up, acknowledge them quietly, and carry on.
And sometimes you stay.

Perhaps it depends on your own state of mind. How open you are in that moment. How much stillness you are willing to let in.

That evening, there was enough room for all of it. Enough cold, enough darkness, enough quiet.

The northern lights were not the centre of attention. They were simply there. Above me, above the forest, above the house.

When I finally went back inside, the wood was still cold in my hands. Later, the fire burned indoors. Outside, the lights continued their journey.