Tonight, many of us are searching.
For highest probable viewpoints. For best possible times. For a convergence of ions and ionosphere, a luminescence that I believed only existed in the frigid temperatures of Norwegian skies, or beneath the distant dome of the North Pole. Never here, along these coordinates where my life has meandered for years.
I leave the car in a parking lot and walk until my eyes begin to dismantle their reliance on electric light, revealing only blackness and stars above.
At first, a wisp. Perhaps nothing more than a pale trace of odd-colored smoke or the thin driftings of rosy cloud. Mirages of the easily mistaken. But then, movement spreads. A silent river of faraway light pours across the sky. Arrival and departure unannounced. Faded beauty without fanfare. Nothing so bold and white as a lightning strike. How many times have I been oblivious to this quiet migration, been secluded behind cemented edges of cities, scrolling through images colored with an Instagram lens. This evening, I finally realize that the photographs lie.
Existence is so easily missed.
A boy zips by on an electric scooter, cell phone in hand. The glare bleaches out his face as he exclaims to someone on the other end of the line: What aurora? I can’t see it. I wonder if he’d believe there is a golf course just below us even though it is concealed beneath a backdrop of cliffside and night.
I want to tell him:
Let go.
Look up.
This is all there is.
Author's Note:
These days, I’m learning how to self-care in micro-moments. While I enjoy my bigger self-care activities like traveling, wandering outside, or visiting museums and libraries, I’m attempting to find activities that better utilize smaller time frames. A few minutes is all I need to delve into my tea drawer and make a new loose leaf concoction. Taking photos for no reason anywhere, anytime usually sparks some creative inspiration for me. A 10-minute guided-meditation/exercise session (no doom scrolling) is totally doable. And reminding myself it’s okay to do nothing and just breathe.
JENNY WONG is a writer, traveler, and occasional business analyst. She resides in Canada near the Rocky Mountains. Her favorite places to wander are Tokyo alleys, Singapore hawker centers, and Parisian cemeteries. ‘Shiftings & Other Coordinates of Disorder’ is her debut chapbook (PinholePoetry, 2024). Visit her website: opencorners.ca/about.
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