Evening Skies

Summary

The author, Wolfstuff, reminisces about the awe-inspiring experience of witnessing the celestial beauty of starry night skies and the northern lights in his childhood home in northern Sweden, contrasting it with his later life in light-polluted cities and the eventual loss of his eyesight.

Abstract

Wolfstuff recounts his early years in northern Sweden, where the night sky was a canvas of stars and the northern lights were a frequent spectacle. The clarity of the night sky in his youth, unmarred by light pollution, left a lasting impression on him. Despite having lived in cities with polluted skies and now residing in a town with less light interference, his aging eyesight prevents him from fully enjoying the night sky. He fondly recalls the sensation of the cold, starlit nights, the visibility of the Milky Way, and the ethereal presence of the aurora borealis, which he describes as a sacred and magical experience. The author expresses a wish for everyone to witness such celestial wonders and considers himself fortunate for having grown up with these experiences.

Opinions

The author holds the night skies of his childhood in high regard, considering them a sacred and divine experience.
He is critical of light and air pollution in cities like Los Angeles, which obscures the natural beauty of the night sky.
The northern lights are depicted as a common yet profoundly moving phenomenon during his upbringing.
The author values the memory of these celestial events, finding solace in his recollections despite his diminishing eyesight.
He believes that experiencing the majesty of the stars and northern lights is a transformative event that should be accessible to all.
Wolfstuff feels a sense of personal blessing and connection to the universe from his experiences with the night sky.

Blessed Boy in Snow

One sun sets — a trillion suns appear

Of course, the sun that sets, sets locally and none of the others ever set, not for us in any case.

I grew up in a part of northern Sweden, where — especially in wintertime when dark fell around two in the afternoon and clung to us until ten or so the next morning — the stars were so bright and seemed so near you could almost touch them, if you really stretched, or at least count them.

The big dipper seemed to rule my sky and the milky way was a bright, broad band from horizon to horizon. No light pollution in other words.

I haven’t seen skies like that since I left Sweden (in 1969). Since then, I’ve spent much of my adult life in cities (Los Angeles primarily) where the night skies were indeed light-polluted (and air-polluted as well, to rub it in). And it’s a little ironic that now that I live in a small Northern California town with not much light pollution, well now my eyesight is going by the way of the Dodo so no starry night skies for me here either.

Still, I can remember and can still imagine.

The deep snow shimmering back with starlight, my breath visible in the cold air. I wish all human beings could experience this at least once in their lifetimes.

And then, and then — I could almost hear it at first, even from the warm and cozy inside: outside: the northern lights, those colorful, shifting, organ pipes of the gods. I’d put my warm boots on, don a jacket or two, a warm cap, big woolen mittens, and head on out to step away from the house a little, to rinse all extraneous light out of the air and to then look up: blessed, small, filled by the almost un-hearable shifting of the celestial curtain.

I am still blessed. The northern lights were a common occurrence where I grew up — nobody ever wrote home about them, though that never rendered them less holy, sacred, heavenly, divine, magical, and all for me, all this for little, insignificant me craning my neck back to drink it all in — all this sacred significance.

Memories are vivid.

I am still blessed.

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Evening Skies

Blessed Boy in Snow

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