Looking back on my youth is a strange and depressing rush of hospitals and doctor’s offices. Even my bedroom, with what little time I spent there, was a bare, clinical space, with untextured white walls broken up only by the odd poster and my calendar that I kept long after its year had passed. It was weather-themed; each new month brought new storms and natural disasters, lightning bolts and tornadoes and the like. But on the first of November, I turned the page to find something different. The photograph showed a black lake, pieces of ice strewn around, and up above there were these magical green trails etched into the sky. This gorgeous respite from the storms of the previous months had a powerful effect on me, and by the time the month was over and I had to turn the page to see yet another bolt of lightning I felt a kind of sadness, a longing for it to be November forever, if only just to see those northern lights.
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