On May 9th I was alerted by news media that the Aurora Borealis was going to be visible from my house. I went outside and saw nothing. The next day May 10th I went out again and saw nothing but when I used my phone I saw this purple sky. You could tell the sky was an unusual colour, but it was not as vivid as the iPhone made it look.
Five months later, on October 10th, I was cycling home from work. I had left later than planned and knew that dusk would set in during my one-hour commute. Along the way, I passed through a small village. As I exited, the trees on either side shrouded the road arching overhead, forming a natural canopy. It was pretty dark, and I struggled to see where I was going, worried that an animal might suddenly cross my path. As I emerged from the village, I began the steep climb up to a plateau. Reaching the top, relieved from the incline, I glanced up—and nearly fell off my bike. The sky was ablaze with vivid shades of pink, green, purple, and blue. I was stunned. It took me a few moments to process what I was seeing.
The photograph below captures what I witnessed. It's slightly more vivid than reality, but honestly, not by much. I think my eyes had adjusted to the darkness, allowing me to perceive the lights in all their brilliance under these perfect conditions.
As I cycled home that evening, my experience of the aurora wasn’t just about seeing it—it was something I embodied through cycling and adaptation to the darkness. My body was fully engaged in the journey; my eyes had adjusted to the dim light, my muscles worked against the incline, and my breath synchronized with the rhythm of my pedaling. When I reached the plateau and looked up, the sudden burst of color in the sky wasn’t just a visual phenomenon—I embodied the moment completely, immersed in sensation and the energy of the night.
Some nice writing in there Greg but still largely descriptive - which is a good starting point but now needs to be investigated critically thought he lenses of the research question.