Aurora Filii
The sand is cool beneath my fingertips. I’m sure that within minutes it will turn from cool, to freezing, but at the moment the sensation is calming. My breath leaves my mouth in a burst of steam, so warm in the midnight air that it becomes visible, as though I’m a dragon breathing flame.
My son is a dragon.
His ferocious roar rumbles through his tiny body, tendons straining in his neck, fists clenched and eyes sparkling with flames. And when the rumbling is over, those flaming eyes will meet mine, joyful and mischievous. “Was that a good one, Mum!?” A nod of approval sees his mouth turn up in a grin of pride, dimples declaring his happiness to the world. He spins on his heel and races off, wings flapping in the mountainous wind of our living room as the dragon returns to his lair and hoard of monster trucks.
There are a lot of people here tonight, more than last time. I wonder idly to myself if they got the same ping from their phones as well, letting them know that the CME levels were rising, and that tonight was going to be a good one. You can tell who has done this before, and who hasn’t. A few flashes ignite the dunes like lightning, and I hear someone behind me sigh in frustration. My mouth twitches behind my hand, even though I know no one can see.
My son hides his glee behind his fingertips.
Games of hide and seek, where he tears through the house trying to find a nook to squeeze into. Giggles escape him like bubbles from champagne, fizzing and dancing their way to the surface. He throws himself behind a sheer curtain, clamps both hands over his mouth, and squeezes his eyes shut, vibrating with anticipation. I mimic his movements, trying desperately to stifle my laughter as my husband, the seeker, comes into the room and doubles over in silent amusement. We fondly glance towards the toddler-sized lump behind the curtain, twitching and occasionally emitting high pitched squeals of glee.
“Where could he be?” my husband asks the room, his composure a feat worthy of gold.
My smile flickers as I remember times when hiding felt like sanctuary, and dimly I wonder if my son ever feels that way, like I did when he was small.
I hope not.
The curtain is ripped aside as a small body launches itself towards us.
“I’m here!” Arms wide, face beaming, laughter dancing around the room with us all, the rules of the game lost.
Waves crash in the distance. The sound is disconcerting, as without light they’re difficult to locate. The sound reverberates off the sand and driftwood, confusing my senses. Sometimes the waves are far away, but the next moment it’s like they’ll bowl me over and drag me out to sea. Shadows of past anxiety rise softly to amplify my fear. I dig my hands deeper into the grains of sand and remind my body that they’re not wet – they’re just cold, and the tumbling, crashing chaos of the surf is further downhill and I’m not in danger.
Breathe. Feel the earth beneath you. There is no spiral to tumble into, and no rabbit hole within which to get lost.
My son is chaos.
Throwing himself into love and life with abandon, tiny arms clasping themselves around those he adores. His sister is often the receiver of his intense devotion. Sliding towards her on the couch so he can press his little hands or feet against her legs, just to feel her nearby. Seeking the comfort of her embrace when his pet pinecone flew the nest and despair overwhelmed him. Needing to run off in his pyjamas to declare his undying love for her before he will even consider getting into bed. Face lighting up at school pick-up when he spots her, and despite anyone’s cries to slow down or stay close, off he sprints towards her, shouting her name and throwing himself into her embrace as soon as he’s close enough.
And yet.
Boredom breeds the breakdown of boundaries, with chaos the resulting child. Waiting for her to finish a task is too much to bear, and mischievous fingers will poke and prod just enough to get a reaction before he skips away unscathed and grinning. Too much time inside has him combusting like a storm at sea, and like those midnight waves he will rush towards her. He crashes, tumbles and destroys anything in his path. Snatching precious property, singing loudly while she rests, or bouncing off the walls of the room they’re trying to coexist within. The unending depths and roiling waves of love are a powerful force, no matter how long you’ve experienced it for.
Sometimes a voice inside me wonders if that combustion is my fault. All the times I should have left the house and not kept him inside with me as I floundered in a postpartum fugue. All the times I should have gotten dressed and felt the sun on my skin; perhaps its warmth might have helped eradicate the cold shiver of birth trauma skittering down my spine. The times I could have let him see the colours of supermarket aisles for himself; tiny blue orbs glinting as they took in the wonder of the world. But instead, I let that colour be filtered through the blue light of my phone, as I completed another online grocery order. Hoping to avoid the terror of someone, anyone, asking me “how I was”, and then watching in horror as I unraveled like a stray roll of toilet paper, careening down aisle six.
Or perhaps I was waiting to be asked.
The sky is growing lighter, but dawn is nowhere in sight. I watch, heart racing as light dances in the distance, looking almost like the spotlights of a Big Top in the sky. There’s a shift in the atmosphere on the beach. Almost imperceptible, but small adjustments in movement, whispered comments and an anticipation in the air give it away. Like many others I raise my phone and turn to the south where the dancing light is strongest. On the small screen I see glimpses of pixelated colour, as I snap away.
That’s the challenge of Aurora chasing. At least for the average punter anyway. Sitting in cold darkness, wind whipping hair across our faces as we squint towards the southern sky and wait for the best moment to take our shot. There are many approaches. Some people take hundreds and thousands of photos, snapping away and hoping that an abundance of captures will result in one or two special photos to commemorate the night. Others invest in small fortunes of equipment. Special lenses, tripods, camp chairs and hours of research. Some are photographers anyway, and this is a natural progression. Others still are responsible for the obnoxious flashes and resigned communal sighs. No clue, and not a lot of willingness to learn either.
I have no special equipment, but I research how to do the best with what I’ve got. I love to share my photos with friends and family, posting them on my newsfeeds with pride. But I’m never in the pictures myself. I also love to sit in the dark and watch the flickers of light in the sky without a screen or a lens. It increases the wonder, because it’s so barely visible to the naked eye, so I never know if I’m watching it dance before me – or if it’s a flicker of my imagination.
I lower my phone and watch the sky once more. Clouds drift gently, and stars glow and glint all around me. The breeze dies down and my fingertips dig into the sand. It’s cold now, reflecting the moon’s light before me.
My son is an Aurora.
I never know what I’m going to get, and my approach is based on hopes, dreams, wishful thinking and a lot of ‘wait and see’. On the beach I fall into memory, pulling my thoughts into the past and all the other times I experienced the blanket of night while chasing something I couldn’t see. Staring out the window during midnight feeds, my world illuminated not by starlight and solar flare, but instead only by the blinking green breast pump light.
He was born from the premature rupture of a membrane, into a world of harsh lights, loud beeping, and uncertainty. Arriving too soon and then wheeled away from me to be welcomed into the world by tubes and cords and inscrutable charts. While I was left discarded, like a shell, being sewn together beneath the conversation of what other people were up to that weekend. He should have been with me. He should have still been in me.
And so, the darkness turned sinister. I was afraid of unseen dangers, and I hid, huddled inside and numb. A blurred and dulled version of myself, existing in the darkness while others moved around me, occasionally turning to ask, “Aren’t you just so happy?” And I would nod, not having the words to describe the unimaginable combination of joy and grief occurring simultaneously inside me.
And then I blinked.
Suddenly the light appeared again, but uncertainty was my constant companion. Was it a trick that my eyes were playing? Or was it a flare of colour, hidden from plain sight but visible using the right tools?
But once I’d admitted that I couldn’t see clearly, and once I’d let someone show me how to properly focus in order to view that beautiful abundance of light and colour…there he was.
Aurora Filii.
Absolutely glorious in every tiny moment that I experienced. His joy. His luminosity. His reckless openness to the world.
Now I do the same thing with any Aurora I’m seeking. I sit; I wait. I do my best to breathe and ground myself in the sand while listening to the noise around me, refusing to let it overwhelm me. When the moment feels right, I raise my head and capture it. And later when I’m at home, I hold the images close and marvel. How lucky I am to have seen their light with my own eyes.
Cover photo by Martina Picciau on Unsplash
About the Author
Jessica Kate is a writer, secondary school English teacher and neurodivergent mother of two who lives in Djilang/Geelong, Australia. Her work explores parenting, connection, relationships and the everyday strength found in ordinary moments. Jessica Kate has previously been published in Ramona Magazine, and you can follow her writing journey on instagram by following @jessicakate_writes.
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