Third Time's A Charm
...not that the other two were bad
The weather at the farm has been very quiet lately. In fact, it’s been a bit too quiet. We’ve had very few clouds in our sky for a couple of months now - setting a record for the driest September. Our farm maybe got a trace of precipitation, but I can’t quite remember when that was. All of this after a wet Spring that made planting - and then cultivation - very difficult for us.
Meanwhile two nasty storms named Helene and Milton have given the Appalachians and the southeastern US far more moisture than anyone could ever want at one time. Unless, of course, you are a sea creature and you WANT to live in the water - maybe then you would be happy with it. Us mere land-dwelling organisms, however, have our limits for how much water we can handle. And I would bet even some of the sea-dwellers might have had a tough time with the force and the fury that storm surges and flood waters wielded as they rearranged the landscape.
As people who care about the well-being of other humans, the health and vitality of wildlife and plant life, and the natural balance and beauty of this world, we’ve had a rough time with the violent weather. We are aware that these increasingly exceptional weather patterns are symptoms of a changing climate. But that doesn’t make it any easier to accept the pain, the loss of life, the damage and the worry that comes with these disasters.
Maybe that’s why we felt so much joy and relief when the Aurora borealis greeted us on Thursday as the day transitioned from day to night.
Sleep is over-rated
The image above is probably my favorite of the night. Sadly, I still struggle trying to do night photography with the better camera, so the cell phone was pressed into service. But I’m not really going to complain when I get to show off things like this.
Tammy and I knew there was supposed to be an excellent chance for Northern Lights and the skies were clear. So, as we completed chores and had our dinner, we agreed that we would keep an eye on things and get a couple of chairs ready to sit and enjoy the show out by Valhalla - the larger high tunnel towards the north edge of the Genuine Faux Farm.
The moon was very bright in the southern sky - bright enough that I could see my own shadow as I walked outside. There was also some haze, partly from harvest dust. Both of these impacted the viewing early on.
But, the aurora borealis still showed up as soon as it got dark. It announced itself with some red - much less common than the green colors we typically get this far south. It was just bright enough that a hint of color could be seen with the naked eye - though it was much enhanced by the camera lens.
The first time was worthy of joy by itself
Our impressions of the show during this first “sitting” was that everything was a little bit blurry. The haze and moonlight probably had a lot to do with it. And, again, it’s important to be clear that we were only seeing a little bit of the color without the help of a lens. But things came alive when we used the cameras on our phones and took photos where our eyes told us the lights were the strongest.
It was tempting to take image after image and forget to just watch and appreciate. But, we remembered to put the phones down and just lean back and watch. When we let our eyes unfocus a little - taking in a broader area - we began to discern movement.
Our most memorable Northern Lights events have been those where we actually experienced seeing the pulsing as waves of light progress from low in the north to the center of the night sky at our farm. Prior to this, Tammy - I believe - have seen the lights dance, moving like a shimmering curtain. I can only remember seeing the pulses and being completely mesmerized by that.
One of our friendly farm supervisors, Murphy, was curious about this divergent behavior and followed along in case there would be some skritches and positive attention forthcoming from the humans. Once we settled in, the three of us focused on living in the moment - something Murphy the cat is very good at, but the farmers, Rob and Tammy, are not.
The air was dry and a warm, especially for October 10. There wasn’t much air movement either. It was almost as if the world around us was holding its collective breath - just waiting to see what the solar energy meeting earth’s protective shield would produce for our collective entertainment.
We noticed some stronger bands of light as the colors moved away from reds and the greens became more prominent. It was at this time that we saw the most movement. There was still a border of red further up in the night sky that had become harder to see with help.
If we hadn’t been training our eyes to look for the aurora, we might have been fooled into thinking that a major city had sprung up just north of us. The city lights washing out the night sky and obscuring the the stars that make up Ursa major, the Great Bear and reaching up to Cassiopeia, which is located by looking for five stars that form a “W.” I suspect that’s why many people wonder what the big deal is. In Iowa, if you don’t take a moment to slow down and train your eyes, they might not look like much.
While Tammy and I certainly had (and have) plenty we need to do, neither of us regretted the time we were taking to see one of nature’s beautiful things. But, eventually the chill of the night began to make us much less comfortable, the reality of longs to-do lists and the need for sleep told us it was time. So, we went inside.
I quickly put a few pictures into a blog post (pictures 2 through 4 in this blog) and wrote a few words, thinking I might set the post to send the next morning.
Then, we both took another look out the north windows and soon found ourselves trotting right back out to the chairs by Valhalla.
The second time affirmed that we each chose the right partner in life
The second viewing session featured very strong greens that we could see a bit easier with the naked eye. There were many more bars of stronger lights that appears ever so often and there was still some red glow very high in the sky. This time around it often got difficult to see the Big Bear and Cassiopeia because the lights were getting quite strong.
We had no feline companion this time because it was inconceivable to her that we would come back OUT once again after we had gone in for the night. On the other hand, our friend the Great Horned Owlet screeched at us a couple of times and then flew just under the level of the tree tops not much more than fifty feet away.
The moon was now low in the southwestern sky, but it still washed us with enough of the reflected sun to impact our viewing. The haziness however, seemed to have diminished, so we could see more definition of the curtains of light.
This time around, we spent much less time attempting to capture images and more time learning how to see the movement of the aurora. For the most part, it was still the pulsing that is often the apex of what we see in Iowa. But, there was a moment or two where I thought I saw something more.
Was that the rippling of a curtain? Or was it my imagination?
Our senses are often overstimulated in our electronic world by bombast, glitz and glamor. Even the two of us, who do what we can to expose ourselves to the awe and wonder of our natural world can fall prey to wanting to see something that is obviously spectacular - almost as if we want to jump from the beginning of a fireworks display and right to the finale. But as we sat there, we found ourselves rediscovering patience - and finding pleasure in subtle changes.
And recognizing and remembering exactly how amazing this whole event really was.
Perhaps the best part of the evening was the realizing something each of us has realized before - many times. We’ve found the right partner in life - someone who takes joy in the aurora borealis, the bloom of a day lily and the sound and texture of a perfectly played turn on a cello.
The third time’s the charm
Once again, we started feeling uncomfortably cold. And, the long day was making itself felt as we got up to walk back inside. We turned our backs to the show and noted the moon, approaching the horizon in the southwest. And we trundled back to the farmhouse.
But, those lights kept pulling at our eyes and we couldn’t help but stop every dozen steps to turn around and check their progress. But we did, finally, get inside.
There were still a few things to do before we could crawl into bed and get a little rest, so we got them done. I had already decided that the blog would just wait until the next day and I shut the office down for the day. And we went through the process of getting ready to catch a few zzz’s.
But our eyes were once again drawn to the north windows of the house.
And we saw… more.
Even though it was on the wrong side of midnight, we bundled ourselves back up and headed out to our chairs once more. This time we couldn’t help but stop every ten feet to look up with amazement and exclaim to each other about what we were seeing. The camera phones came out again and the images we captured put all of the others to shame - if that is even possible.
The moon had set and the skies were darker. The haze was no longer a factor. And the Northern Lights were sharp and clear. They had edges. They had color.
And they had movement.
I got to see the dancing and shimmering curtain I have only heard descriptions of or seen in video snippets from people living much further north than the Genuine Faux Farm.
The natural world around us is amazing, astounding and incredible to contemplate. It is also incredibly dangerous and fraught with peril. But it is all too easy to ignore when we live in a world with so much flash and bang in our daily lives.
Well, until we see the neighbor’s house floating down the river. That has a way of getting our attention too.
It would be easy to discount the Northern Lights as just a lighter patch in the night sky that has nothing really going for it. Just as it is easy to get used to all of the light pollution we voluntarily add to our world with multiple farm building lights that stay on (for reasons unbeknownst to me) until the sun rises in the morning. We’re building layers to insulate ourselves from the world around us, until we forget what is real…
and what is not.
I am grateful that, on this night, the two of us were reminded to exercise our awe and wonder. We were given the opportunity - in the midst of tragedy all around us - to see something beautiful. And while it didn’t fix any of the problems and it didn’t save people who needed saving or repair damage that had been done, it reminded us that there are good reasons to keep working at doing better, being better and helping as best we are able.
Because that’s where beauty lies in the midst of tragedy.
Aldo Leopold said that to have an ecological education basically allows those with one to see "a world of wounds" invisible to most "laymen". While this is true, it is critically important at times to look past those wounds and see the intricate beauty that also still surrounds us.
The sun is in its normal cycle of higher activity at this time, so hopefully so more good views to come. AND - three cheers for the magnetosphere! - we would not survive that blast of radiation without it.