Aurora night without needing commentary

By Altair Seerstone

I stepped outside after evening meditation. The air was clear and cold. I had sandalwood on my hands from the earlier session. The meadow behind the house was quiet. At first I thought it was cloud. Then the color shifted. Green along the horizon. Purple higher up. The aurora was present. I had seen pictures. Pictures are not the same as standing in it. I live at what I call the Cosmic Threshold, which sounds dramatic when I say it aloud. In practice it is a small house with a good view and few distractions. Distractions still find me. The sky is not one of them on a clear night. What I did I did not reach for my phone immediately. That was deliberate. I have spent years learning to look before I label. Labeling can be a way to leave an experience early. I stood at the edge of the meadow with my coat unbuttoned. The light moved in slow folds. It did not ask for interpretation. I gave it

silence. After ten minutes I went inside for tea. I came back out with the cup and a blanket. I sat on the stone bench I use in summer. The bench was cold through the blanket. I stayed anyway. I thought about Hexagram 52, Keeping Still. Mountain. The image is not about refusing life. It is about finding a stable place inside motion. The sky was motion. I tried to be the bench. My breath stayed even without effort. That does not happen every night. I notice when it does. I do not claim credit. Credit is a young man's habit. Once, early in the display, a ribbon of green passed directly overhead. I looked up until my neck ached. Pain is also a way to know you are present. I drank the last warm sip of tea and set the cup down carefully on the bench arm. What I did not do I did not broadcast. A neighbor texted later asking if I had seen it. I said yes. I did not send a sermon with the yes. I

did not try to photograph until near the end. The first images were poor. Too much grain. Too little depth. That was fine. The record in my body was clearer than the record on the screen. I did not turn the sight into a lesson for anyone in real time. Lessons can wait. Some nights are for attendance only. People sometimes ask me to name what a sign means on contact. I understand the request. I am cautious about quick answers. Quick answers can become cages. I also did not compare this aurora to the meadow dream I wrote about before. Comparison is a form of commentary. I let the night stand alone. After The display lasted hours by my estimate. I checked the time twice. Otherwise I lost track, which is rare for me at sixty. When it faded, the stars returned as if nothing had happened. Something had happened. The sky simply resumed its ordinary face. I performed Reiki on no one that night.

I washed my cup. I wrote three lines in my journal. Green. Purple. Cold bench. That was enough. In the morning I cast the I Ching as I sometimes do after strong nights. I received 52 again, unchanged. Keeping Still. I noted the repetition and did not inflate it. Repetition can be weather. Repetition can be emphasis. I held both lightly. I made oatmeal. I answered two messages about scheduling. Life continued at human speed. I am grateful for that continuity. Wonder without breakfast is incomplete. Later a student asked if the aurora was a message. I said it was light in the atmosphere. Then I said sit down if you want tea. We sat. The conversation moved to his mother's hip surgery. That was the real work of the morning. Closing Reflection If you saw the aurora where you are, I hope you had one minute without narration. If you missed it, the sky will offer other things. Not always this

color. Still worth showing up. Presence is a practice. Some nights the sky helps without asking anything back. talk soon — Altair