Tenuous Veils: Taking Inspiration from the Aurora
Submissions are now open for Soft Star Issue Two: Aurora
This post is the second in a series of Editor’s Notes from Soft Star Editor-in-Chief Miranda Adkins.
“We feel cold, but we don't mind it, because we will not come to harm. And if we wrapped up against the cold, we wouldn't feel other things, like the bright tingle of the stars, or the music of the aurora, or best of all the silky feeling of moonlight on our skin. It's worth being cold for that.”
― Philip Pullman, The Golden Compass
Dear readers and contributors,
Last autumn, I was fortunate enough to see the aurora borealis for the first time.
It was a cold September night outside of Fairbanks, Alaska. A group of friends and I had spent the last week road-tripping around the state — climbing glaciers, fishing for salmon, petting reindeer (and kissing a moose!). On that last night of the trip, we had driven for an hour down a dark, winding road leading out of Fairbanks which ended at Chena Hot Springs. Chena is a natural hot spring known not only for its simmering pools and ice museum, but also for its prime views of the aurora. However, it was early September, the very beginning of aurora season, and we knew our odds of catching a glimpse of the phenomenon were slim.
While at the hot springs, we saw a faint, greenish glow on the horizon that the employees told us was the aurora. Honestly, it looked like light pollution, except that we knew there was no city off in that direction. Still, we were thrilled to have seen even an inkling of the famous aurora and considered the night a success. However, on the drive back into Fairbanks for the night, something incredible happened.
I don’t remember who it was that saw it first, but suddenly I was staring out of the car window at an inky black sky that was split by a ribbon of green and blue. The group of us pulled our cars to the side of the road and got out, turning off the headlights so as not to create any light pollution. We must have stood there for a good twenty minutes, watching as the aurora grew brighter and brighter, dancing and snaking across the pitch black sky. The air was sharp and cold, and we were surrounded on all sides by a thick forest that was home to uncountable Arctic creatures. Still, we stood with our necks craned skyward, unable to tear our eyes away. Some of us laughed. Some of us cried. I found myself profoundly struck by how small I felt, not only compared to the looming veils undulating far above our heads, but compared to a planet so vast that it contained so many grand mysteries like this one that I’d likely never be able to experience them all in one lifetime. And that’s just one planet. I will never forget that night for the rest of my life.
I’ve been fascinated by the aurora since long before that Alaska trip. When I was a child (and arguably still to this day), my favorite book series was the His Dark Materials trilogy by Philip Pullman. In fact, I credit the series with instilling in me an early and fervent love of soft science fiction. In the first book, The Golden Compass, the far north and the aurora serve as central motifs representing remoteness and the unknown. Even more concretely, the northern lights of Norway represent a place where the fabric between worlds has begun to thin, and observers can see the spires of a strange city in another universe just beyond the veil.
Similarly, the real-life aurora represents a liminal space, not necessarily between universes, but between Earth and the beyond. The phenomenon is caused by the contact between solar winds and the Earth’s upper atmosphere. Like a shooting star or an eclipse, the aurora is a reminder to us that a much wider universe exists beyond our atmosphere, and every once in a while we can catch a glimpse into its strange mechanics with our naked eye.
My goal for Issue Two: Aurora is to evoke the tenuous beauty of the aurora, the oppressive expansiveness of bitter cold winter nights under piercing stars, the liminal space between Earth and the beyond, and the moments (both real and fictional) when the mundane is encroached by something larger than ourselves. I hope that you all, readers and contributors alike, can take some inspiration from the aurora as the days grow short and the nights grow long.
Until next time,
Miranda