A few weeks ago, the northern lights swept across the sky. It was one of those rare nights when the world feels stitched together by something bigger than us. Growing up, I saw them often enough that they became part of the rhythm of the seasons. Not ordinary, never ordinary, but familiar in the way a certain smell can tell you it’s about to snow.

My friend was seeing them for the first time. She stood there speechless, eyes wide, almost afraid to blink in case the colors dissolved. Watching her take in the sky reminded me what a privilege it is to have grown up with this kind of magic. When the aurora dances, you don’t just see it, you feel it. It settles somewhere inside you, like a quiet knock on the door of your memory.

When I told her it feels like winter saying hello, I wasn’t trying to be poetic. It’s simply the closest language I have for what the northern lights awaken in me. There’s something sacred about the way they appear. Unannounced yet perfectly timed, like a gentle visitor who doesn’t need to knock because they somehow know when your heart is ready for company.

Winter, to me, has always had a presence. Not just a season, but a spirit. A teacher. A slow, deep breath in the rhythm of the year. And when the aurora stretches across the sky, it feels like that spirit is reaching out both softly and gracefully, reminding us to prepare our souls for a different pace of living.

The lights themselves feel like a blessing, a soft anointing of the land. In their glow, everything seems held: the fields, the mountains, the quiet roads, even the parts of us we don’t show very often. They whisper that rest is not only allowed, but needed. That the earth is about to turn inward and maybe we are too.

As we stood beneath the shifting colors, I felt that familiar nudge, that sense that winter is drawing near, inviting me back into a deeper stillness. It’s a hello that feels almost like a prayer: slow down, pay attention, make room for the sacred in the ordinary.

My friend felt the wonder of it all for the first time, but I felt something different. I felt the recognition of an old friend returning. Winter saying hello is not a warning of cold, but a reminder of closeness. A reminder that some seasons speak softly, yet carry a wisdom that settles like snowfall, quietly, steadily, and in its own time.

Standing there with her, watching green and red curtains ripple across the sky, I was struck by how the same moment can hold two different kinds of awe. Hers, the awe of a first encounter. And mine, the awe of remembering. Both beautiful. Both sacred in their own way.

Maybe that’s what the northern lights invite us into: wonder that belongs to everyone, no matter how many times you’ve seen them. A reminder that the world still holds surprises. And that winter, in all its stillness and shimmer, is never far from saying hello.