Growing up with the Northern Lights dancing over us, I assumed everyone carried on a love affair with the sky.
I soon learned that not every place I’d live would afford an easy view of the horizon.
I soon learned that not everyone’s sky was painted like mine.
When my father died, and I was on a plane headed home, I remember the pilot announcing how we’d just crossed into Canadian airspace. I leaned into my window and spotted something in the distance. A smile touched my lips when I realized what was with me: the Northern lights … twinkling and a-winkin’, as if to say, “Welcome home, girl.”
It was that very moment – when my emotions were the most raw – that I was given another example of how we are never really … all alone.