✨glimmers✨

of light in the dark

photo by McKayla Crump on Unsplash

It feels, sometimes, as though I’m the only person in the western hemisphere (am I even in the western hemisphere any more?! I just Googled it. Yes, I am) who hasn’t seen the Northern Lights with her own eyes.

This is not because of my weakening eyesight, although that’s certainly an issue.

I had laser eye surgery over a decade ago, a freebie offered to me in exchange for an interview with the head of the practice about a new treatment they’d started offering for long-sightedness, a condition that had been, until then, largely untreatable.

The interview didn’t end up running in the newspaper I’d written it for, which I felt guilty about, but as a freelancer, you don’t get to make the decisions about what to publish and what not to publish and, in any case, I was always careful to emphasise the fact that there were no guarantees.

I didn’t, officially, accept gifts or treatments or trips in exchange for coverage.

And yet, there I was, my eyes fixed open with little clamps, gazing into the abyss as my short-sightedness was lasered away, at least temporarily.

I’ve just Googled this, too; apparently laser eye surgery is permanent, as it reconfigures the surface of the eye. What’s happened my sight – which has undoubtedly got worse, to the point now that I should probably be wearing my glasses, hitherto worn only for driving, watching TV or going to the cinema, all the time – is a result of ageing and natural changes, not any failure on the part of the lasers.

I enjoyed the process itself, I have to say. I felt like James Spader, walking through the Stargate: optimistic, awed, surrounded by stars and, I’ll admit, a bit queasy. But it was more amazing than it was revolting. I’d do that again, I thought, as my eyelids were unclamped.

Anyway, I don’t think it’s my eyesight that’s kept the Northern Lights from me. It feels, honestly, like it could be fate.

My Mum and I even went to Iceland, once, but the winds were too high for us to take our scheduled trip to see the lights.

In fact, we were warned to stay in our hotel, but as we only had those four days, we disobeyed the orders and wandered into downtown Reykjavik, scarves and hats and gloves and coats covering as much of our bodies as possible. Still, by the time we arrived at Hallgrímskirkja, our faces were completely numb.

We spent approximately €100 on hot chocolates in a nearby cafe (Iceland is notoriously expensive, something 10,000 people will tell you, if you ever plan a trip).

I don’t really mind that I haven’t caught a glimpse them. It gives me something to look forward to and, in any case, I’ve seen enough photographs of them that I have the sensation of having seen them myself.

That the Northern Lights have been so much more prevalent lately feels like a glimmer: a tiny, micro moment of joy, compensation for what otherwise looks and feels like a Gileadian hellscape from which there can be no escape.

There is, of course, a more pedestrian explanation. According to NPR:

Auroras have been happening more frequently in the United States for a while, and will continue to do so for several months. This influx of shimmering colors comes because the sun is reaching the peak of its 11-year cycle and, therefore, its solar maximum. The solar maximum causes solar eruptions, and this increase of activity brings ions, or electrically charged particles, closer to Earth. This stream of particles is known as the solar wind.

It doesn’t matter. Communication is about the result. If I feel the existence of the Northern Lights – the fact that my friends and neighbours have seen them, that they’ve brought this joy, this awe, this wonder, to people I love – as a glimmer, then surely that’s what they are, solar cycles be damned.

It’s not the only glimmer around – so I thought I’d share a few more. Of course, your glimmers will be different to mine. They should be. You might have more than I do (good, I hope you do). You might have fewer (look for them, they’re out there).

You might feel, as I do sometimes, as though there are no glimmers that can in any way soothe the sense of hopelessness you feel right now. That’s okay. Shiny lights aren’t going to solve our problems. They’re just glimmers. Bask in them while you can.

a few more ✨glimmers✨

Heated Rivalry
I know, I know, everyone’s been talking about this, but truly, this show is just… oof. I can’t even explain it. A friend of mine described it as “soft porn, with a little romance”, but I corrected her immediately (friends love when you do that). It’s a romance, with a little soft porn. It’s a show about really, really fancying someone and missing someone and yearning for someone and then, later, yes, loving someone (and, all along, yes, fucking someone) and it’s just so beautiful and, crucially, no fictional women are harmed in the making of this love story and, really, how many love stories can say that? (Plus, once you watch it, the creepy algorithm will serve you every Heated Rivalry meme out there and you’ll be reminded of how gorgeous it is every time you check your social media apps and for once you’ll be glad your phone is spying on you.)

Robyn
In the year of our lord, 2026, it’s more important than ever that we seek out art that subverts and distorts and confounds expectations, and Robyn’s performance of Sexistential on The Late Show is so utterly weird and brilliant and gorgeous. I love, love, love watching women do things no one expects them to do (and not doing the things people do expect them to do). And no, I’m not talking about, like, wearing red with pink or whatever. I’m talking about doing whatever Robyn’s doing here.

“Actually…”
Maybe it’s because my 4-year-old has a speech delay, but sometimes, he starts saying words he’s never said before and it just brings me so much joy. The latest is “actually”, which he uses correctly (this cannot be said for all of his new words) and very, very frequently.

I’m putting him to bed one particularly windy afternoon this week – yes, he still takes daily naps, a fact for which I am exceedingly grateful – when he asks, “Mommy, what is that rumbling noise?” (he pronounces this wumb-oween)

The rumbling noise is the wind, wailing against the front of our house with great gusto. Our housing estate is new, and so our house is exposed on almost all sides. The houses that will eventually protect us from the elements have yet to be built, and there are no established trees in the estate, just a sad little sapling, about five feet tall, across the road.

“Oh,”I tell him, “That’s the washing machine.” This is a very believable lie because, as you can imagine in a household with four children, we do a lot of washing.

“Actually,” he says to me, his eyes round as saucers, lower lip wobbling, “I think it is…” (he chokes back a tiny sob) “…the wind.”

I tell him, for the hundredth time, that it’s okay. The wind can’t get in the house. I’ll protect him from the wind. His red dinosaur (a T-rex teddy he seems to have imbued with Herculean strength and the heroism of Joan of Arc) will protect him. Wind can’t hurt him. Look! (Here, I blow on him.) This doesn’t hurt, does it?! (I dread the day he learns about hurricanes.)

He falls asleep, actually.

A cafe owner in Michigan is building a cute ‘n’ quirky shopping mall out of shipping containers
And I am SO GRIPPED BY THIS.

It’s not just that 22-year-old Kyle here, who owns a cafe in Caseville, Michigan, has had this kooky lil idea and is running with it, but it’s the fact that her creative project is going to have such a ripple effect in Caseville (because I, for one, am planning a trip there this summer to see the mall in person).

I’m loathe to say it but it also made me think about the Happy Pear and how their kind of odd and unexpected rise to fame must have made a big difference to Greystones’ hospitality trade.

I mean, the glimmer is that I love watching these videos, but there’s an overarching sense of… you just never know the impact you might have by just doing your little idea. No matter what else is going on in the world.

(P.S. If Kyle is a Republican please, for the love of god, don’t tell me.)

Do, however tell me…

…what your glimmers have been lately. We could probably all do with sharing a little micro-moment of joy!