What Dreams Are Made Of

A few months ago, I was studying to pass my medical school final exams. This means packing food to eat in the library, trying hard not to cry when I couldn't answer questions on a topic that I had just studied a day ago, and complaining about how hard life is to fellow medical students (the only people who will understand this whole ordeal). It means living the same day on repeat in the weeks leading up to the exam. Without arguing the merits of Pratchett's claims of me being a masochist, I was loving every single day. I knew when living it that those days held memories I would treasure.

After one such day, Lane, Pratchett and I were walking home from the library at 11:30 pm (it is still a few weeks before the exam at this point, and a few weeks before we wreck our sense of time and sleep completely). Lane was talking excitedly about the new washing machine that we had installed in our flat. It was the seventh time I had heard about it. I knew word to word what she was going to say next (when only a few minutes before that, I couldn't recall the type of lung cancer that causes gynaecomastia). In an attempt to change the topic, I pointed out at the blood-red moon, and as we walked on, we saw the different colours streaking faintly through the sky.

We were very excited to see the northern lights. In England. But I think we were secretly more excited at the prospect of something else occupying our attention other than the impending finals. We drove twenty minutes to find a field with no street light in sight and spent a couple of hours with our necks craned. I was giddy watching the different hues, standing between my friends. I must admit, the colours of the sky were more prominent on film. When seen with the naked eye, you could almost convince yourself that you were imagining it, that it was a trick of the light. I found myself asking Pratchett multiple times, "You see it too, right?" He just nodded.

Pratchett said, "My aunt's dream was to see the northern lights, and we are living it on a random Friday, walking from the library."

The next day, social media blew up with people from all over the country posting photos and videos of the northern lights that randomly happened that Friday night. News channels were reporting that the same phenomenon was set to happen later that night on Saturday.

The details of what followed is hazy, but it led to a group of 20-30 of us standing in the same field, waiting for the northern lights. We were waiting for hours, and J attempted to gaslight everyone into thinking that he could see the lights. G was repeating (chanting?) every 30 seconds how she "really, really wanted to see the northern lights." Pratchett kept nodding along saying with admirable certainty, "Any time now." I was praying for the lights. Just one more time, for my friends.

The darkness of the night and the stillness of the wind accompanied the whispered chatters of restlessness that grew amongst some in the group. This drove my car back to our accommodation more than I did.

Once back, outside the hospital accommodation, a few of us sat on the park bench, eating cheesecake. J had one eye on the cheesecake and the other up at the sky. Just in case. "The northern lights would have been the perfect ending to the night." someone said.

Maybe.

Two nights happened in May, buried perfectly amidst days filled with studying and monotony. Having spent one watching the northern lights, and having spent the other waiting for them to come again...I can't tell which one was more special.

We get used to beauty. The northern lights were beautiful, and it was so obviously beautiful because everyone recognised that it was rare. The frost on the morning window is beautiful, the sunset is beautiful, and the way G texts me asking if I got home is beautiful. If beautiful things make one happy, isn't it more logical to see beauty in the ordinary, to make an effort to really see it and not let it slip unnoticed? It might sound very cliche, but standing in an empty field with my friends, eating cheesecake under the stars was just as beautiful as the wonder of seeing the northern lights for the first time. One day, all of us present that night will have the means to travel to see the northern lights. But as people get wrapped up in the confines of their lives and duties in different corners of the world, getting everyone together would be the rarer phenomenon. But does it have to be rare before we admire the beauty of it?

I came across a clip from a 1990 romcom called 'Joe Versus the Volcano', and the female lead says, "My father says that almost the whole world is asleep. Everybody you know. Everybody you see. Everybody you talk to. He says that only a few people are awake, and they live in a state of constant total amazement."

A group of scientists (Brickman et al, 1978) studied the cases of 22 lottery winners. The lottery winners weren't significantly happier than they were before they won the lottery and weren't significantly happier than the people in the control group. This is because people adapt to their surroundings.

Happiness is a mindset that isn't reliant on the events that happen (in the long run).

I gravitate towards those who are awake. I gravitate towards Lane, who couldn't contain her excitement about the washing machine, and J who sat eating the cheesecake and said everything was perfect- northern lights or not. I gravitate towards my friends who made studying in the library a memory I cherish.

I'm not sure about living out Pratchett's aunt's dream, but I sure am living out my own. The funny thing is, the northern lights had very little to do with it.

Thanks to KC who asked me to write about this. It took me a few months, but this one is for you.