Private audience with the cosmos something of a gift

At nearly 60, the body is no longer the reliable companion it once was. Sleep is lighter, joints stiffer, and nocturnal visits to the bathroom more frequent. So it was at 3am on the Thursday before last when I stumbled out of bed, grumbling, and shuffled to the loo. A casual glance through the window turned the irritation of age into something altogether more wondrous.

There, silhouetted against the dark hulk of Hereweka, was a soft green glow. Subtle, almost secretive. Aurora.

I didn’t even pause to think — clothes on. Gear grabbed. Ten minutes later, I was driving through the inky stillness toward Hoopers Inlet.

For the next four hours, I stood alone by the water’s edge. The sky — painted in ghostly pinks, tender greens, and pale purples — writhed and shimmered above me, a slow-motion ballet choreographed by three solar storms that had collided days earlier somewhere beyond the orbit of Venus. Their combined energy found its way to our skies and wrote its story in light.

Waves crashed rhythmically on to Allans Beach. The waning gibbous moon cast a silver sheen on the wet sand. Yet even its glow couldn’t overpower the delicate symphony playing overhead.

And I stood there, just me, breathing in the moment. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t life-changing. It was quiet and perfect and enough. At 60, that matters.

By 7.30am, I was back in town, running on less than four hours’ sleep, my body aching and my heart full. At work, a reporter from Stuff rang to ask me why Dunedin seemed so happy.

"Because we live in a place," I said, "where it’s not unusual to be woken up by your bladder and gifted a private audience with the cosmos. And that kind of thing sticks with you. It makes you grateful. Makes you smile at strangers in the street."

They laughed. I did, too. But I meant it. And luckily I wasn’t directly quoted.

In a world that is too often loud and fractured, nights like Thursday are a gentle reminder that the universe still knows how to whisper beauty, even to those of us who are getting older and sleeping a little less than we used to.