A few weeks ago, the sky was clear almost every evening. The stars dotted the dark blue canopy, and the northern lights were visible on several nights. For the first time since living here, I looked out the window at the glow of the auroras, turned off the lights, and went to sleep instead of rushing outside into the cold with my camera gear for half the night.

The northern lights, the most magical phenomenon of the north, have become part of daily life. There’s no need to chase them every night because I know the opportunity will come again. Maybe tomorrow. Or next week. At the latest, next winter. Or the one after that.

What a lovely thought.

It’s wonderful how life has changed since moving here. I don’t know how much longer I’ll keep comparing city life to my current existence, but it still feels thrillingly contrasting. In the city, my mornings began by padding barefoot on a heated floor and listening to the sounds of my neighbors waking up. Now, I start my weekday mornings (and almost every other morning) in layers of wool clothing while heating the cabin.

After my morning routine in the city, I would take Papu outside, usually for a walk around the noisy neighborhood or, at best, to the pitifully small forest patches illuminated by the yellow streetlights of the suburbs. Now, I can ski several kilometers on the river ice as soon as the sun rises. I can spend hours outside, watching the changes in the snowpack and the gradually increasing light, or examining the animal tracks that have been imprinted in the snow overnight.

Dealing with the car has also become routine—or a struggle, depending on my mood at the time. For the most part, I find the extra headaches that come with it to be fun adventures that add color to my weekday evenings. A crowbar, shovel, and jumper cables have found their way into my car's standard equipment. I've learned the necessity of these items the hard way.

What I will still marvel at and be grateful for many years from now is the helpfulness of people. I can confidently knock on the door of a stranger's house when darkness falls to ask for help with starting my car. Or I can ask for advice at a local restaurant near where my car got stuck about the best way to free frozen brakes. With a crowbar, of course. What else?

In return, I can ski a few kilometers onto the ice to help a snowmobiler stuck in the wet snow. Or I can take care of the neighbor's dog during the day while they are at work, and I'm home.

The sense of community here is entirely different from that in the city. I keep emphasizing this, but I believe it's one of the best things about living here.

When I lived in the city, I would be trudging through slush in cold, gray weather along paved streets to get to work, my mood matching the grayness. Here, the distances are long, but they don’t feel that way to me. I enjoy driving through the changing landscape of fells and forests. Watching the scenery and witnessing all its beauty makes the long distances feel like they pass by too quickly.

From the window of my city home, the best view would be of constructed urban nature, where every tree is first plotted on a map before it can grow in its designated spot. Now, from my home window, I have a living natural painting, with colors that change every day.

When the weekend came, as a city dweller, I would spend my free time either indoors or traveling at least an hour to relax in nature. An hour's journey felt long back then, so the threshold to head out into the wilderness grew.

Here, I can step into nature right from my front door. A nature where everything can grow and thrive in peace. Where birds and other animals flourish, as other visitors, aside from a few snowmobilers and skiers, are rare. A place where I can ski for kilometers through untouched snow without hearing a sound or seeing anyone.

And I certainly am not always alone. I moved north from the south with a somewhat cynical mindset, thinking that I would just live alone in the middle of nowhere if nothing else worked. Here, I have unintentionally gathered like-minded people around me, making every weekend or even an ordinary weekday evening feel like an adventure.

In the evenings, I return to my cabin along the dark driveway, illuminated by the stars or the glow of the northern lights. I light the fire in the fireplace again and wrap myself in two blankets in the cool attic. Almost every night, I reflect on the best moments of the day before falling asleep. They include recurring themes: the people who live here, the ever-changing nature that captivates with its beauty, and my own creative projects, for which I find inspiration, space, and time here, far more than I ever did before.

My friend asked me last week what things I miss about the city. After thinking for a moment, I answered, "Not a thing." I don't think I miss anything about the city. It's good to be here.

♥: Sanna