FLUME
In 2016, Australian artist Harley Streten, better known as Flume, released a song called "When Everything Was New." At 21 years old, I was just beginning to understand myself and what it meant to navigate adulthood in the modern world.
Like many young people, I was immersed in the music of the time, and Flume was at the top of my playlist. Attending Laneway Festival in Melbourne that year, I experienced his music live for the first time. True to his name, Flume—a channel of water that flows—his music felt like a dynamic, fluid journey, channelling energy and emotion in a way that swept me away. Standing in that crowd, I was captivated, transported by the textures that defined his sound.
During his set, I heard the lesser-known track. At the time, I hadn’t paid much attention to "When Everything Was New" while listening to his album, but hearing it live, something about the song struck a chord with me.
It wasn’t until 2019, when Flume released his documentary, that the song’s true meaning resonated with me. Harley explained that the track was meant to capture the wonder of experiencing something new for the first time, particularly through the eyes of a child. He wrote the song to reflect on his personal experience of visiting a carnival for the first time, the lights, the sounds and the magic were captivating to him.
That concept has stayed with me ever since—a reminder of the importance of a dynamic human experience.
CHILDLIKE WONDER
When I was about six years old, my parents took me to the snow for the very first time. I still have a vivid memory of the drive up Mount Buller—watching as the treeline transformed from the damp, misty ferns at the base, to the snow-dusted ridges of the Victorian High Country. It felt like we were ascending into another world.
Even at that young age, I had a deep connection to Mother Nature. Being surrounded by her always brought out my truest self—something I cherish even more now. But that first encounter with snow was magical, almost otherworldly as if I was stepping into a dream.
After we settled in, my parents rented tobogganing gear, and we headed to the slopes around Buller. I remember my dad pulling me up to the top of the toboggan run and letting me glide down the mountain, laughter and pure joy pouring out of me as I felt the rush of snowflakes hitting my skin.
A few runs later, feeling a new sense of bravery, I insisted on trying the big run—because it was time to be a "big kid." With excitement bubbling over, I raced to the top, jumped into my toboggan, and launched myself down the slope. The crisp winter air against my face and the thrill of the ride are memories that have stayed with me ever since. What also stayed with me, though, is the moment I realised I was speeding a little too fast. My toboggan veered dangerously close to the edge of a ravine, but thankfully, a quick-thinking bystander caught hold of me just before I launched off the edge, saving me from what could have been a very different ending.
Despite my near-death experience at the age of six, that day cemented my love for the snow. It was another incredible way to connect with nature—a moment of experiencing something new.
68 DEGREES NORTH
I don’t recall the moment quite as vividly as my first trip to the snow, but I know it was around the same age that I discovered another of Mother Nature’s spectacles—the Aurora Borealis.
Perhaps it was in a magazine or on the TV, but that image of the glowing lights etched itself into my mind. Even as a child, I knew that one day I needed to see the Northern Lights with my own eyes, to stand beneath their shimmering display and feel the awe they inspire.
As I grew older, though, life took a different direction. Like so many of us, I became ensnared in the relentless pace of society and the weight of its expectations. The demands of full-time work, the pursuit of long-term relationships, and the constant pressure to tick off life’s so-called milestones left little room for exploration or spontaneity. Over time, adventuring and chasing wonder faded into the background. The childlike joy I once carried didn’t vanish, but I felt increasingly disconnected from it. The desire to experience new things was replaced by an unspoken obligation to conform, to keep up with what the world expected of me.
By 2023, I reached a low point—a crossroads where I needed to reassess what truly mattered. For years, I had placed more value on fitting into the mold of society than on staying true to my heart, and it left me feeling hollow. Something needed to change. I had to reconnect with that spark, the part of me that once sought out wonder without hesitation. It was time to rediscover the joy of hunting for the new, to embrace the adventurous spirit I had let lie dormant.
In December of that year, I made a decision: it was time to head north—68 degrees north, to be exact. It was time to venture into the wild.
EVERYTHING WAS NEW
It was Saturday, October 5th, 2024, and I had just returned to Kabelvåg, a quaint town nestled in the northern reaches of the Lofoten archipelago in Norway.
After a day spent exploring the islands of this remote and rugged region, I found myself perched on the bunk bed of my rorbu—a traditional Norwegian fishing hut—checking the weather forecast and poring over the latest geomagnetic storm data.
It was happening. The conditions were perfect. I was going to see the Northern Lights.
At a latitude of 68°20′N and longitude 14°40′E, Lofoten sits well within the Arctic Circle, one of the world’s most coveted vantage points for viewing the Aurora Borealis. The aurora is an extraordinary phenomenon, born from the interaction between charged solar particles and the Earth's magnetic field and atmosphere. When the conditions align, these particles collide with atmospheric gases like oxygen and nitrogen, creating a celestial masterpiece of shimmering greens, pinks, purples, and reds.
When I realised it was finally my moment, a surge of excitement and nervous anticipation washed over me. I scrambled to prepare my photography gear. Shooting the northern lights demands a lens with a wide focal range, ideally around 10-20mm. Luckily, my Tamron 14-24 F2.8 was ready and waiting, just as eager as I was to capture the experience.
I drove to a secluded viewing spot and set up my tripod, the dark Arctic night enveloping me as I waited. Then, just like the soft arrival of dawn’s first light, they appeared. The Aurora began to dance over the horizon, delicate and ethereal, its green hues unfurling like feathers in the sky.
Mother Nature had gifted me one of her most profound wonders: the feeling of experiencing something entirely new.
At that moment, euphoria flooded through me. Joy and pure happiness took over as I danced around the car park under the glowing sky, tears streaming down my face. It wasn’t just adult me who was content—my inner child was, too. That wide-eyed little boy had finally ticked off one of his lifelong dreams, and together, we marvelled at the magic of the Northern Lights.
Moments like standing beneath the Northern Lights, with their ethereal glow painting the Arctic sky, remind me of the profound importance of staying connected to my inner child and his sense of adventure. The awe I felt, the pure, unfiltered joy, wasn’t just about witnessing a natural wonder—it was about allowing myself to embrace the magic of experiencing something truly new.
Flume’s song "When Everything Was New" captures this feeling perfectly. It’s a poignant reminder of how, as children, we view the world with boundless curiosity and excitement, free from the weight of societal expectations. But as we grow older, we often lose sight of that wonder, caught in the grind of responsibilities and the pressures of modern life.
This experience was more than a bucket-list moment—it was a reminder of the promise I’ve made to myself: to keep seeking out new experiences and nurturing that childlike sense of adventure. Life isn’t just about routines and obligations; it’s about carving out time to rediscover the world, to let yourself feel small in the presence of something vast and beautiful, and to dance in moments of pure joy, no matter your age.
Staying connected to my inner child means giving myself permission to play, to be curious, and to stand in awe of the unknown. It’s a reminder that no matter how busy life gets, these experiences are essential—not just for our happiness, but for our humanity.
As you finish reading this, I encourage you to tune into your inner child, what do they seek? What do they want to experience for the first time?
Listen to When Everything Was New - Flume
