We move from the vivid, clear freshness of October and into the bleak beauty of November. Full of stillness and quiet, sparking the impulse to hibernate, this month opens up for peaceful contemplation. It is a month where nothing really happens. The trees have let go of their last leaves, birds have moved south, the air is quiet in the absence of flies and crickets. The world darkens.
One of my favourite quotes about November is written by Stephen Soule, and goes like this:
It's late now, and the cold gray days settle heavily into our bones as the weight of impending darkness pushes down a willing and tired sun, draped in clouds. The sharp autumn winds remain to shake the last leaves free from the slipping grip of their trees. Temperatures stick toward freezing as a light rain falls steadily to dampen ground and spirits alike. The earth dies every November, hosting a funeral march for miracles that rose gracefully out of the spring rains and shimmered prominently in the warm breeze of July amidst a sea of admiring smiles. The fireworks of a vibrant autumn bring the dance to its end, and we file out of the theatre in bittersweet procession, grateful to be witness to such a show. The curtain closes, and we are left standing in a field of matted grass surrounded by the stark forest, black, imposing, and raw.
(From the book The Rhythm of Family)
