Well Seasoned

Leaves are fluttering down, one at a time. Falling like snow, you know those big lazy flakes that drift to the ground in artful sequence? It’s as if I should contemplate each golden flake. It feels melancholy to watch them drop, they have been so radiantly beautiful. Now, the drabness of November descends.

The moon has been extraordinary, for what seems like weeks now. It rises, solemn and brilliant orange and rises to sail daylight bright through the thinning crowns of the oaks, arriving to awaken me at three, four am like a spotlight. Night of full moon we walked the boardwalk into the marsh, and the birds who normally sleep quietly were busy flapping and squalking in the bluish light. Even now, well into the waning gibbous, it still commands attention.

Here’s a beautiful photo from Earthshot’s photo of the day, posted for my birthday yesterday:

I always enjoy this descent into winter; I am November born. The macabre gloom appeals to my melancholy streak, it seems romantic and rich with creative possibility. For now, I am writing and making art and working on my house. I give thanks for the rich, warm, dark colours of this time, and for the hearty foods, the roots and greens and roasted things that warm us now. We fortify ourselves for the chill that’s coming.