Monday, November 12, 2012

if I wander til I die


may I know whose hands I'm in

Oh, November.
You are such a strange little month.
I'm never quite sure what to make of you.
Like any good Miss Marple-In-Training, I thought back to my last experience of November, and tried to solve the mystery by remembering what I'd previously seen of this month. I tried to sketch out of a portrait of November's character.

But, as Darcy is to Lizzie, so you are to me, November: an aloof mystery.
But I think I love you all the more for that.
I'll be candid: I love October more than words. I breathe in the air rich with that distinct fall-leaf aroma, I find myself come alive again in the crisp, bright blue sky. I embrace October with enthusiastic joy each time it comes to visit.
December sends little trills of happiness through my soul. Smell of pine and candles burning. Advent. Gingerbread. Fireplaces. Sledding and skating. Wrapping presents. December makes me dance like snowflakes swirling around Christmas lights.

But, you, November.
I don't dislike you as much as I once did. Although I resent you for turning the leaves brown and soggy with your cold, cold rain.
And I have yet to forgive you for covering up the blue sky with dull grey clouds.
Despite the erratic little patches of sun and warmth you send as a piteous little offering of goodwill, you are still far from my favorite.
But I can't deny that there's a peace in you I didn't expect to find. That those grey clouds can create a sanctuary of warmth and coziness. Even the rain can become a dreary sort of baptism, washing the earth clean.
There's a peaceful sort of silence in the desert of November trees.
And I'm just beginning to understand.



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