There is something special about November first. We are unequivocally in autumn’s territory, though hints of winter start to reveal themselves. The lightheartedness of trick-or-treating is over and it’s time for the serious business of getting cozy. Some radio stations start playing Christmas music, although I am a firm believer in waiting until after Thanksgiving for all of that. Either way, a tangible change of seasons is occurring.
This morning I lit a ginger spice candle and made myself a cup of hot tea. I put the boys’ 2T skeleton costumes in a box destined for Goodwill. I poured fresh water into the vases of flowers that now line our kitchen countertop. White orchids, red roses, pink calla lilies—reminders of the baby we loved and lost. Normally I delight in October, but this year I was grateful to turn the calendar page and see a brand new month waiting for me.
It was foggy as I walked the boys to school. Our double stroller rolled over wet leaves and stray candy wrappers—Snickers, Kit Kats, Haribo gummy bears. Bright yellow mums dotted the landscape and pumpkins still stood proudly, though perhaps a bit wearily, on almost every porch. My best friend and her baby came to visit, and we ate Trader Joe’s açaí bowls and talked about life and I felt lighter than I have in weeks.
I feel a turning inward, both in myself and in the greater world. I sense the gentle invitation to clear my calendar and my mind, to prepare for more family time and less structure. The trees are letting go so beautifully, and I hope to do the same. We’re in the homestretch of the year, nearing the end of yet another rotation around the sun. I feel it. I feel the ending of things, but also the beginning.
A Continual Feast 