November came, November rain

on descending

Nov 09, 2024

The autumnal days are volatile. Shifting into something different every moment. Here the scale tips and moves us closer to Father Winter's embrace. The days are muted. The colour that once radiated from the land now seems dull and quiet. All melting into shades of brown. The vibrant emerald greens have softened into dusty moss and copper. The deep reds and oranges of autumn now shift into burgundy and bronze. The straw yellow grass goes flat and dark like rust. The scent of pine catches in the air. The only spirited colour comes from the larches that jump out from the mountains in a soft golden gleam. In summer they are disguised among the conifers, but fall is when they come alive for us to distinguish. A mantle of clouds hangs in the sky and the rains come often, as though making up for the dry, burning summer. Now the landscape is sodden and moist. Rivers flow through the grass and are lapped up by the sandy soil. The rain feels good, it's an invitation to stay close to the hearth and just listen to droplets topple onto roof and porch and any surface that is willing. What stories rain down from the heavens?

Where September and October felt electric, sparking the journey into autumn, November is the beginning of the end. Winter feels close. Its breath is in the air. Its hooves can be heard in the dark frosty nights. A roaming creature finally coming to rest. November feels like the last exhales of activity and the first breaths of emptiness. There is nothing left to do.

I feel this when I wander around the garden and find myself at a loss. When my mind is still looking for something to do, it is now confronted with the hush that rings through the ground and up my feet. It sighs in my body a great sigh. The land rests. The last leaves have fallen to the ground. They have grown brown and musky with the scent of the earth. The trees reveal their bare selves to the land. Suddenly the nests that were once hidden can be seen through the open spaces. The turkeys that once hid well in the canopies now show their beautiful plumage. The crows caw at the tops of the trees, their black forms stark against the empty branches. The land is raw.

Bare.

Exposed.

Awaiting the quiet embrace of winter. For now, it starts slow. The frost only embraces us in the cloak of darkness. When the air is still and the stars hang high. We awaken to a glistening white world held in mist before it quietly disappears with the first rays of light. Yet one can smell snow in the air. It is close. As though it is waiting on the edge of the clouds for when we least expect it, to come floating down and surprise us. It is that distinct crisp smell that is a sure sign of winter's arrival. The mountains surrounding our little valley are already gaining that wintery landscape of snow and ice.

The frosty early rising before the days melts it all away. I woke up earlier than usual to see this crystalline landscape

I feel this shifting landscape in me too. I grow more still, perhaps as an ode to the end of autumn. My heart echoes the songs of November. The low-pitch, earth grumbles that shake and moan and lay still upon the ground. My body feels tired. As though exhausted from the activity of summer and the last sprint of autumnal energy. This year, it was a big journey. My heart feels like feet that have danced all night and now must lay and rest. I feel the land grip me with firm hands. She tells me stories in the dark grey days. She speaks of the dens of the old days. Those that held the winter at bay. My home is turning into a den. A dark cave. Outside these borders is the crisp air that catches in my lungs, yet inside we are warmed by the crackling fire. A den that holds a wild, hibernating creature. On the walls are painted the pictures of the past, and candles glow as votives to what is to come. This den is dark and cozy. It caves in like a womb and holds us close. There is nowhere to go but here. As the sun disappears behind the mountains and clouds, the light I find is reflected in fire. The warm sustenance of its glow brings radiance to my soul that is otherwise dark. Such is the turning of the wheel into winter. Darkness reigns, with the steady hand of stillness and the torch of melancholy.

I’ve always seen the crone of winter dressed in these garments. A sort of poetic sadness drapes around her neck. A gown of tears flows down her bony body. Her eyes glow with memories of what once was. She arrives in her chariot pulled by shooting stars to bring to our hearts the grief of what is no longer. Much has died in autumn. Those things now lay to rest in the empty garden beds and compost piles. Corpses spread upon the ground that we revered in October, now gather up tall in a pile to decompose. It is arduous work. And we are left to gaze upon their forms and witness that which is left. What remains. What will soon be turned to rich soil. Perhaps it is the fate of this time of the wheel, to be sorrowful. To find the blessing of such expression. To let the hands of her dark form guide us back to the fire, to sit and be. And through her words, we are told the stories of these spirits. The spirits of the darkness bring quiet. The spirits of bare trees bring the raw emotions of the heart. The spirits of frost bring remembrance. The muted colours of the land remind us to empty of ourselves.

I sit and listen to the tales. I watch my heart leap out of my chest and move closer to the fire. My body sinks, melts, softens back into the earth. I am low to the ground. Like a creature crawling on all fours, feeling the insulation of the earth embrace me. My belly hums and my soul groans and rolls in the chambers of my body. Where my colours were once vibrant, now they have melted. I blend and bleed into the brown landscape like a deer inseparable from the forest from which she came. I disappear into it.