Mists of morning...

For a time I lived by water, swayed by its moods, conversing with its murmurings, lulled to sleep by its waves. My conscious and unconscious evolution was a reason to land there and linger for some years before circumstance effected change. Though rustic and primitive, my cabin and its windows on the water had much to teach; I took each lesson to heart and the result was transformation.

Wednesday, November 16, 2011

Harvest



November gray. Overnight, it seems, strong winds tore golden brown leaves from every tree. Skeletal limbs reach skyward even as shadowy winter clouds hang lower and lower. The river waters darken, growing colder, the surface buffeted by a brisk breeze.

More than any other month, November holds sadness. It is dying, dead, the send of summer and the autumn equinox, yet not quite to gentleness of December and the first crystaline snow of the season. Limbo. November is limbo, purgatory.

As November recedes, though, a bountiful harvest is laid before us. Red potatoes and Yukon golds, root vegetables, squash and pumpkins, the last gigantic cabbages, the last green tomatoes, an array of crisp red apples grace our tables even as we grace family with that American celebration called Thanksgiving.

Perhaps November's mission is to create a space to mourn the loss of lushness, then nourish us back to contentment as we gather family around a table and celebrate the gift of each other.

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