I spent most of my life disliking the month of November. It seemed to me the doldrums of the year: too few leaves for autumn, too little snow for winter. Summer is long past, and spring a distant dream. Few things can grow. Few even want to.
The clouds are low and gray and heavy. The days are short. In the mornings there may be frost on the ground, and the wind is cold. After the splendor of autumn, the world appears almost colorless. Instead of bright vibrancy, we see only shades of brown and ash. One week passes into the next with little distinction.
In short, neglected November has nothing of its own to recommend it. It is neither fish nor fowl. It is a month to be passed through on the way to something better.
And yet, it is precisely these amorphous qualities that have given me a new appreciation for November. It is a blank canvas. November’s very emptiness creates a bleak beauty.
It’s a great month for writing. (Perhaps unsurprisingly, NaNoWriMo takes place in November.) As fallen leaves shuffle outside it is easy to sit at a desk, or a coffee shop, and let pen move over paper, or fingers type on keyboard. Dark days are good for gestation. We can incubate our thoughts, turn them around, swaddle them, turn them again, and perhaps eventually send them out into the world.
I’m reminded of the pandemic and the opportunity it gave us to turn inward. For some, those long months of collective pause and uncertainty created loneliness and distress. For others, it brought a form of relief. There was no longer the pressure —or even the possibility —of participating in social rituals that felt more performative than substantive. There was no expectation to be “on.” I for one felt no grief at having post-work happy hours indefinitely suspended. I had a German shepherd and two cats to keep me company, and plenty of books.
That’s not to say I avoided interaction altogether, or that I never desired or sought out connection. I did. Virtually. I took a strange form of joy in the possibilities that online happenings brought. Thanks to Zoom and similar platforms, I experienced a cocktail party at Highclere Castle, watched a live webcast of the “great conjunction,” attended a panel discussion with Anthony Fauci, and listened to a pianist riff as she blended American blues with Celtic folk. I took classes. I met friends for drinks, except I was on my couch, and they were on theirs.
I enjoyed these as much— or more than— gathering in-person. First, I remained in the comfort of my own home. Secondly, no matter how put-together I appeared from the waist up, there were high odds that my pants had an elastic waist. And last but not least, I partook in everything on my own terms. I could consume as much or as little as I pleased. Or none at all.
Our present culture often equates being still with being stagnant. This is unfortunate. I believe there are times when we must all like fallow. To pause. To feel the a quiet power of a full stop.
November’s gift is space to reflect. To find peace, even in the long dark nights, knowing only that you’ll someday emerge. So settle in. Get comfortable. The world will be there when you’re ready.
P.S. I am aware that November includes Thanksgiving, one of the busiest holidays of the year in the U.S. For this one, my husband and I did next to nothing. We joined friends for a Turkey Trot, ate quiche, and played Battleship. That night I cooked dinner from stuff I found in the pantry, and we watched Die Hard 2. It was wonderful.