The Hush of November
Until just a few years ago, November was one of my least favorite months. Despite autumn being my favorite season, November didn’t seem to have much to offer. Bare branches, icy rains, and overcast skies left few reasons to venture outdoors except for the necessities. Almost overnight, it seemed like the landscape became a graveyard for the best parts of October. Curled, brittle leaves, haggard flower stems, and decaying Jack-O-Lanterns all a stark reminder that I’m as far away from standing under a harvest moon as I can get.
But then I turned 60 and for reasons that I cannot explain, November has endeared itself to me. The bare branches, the icy rain, the overcast skies. Dreary is drawing me in and I’m not even putting up a fight. November’s chestnut browns and washed-out variations of taupe used to induce a melancholy that was hard to shake. Sleet pelting the windows was the sound of misery, but not anymore. Now I live for November.
If I were to venture a guess, the reason for this shift in perspective is simple. I’m tired. I’m tired of the sun dictating when I can call it a day. I’m tired of dragging myself indoors at 9:00 pm, only to be faced with overflowing laundry baskets and dishes soaking in a sink filled with cold, disgusting water. I’m tired of suffering the consequences of my own actions – or rather the actions of my June self who, just like the year before, insisted that she needed to fill every last available clay pot with flowers and herbs.
November lets me forget that I’m aging and she steps out of the way so I can dream without considering the outcome. She doesn’t caution me to be realistic about anything. She gives me time to catch my breath, and then allows my brain to run as fast as it can, all from this side of a frost-covered picture window. She doesn’t make me prove anything. She believes me when I tell her I’ll be stronger next spring because I will start exercising right after the holidays. She sits beside me without judgment as I sort through dozens of packets of seeds with varying expiration dates that span the past ten years. She doesn’t shame me over the fact that the dahlia tubers I dug up last month are still sitting in the garage, probably rotting by now.
On one of the last fall drives with my mother who was then 94, she grumbled the entire time about how awful the trees looked. She saw nothing redeeming about the hushed tones that had replaced the bright salmon and deep burgundy leaves from our trip the month before. I defended November like she was my best friend. I pointed out how soothing the landscape was now, thinking back to the later part of October and how, after a while, she got to be a bit much with all the ‘look at me! look at me!’. My mother wasn’t the least bit swayed by my opinion. She continued to scowl and give November the side-eye all the way home.
As a child, the thing I longed for most every fall was a maple tree in my yard. The Catholic school I attended back then was surrounded by maple trees and the leaves that fell on the sidewalk were crisp and ankle deep. Any other time of the year, I hated getting posted as a safety patrol guard at either of the far corners of the block, but in the fall, I relished the assignment. The swish-swish of the dry leaves on the concrete sidewalk as I kicked them all the way to and from my station was something I looked forward to with a ridiculous amount of delight. To be honest, I still feel that same excitement walking through piles of dry maple leaves. From the vantage point of 2025, it’s hard not to wonder about the 1960s wisdom of allowing a distracted 10-year-old to decide whether or not it’s safe for other distracted children to cross a busy intersection. I guess the neon orange belts we all wore as safety patrol guards negated any risk of danger.
As I write this, it is still October. It is finally sweatshirt weather, and the fall colors are riotous and blazing along the entire length of the horizon. It’s the perfect weather to be outdoors, but October, she is a task master. She doesn’t allow me to stand around for long before reminding me to stop kicking the leaves and to get them raked up before the weather turns cold. I heed her warning and hustle the last of the empty pots and garden decorations into the barn, working fast to stay ahead of the rain that has already begun to fall. It feels good to know that I still have November to look forward to. I know the buzz and brightness of the holiday season will be here before I’m ready for it, which makes me appreciate the quiet of November all the more.
I have finally realized that no matter how long I live, I will never be the one to convince myself that I should probably slow down. November puts the brakes on for me and pushes me indoors. Without her, I would continue to pursue some impossible version of perfection and probably never notice anything other than my shortcomings. That’s why I need November.
November allows me to close the door on another gardening season without guilting me about the mud still caked on the shovels and hoes that I’ve stored away for the winter. She reminds me that all the foliage left standing isn’t unfinished work, but necessary winter habitat for next years’ pollinators. She points out the birds that are darting in and out of the flower beds, nibbling on the seeds from the cosmos and zinnias that I planted. She is the only one capable of making me pause long enough to realize that I’ve done my best. November has always been able to put a good spin on things. It’s just taken me this long to finally notice.