the blue muse

The days have shifted into short and grey and cold and bare. Flocks of birds land on tree branches and pose as leaves. Winter has begun to whisper through the tall grasses in my garden, making plans for her arrival.

The landscape has once again changed its color palette, not asking for permission first, not letting us choose from paint chips or swatches, just taking it for granted that we will embrace these subdued tones. And we will seek out the golden glow of lamps and fires inside at night, we will huddle against the wind and rain as we walk from our houses to our cars, there will be homemade soup for dinner at least once a week.

November. No longer wearing the colors of autumn, yet not quite ready to pull on its winter coat. A month of thanks and transition, of putting away and settling in, another month of days and hours and moments. It’s harder to find the beauty in November. But not impossible.

There is a stillness in the air, a waiting. Nature holding its breath. I see old bird’s nests resting in the tops of trees, neighbor’s houses I can only find when the leaves have fallen, fields of soil, ploughed under, ready and waiting for spring.

November’s beauty is in the shadows, in the contrast of gold on grey, in the lace of branches silhouetted against the sky. November doesn’t have all the pretty accessories you find in almost every other month. No jewel tones, no flowers, no twinkling lights. No butterflies or daffodils, no rainbows. Just pattern and repetition, change and change and change.

I move through November, my birth month, quietly. December is a loud month, and I need to mentally prepare.

November knows this and holds me gently, easing me into winter.

There is strength there, just below the surface

of this month that knows me best.