This is November.

I. Hazy shade of.

”A shot of sunshine,” people exclaim, “a shot of sunshine on a gray day just lifts my spirits!”

But I love the fog, and sometimes it’s the sunshine that’s dark.

II. Wild is.

The wind hurts to feel but is lovely to listen to on November eves; nature’s complement to Coldplay’s Viva la Vida or Bon Iver’s For Emma (2007).

III. What is ahead.

”Winter is coming,” many love to say, a gleeful gleam in voice referencing the impending darkness to come.

But November is a month of anticipation; the salivation of everything good that has survived memories of holidays past. The hope of fresh experiences to wash over the grim ones. It is, to me, hope and anticipation and the penultimate beauty of both ending and beginning.

IV. Walk on the half moon.

On November nights, dark and grey, the cold rupturing the air, I walk late and think. Sometimes with a reheated mug of mostly-decaf, and I listen and play a dual soundtrack in my head:

the thoughts and ideas and stories I am trying to coalesce or understand or organize, and the music that is accompanying and scoring those things.

It would not be terribly bright to actually listen to music on coal black nights with occasional traffic grinding past, and wild creature sometimes tiptoeing and crushing along through brush and across asphalt.

So the internal soundtrack.

V. Take me away to.

The smells of November are superlative; whipped cream is meant to go on all hot drinks and even if you loathe the taste of pumpkin (spice), the aroma should carry you to a happy place.

VI. We are all actors on.

A month of thanksgiving and gratitude, but also a reminder of brokenness and loss,

of fragility

and the ephemeral nature of many and most relationships,

of hurts and priorities shifted and the diverging paths of those you have once walked closely with and together.

If not you, someone next to you. To remember that most have suffered loss in different ways, and to acknowledge, reach out, love, and simply be with, the best you can, those who are dealing with tough circumstances.

It was you, it was me, we are all facing the same final act to each of our stories playing out on stage, and we don’t know when the final curtain drops.

VII. Green eggs and fungus.

I eat a green olive every Thanksgiving. A ritual with my sister, who also does not like them. But I forgot this year, though I did pop a raw mushroom in my mouth, and it was every bit as bad as I’d remembered.

VIII. 5-7-5 privacy invasion.

Memories fade slow.

Sometimes I wish they would die.

But Facebook reminds us.

IX. The race is not real.

The race to share great happiness with the world, and to let all know in your big virtual corner that all is snug and bright.

That is worthy and sharing good news and joyful happenings and the happiness of your family is wonderful…

…but is it in a spirit of insularity and tribalism, or of inclusive, humble gratitude that doesn’t bastardize a single holiday into becoming a public platform for showcasing the superlative awesomeness of your life and the people in it?

Of course everyone reading this thinks No to the former and Yes to the latter, and we want to believe it. That we are simply sharing our joy. And sometimes it’s true.

But let’s also ask ourselves what is the motivation that drives us so hard to make our particular stage all glittery, sparkly, warm, beautiful, and elegant to showcase to the world?

We want to share that which is beautiful.

I know I do. But in the same sense that a handful of well-shot and unique photographs can be more meaningful and long-lasting than a thousand images dumped into a communal album,

a memory can sometimes be more meaningful when it is experienced fully in the privacy and fully engaged presence of those there than the frenetic effort to quickly shoot and then race to public media to share with everyone who’s not there the fact that you are and that you’re having an incredible time with incredible people…

…who are next to you posting the same versions to their own accounts immediately following. Or during.

X. At the inn.

Is there room for one more? Two more? Another family? Three more?

We celebrate the coming together of those we love. And that is wonderful. I would change it not.

But is there room for more in my world, my circle and community?

We celebrate what has been, and maybe we can also rejoice at what can be. Starting today. A place for new rituals and experiences and…people.

XI.This is November.

November is a month of anticipation and sadness for me.

Anticipation for all the rituals and people I am blessed to experience, and the cheery season of celebration kicking off, and

sadness for the friendships, relationships, opportunities lost;

people passed along by death or choice or circumstance or choice or, as happens most often,

the drifting of divergent lives without enough connection or fight to keep from slowly moving apart and converging less and less.

I carry a sadness that is greater than some and much less than many others. It has everything to do with people and loss.

The people I’ve lost, and the sadness I feel at their absence from this planet or from my life…

…and I want that sadness to help being understanding and hope to build new and beautiful relationships; fresh brand new ones, as well as the cementing - or rather fresh roots-watering - of old important ones, and the anticipation that what was is not always what will be. For better and for worse, but when worse to not wallow and make better.

For the many times my life is beautiful, I want to keep that sadness accessible. Not as a signal or a weight or a sacrificial martyr symbol or cry for pity…

…but to help me remember the lonely roads many travel, and to do a better job of being a companion or supportive presence on the tough parts of others’ journeys.

That is November for me.