11/03/2026
On October 30, I looked across the lake and saw November. As we slide through this cross-quarter moment, when the veil between the worlds is said to thin, the sun rides low on the horizon, and the clouds become leaden, glowing globs, casting a beautiful and unmistakable light.
That visceral recognition of the light sent me searching for an adolescent-era book of poems I wrote under the nom de plume Greta. I can picture the journal, navy blue gilded with gold, and fully expected to find it on a particular shelf. I’ve returned several times to that shelf, but it never appears where I’m sure it should. Nonetheless I can conjure the moment I am searching for: my 11-year-old self, looking out the living room window, watching the bare trees across the stream dancing in the wind, and composing some lines, which I may have titled “Birches” or possibly simply “November.” The memory is painted in early winter sepia.
In yoga we talk about “spiral learning.” The teachings keep coming back around. I repeat myself all the time, and every now and then a student looks at me as though I’ve revealed a long-hidden truth - which from my point of view I’ve said a hundred times. We learn when we’re ready.
It took me a long time to love November. It is socially acceptable to moan about the impending cold and dark, and as a young adult I was among the complainers. But discovering wool socks, spending time outdoors every day, and learning to distinguish my own perceptions from the party line has opened my heart to it. The whole round of the seasons is precious to me - I love them all in turn, and like a mother, I couldn’t choose a favorite (although March may be my problem child). For the moment, I am basking in the ethereal glow of this season, grateful it keeps coming back around, revealing itself a little more each time.