Where did the November Color Go?
It is December 1st and the ground is still soft, the grass still green. We live in Vermont, not Georgia. I am born in November. Having an anniversary in that dreary month has taught me to look for the small favors nature bestows during the change in seasons. Those gifts are subtle and noticing them has always felt special, like a secret shared with the few who pay attention.
Soft mauve hues mix with chalky grays and amber grasses. Bright shots of color burst into view occasionally as I see the bright red winterberry or the orange of bittersweet hang in amongst fox grape and ivies. Squirrels and chipmunks chatter and chase in the dry leaves under foot. This is a time for smells of rot and wood. Lichen clinging to burls and boulders send out a metallic scent reserved for particularly dry cool days of November. We still have pachysandra in the woods, looking silky and thriving. The forest's leaves have all been cast down, yet the air is wet with warm breezes as the temperature stays steady at 50. It leaves me feeling uneasy, all this fecund life, even as the sun dips out of sight at 4:30 in the afternoon.
What do you say about that? Times change with the aging of my bones, skin going slack and joints complaining. This all seems to be the heart of the journey. Yet instead of ear tips red with cold or toes numb from a morning walk, I am instead looking for some sign of November color to comfort me with the certainty of the seasons I have always known. What do I do about that?
Soft mauve hues mix with chalky grays and amber grasses. Bright shots of color burst into view occasionally as I see the bright red winterberry or the orange of bittersweet hang in amongst fox grape and ivies. Squirrels and chipmunks chatter and chase in the dry leaves under foot. This is a time for smells of rot and wood. Lichen clinging to burls and boulders send out a metallic scent reserved for particularly dry cool days of November. We still have pachysandra in the woods, looking silky and thriving. The forest's leaves have all been cast down, yet the air is wet with warm breezes as the temperature stays steady at 50. It leaves me feeling uneasy, all this fecund life, even as the sun dips out of sight at 4:30 in the afternoon.
What do you say about that? Times change with the aging of my bones, skin going slack and joints complaining. This all seems to be the heart of the journey. Yet instead of ear tips red with cold or toes numb from a morning walk, I am instead looking for some sign of November color to comfort me with the certainty of the seasons I have always known. What do I do about that?
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