November is my twelfth favorite month of the year. The sky is gray, the grass is brown, the trees are bare. With the change of the hour hand on a clock, the evenings are suddenly very, very dark. Clouds hang low, and I can almost feel their weight on my shoulders. The earth heaves a big sigh, acquiescing to the damp, dense despondency of lonely longing for sun and warmth and life. “Death and decay!” Nature demands.
Listen to November. What do you hear? Silence. No chirping birds or croaking frogs. It’s the silence of waiting, holding one’s breath in expectation. Or is it doubt-filled hopefulness as an atmosphere of sadness saturates frosty ground.
November is the time to visit cemeteries, pray for the deceased, light candles in remembrance. November feels like depression, but it’s not. It’s pressure. It’s the awareness of the millions in the “cloud of witnesses.” We don’t see the souls living in joy and grace, on that final lap heavenward bound. But we feel their presence. It’s like heavy air. Inhale deeply. You may whiff a heavenly scent.