The late afternoon light is bright through my front window, bouncing color off the blue-tinted mason jar used to hold pebbles and other little bits I pick up on my wanderings — a tiny pine cone, a plastic bird whistle, a smooth shell. While the beams cut through the glass panes, the room warms and takes on a semitropical feel, but as soon as the sun arcs over the hillside, the light quickly fades and I soon reach for my wool blanket.
Another November is upon us. Our first frost a couple weeks ago put our garden officially to rest, save the spinach, chard, and tatsoi that soldier on. Our larder is full — very full — and we feel very blessed and grateful for a such a productive growing season.
We are now busy preparing for the “dark” season, although I never have thought of winter this way. I like the return indoors when the temperature dips, the rows of stacked wood, unpacking sweaters from the cedar chest. I love a snowy landscape, steaming mugs of chocolate, icicles sparkling…. Perhaps it’s easier to romanticize winter when its true grip is still a way off. But that’s the beauty of November, isn’t it?