December 1st, 2011

Novembers in the north were always melancholy, even morbid. Autumn’s bonfire was all ash, and the long winter gaped.  It’s so different here. The nights get longer, and the days get colder, but it doesn’t feel like death.  More like a pageant. Here come the falling leaves, here comes the touch of frost. It’s a scenery change with just enough props to convey the idea of winter.  An excuse for dressing in sweaters and tights, eating lots and doing little.

It may be my favorite month of the year. Even if Thanksgiving did eat my birthday. I’ve been knitting and baking and clipping coupons and generally leaning into my usually latent domestic side.  Call it nesting. I feel pregnant with lots of things (no, not a baby, and not just pie).  The next book. The next stage of parenting. The next half of life. And other “nexts” that I can’t even make out the shape of yet.

I think the nesting is a way of soothing my own anxiety in the face of moving into all these unknowns. It’s comforting to follow a knitting pattern or a recipe, and get the intended result. Understanding the grocery sales cycle has a concrete practicality that feels grounding right now. These are mysteries I can master, the things to which words are easily put.



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