a letter for november
how romantic everything seems in the dreary late autumn.
10/10/2024
I have a special fondness for November. She’s the shadow child of late autumn, slinking unseen between seasons, eclipsed by the more celebrated months of the year. November is quiet, unobtrusive, but still, she is lovely. Her winds may be bitter and her trees bare; she may darken the streets with rain. She is not so golden as October, nor so light of heart as December, but she offers a gift of her own. She gathers family around her table, promises us a rest before the coming of winter.
It's colder these days and it forces us all to slow down. Time is the most precious thing there is, and I want to spend it immersed in fine conversation; I want to exist in the same space and breathe in the same air as the people I love and feel all the time very warm. In November, I cherish the burning kiss of ceramic under my fingertips as I bring a cup of cocoa to my lips. In November, I curl catlike on the rug in the sitting room and talk until I am half-dozy.
In November, I break away from the gym and find joy again in long walks outdoors. My ambling is without sweat; there is no strain of mind or muscle, the challenge I have come to love. Instead, the exercise is a thing I desire for itself and not for its profits, which is the realest kind of desire there is. And everything is so very beautiful in the almost-winter. Just as any baked sweet is improved by a ribbon of icing, a dusting of sugar, so too is nature made all the more romantic under the touch of frost. I ache to see it, not just once but every afternoon; I never tire of the sights. The sky is a pure and blinding white and the geese fly free. The trees, powdered, brittle things, fall over the glass surface of the frozen lake, never quite mirrored. There is a slight distortion, and so the picture is misty as a fairytale, as if one could really break past the water and find herself in a world parallel to our own, a place of illusion.
Everything is soft and blended and pale, a landscape of such picturesque proportions you would think that life itself was Monet’s invention, that the earth, our human existence, did not begin until the day he first touched brush to canvas. I drink it all in, a little each day, as I stroll the neighborhood and along the lonely lakeside, drawing the clean air deeply into my lungs.
In November, when I have the house to myself on Saturday mornings, I take slow, simmering showers, dial up the heat until I am dizzy. I towel off and delight when the chill seeps back in. I wash my face over the sink, exfoliate, lotion. It’s wishful thinking but I feel the cleanliness has permeated inwards, so I put on some records, old moody soul music, and am calmed. My hair drips onto the tiles, icy under the soles of my feet, and I sway.
In November, I lay in bed in the near dark of night, one side of my face pressed into a pillow, the other half illuminated by the light of my computer screen whereupon a film softly plays. And so, in time, I catch up on all the books and songs and cinema and handicrafts I've been missing, now that, under the slow direction of the season, they are permissible again.
Still, there are the endless thoughts siphoning through the corridors of my mind. I am plagued by the ghost of my unproductivity, who may or may not exist, so that even as my body relaxes into this November rhythm, my head races on:
I should write. I should write but I don’t know where to begin. I need to cut my hair. I need a new muse. I should call an old friend. I should write. Everything is overwhelming. Everything is dull. I need to wash my hair. I should write. What am I doing with my days? Am I moving forward, or back? Am I moving at all? I need air and sun. I need the comfort of a dark room. When will the snows come? I should write. I am overcome with emotion. I am numb and feel nothing at all. I should write. I need a good job, money in the bank, a city apartment, weekends with friends. I want to live in a silent forest and never see another person. I should put my phone down and read a novel. I should sit by the window. I should go for a run. Or a walk. Or a crawl. I should write. I should stay up very late and savor the night. I should wake very early and seize the day. I should write. I should write. I should write.
The voice is a kind of torture to me, but I pray it never falls quiet. This month, it is louder than ever. Soon, I hope, I will be fully ready to listen.
author's note –
Dearest readers, I hope this short reflection stirred your mind somehow.
As I mentioned earlier this month, I will be taking a hiatus for the remainder of the month of December in order to focus further on my personal writing projects and be more present for my family during the holidays. I will not be writing, but I will still be visiting Substack periodically to read and learn from you all.
I will also be using this time to reconsider the direction of my newsletter. Frankly, I am dissatisfied with my posts lately. Maybe it’s my old imposter syndrome acting up again, but life is feeling a bit performative. I need to draw back a little and do some thinking. I hope you’ll wait for me. <3
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I loved how you express your love for November, a month that is often forgotten but really appreciated by people that sometimes feel like November, a not seen month. The parallels you have given are delightful. I really enjoyed reading it, thank you!
Sariya, what a beautiful love letter for November. This line stole my heart: "And everything is so very beautiful in the almost-winter. Just as any baked sweet is improved by a ribbon of icing, a dusting of sugar, so too is nature made all the more romantic under the touch of frost." Your writing is the sugar and icing and frost itself - just made my day a bit more beautiful.