November's spaces stretch long and bare. It only takes a month to forget what leaves are or how the world looked when it was bulky with color instead of washed with subtleties of brown and gray-- the notes of a landscape slowing down. The beauty is there, quiet and spare. The length of the opposite hill warms against a horizon aflame. The last of the geese flap slow and low, with plaintive calls echoing. Trees stand straight and unashamed, their clean lines stretched skyward. They turn toward the longest season uncovered, and here I hunker down and deep, packing on layers and pounds alike to last until April. Winter holds beauty, yes, but it's a harsh season at times, with days of too little light that can leave one wanting.
"Tired?" she asked me.
Yeah. That one word tidily wraps up things for you. I'm on month three of replacing food with nothing but candy, avoiding movement, and feeling very, very tired.
We've had lots of company and fun, hours of cleaning but even more of messing-- messing at morning, noon, and night. Mounds neglected to kick aside and trudge through. Laundry in the center with its washing and hanging eternal. The perpetual act of decluttering wealth. The puzzle of too much, bags upon vanloads donated out with little visible change within.
We clear the garden for its cover of snow, bundle cornstalks to
railings, move rosemary indoors to invigorate winter soups and stews,
and leave rutabaga, brussel sprouts, beets, and kale lined like lonely
sentinels to sweeten with the biting frost.
Leftover pumpkins carpet fields, having been plowed into orange shards that stand bright against the brown. They serve the soil and the crows, who gather silently by the dozens to peck seeds. Migrating birds wheel and dip with one mysterious mind on their way to warmer climes. Woodsmoke rides the breeze and flavors the air. Nightwind grows wild and fierce too soon and howls around the corners of the house while children sleep. The nights seem darker and the moon brighter.
Children awake to run in early morning wind, and the first shock of color streaks the sky as their shadowy shapes tumble about the yard. They neglect chores for romping while I watch from the kitchen window.
Days pass with malaise hanging heavy, laughter ringing loud, and noses
pressed to books where words shape worlds. Girls curl in nooks and
crannies and stretch on couches, pillows, and floors to chew through
dozens a week. They arrange a king's share of playmobil and build
elaborate playscapes on the library floor for Ezekiel to dismantle amid
their shrieks of disappointment and his of glee.
We huddle together on the couch under blankets, reading about deox-y-ri-bo-nucle-ic-A-CID!, Crazy Caligula (who, the girls agree, should never have been emperor), the next declension (there's another?), Boticelli (she's nekkid!), and all the rest, as the year's learning
finally hits its stride (don't ask about what it was like before that point, please). We paint and make messes on the kitchen table. We make supper and listen to the month's composer as pitch-darkness peers in the windows. We recite poetry and scripture and sing Psalms next to the fire, but mostly we read. Columns of books teeter on every flat surface, and each day the finished are rotated out to make room for the new.
Gutters cleared, attic insulated, the widest gaping cracks caulked, windows sealed with plastic, a
new pellet-stove-gift in the library-- we check them off the list. The house waits, halfway fastened up, as snow flurries fall outside. My hopes for a warmer winter glow.
Christmas gifts I should have made already multiply whenever I look away. I've scratched out a list long enough to last a year, even though I'll wait until December twenty-third to begin anything. I am years behind. It doesn't take a soothsayer to predict failure looming.
There are hard days, yes. Hard days always will be, but I have a belly big enough for three; a new babe, little lemon, growing still; a husband-true who takes my hand and makes me laugh; and these children to liven dark days.
