November. In A Cold Rain.
That says it all, doesn’t it. All of Fall’s crisp newness long gone. People withdrawn into themselves, trudging around in oversized coats. Leaves brown and sad and soggy on wet pavement. Cold without snow, dark without stars, past Halloween and before Christmas. Seasonal depression moves in overnight like a ne’er-do-well relative – leaves muddy footprints, unpacks suitcases. Every move, every word, every thought has to be pushed as through deep water. On days like this one forgets there was ever a red-gold leaf, an October-blue sky.
November. In a cold rain. I don’t like it. Today I grump and slump through my have-to’s like a sullen child: “I don’ wanna get up, I don’ wanna go to work, I don’ wanna do this stuff, I don’ wanna go to my appointment, I don’ wanna go home, I don’ wanna take out the garbage, I don’ wanna go to sleep, I don’ wanna do anything, go away, leave me alone!” Yet this is the appointed season for Thanksgiving. And in some odd, inexpressible way, it seems like the right season. After Halloween, before Christmas, as the growing season winds down and the resting season begins.
In two days’ time I will attempt my first solo Thanksgiving dinner, including a turkey breast. (I refuse, just refuse, to stick my hand in an actual, somewhat-recognizable turkey). I will gather with my small little family around my rickety old table in my funky old house, and I will give thanks. For surviving the previous twelve months, I will give thanks. For friends and family who’ve come through in stunning and humbling ways, I will give thanks. For having enough, I will give thanks. For a God who hears what’s wanted and instead grants what’s needed, I will give thanks. For healing begun and wholeness ahead, I will give thanks.
Even in November. In a cold rain.
Mad God Woman
