November

The frost has come and gone. My dahlias are diminished to blackened leaves above ground, but under the earth there are fat tuber clumps. I dig up the ones I want to keep, divide, and store them away for the winter. It is hard knowing that I will not see them again until August but it is time for them to rest.

The light is softer now, the shadows creeping across the yard earlier every day. On the day the time changes my family walks around Washington Park Lake among a sea of handmade lanterns. The light reflects on the water, carrying us through the darkness.

November is a time for my final garden tasks: planting new bulbs for the spring, clearing out the dead flowers, and covering my garden beds with leaves. November is a time for my orange peacoat and orange hat that a friend knit for me years ago. It is a time for layering, for warm drinks, for curling up under blankets. Soon it will be a time for family, gathering at my in laws’ lake house for Thanksgiving where we roll pumpkins down a steep driveway toward shore. I can always see the lake better when the leaves are gone.

I do not mind the low light and gray skies when they first make their appearance. I do not mind the darkness that finds us earlier every day. My children come home from school and if it’s nice enough they still play outside for a bit, their heads covered in hats, their hands warmed by mittens. Then, we are all inside, finding each other again in the darkness. Is it possible that we leave a piece of ourselves behind in the summer? That the darkness changes us?

I recently learned how to knit. I can turn knits and purls into hats and cowls. My next goal is to learn cables. There is hand-dyed yarn in soft merino wool, alpaca, and yak to keep me company and this feels like enough to get me through the winter. I don’t mind resting, slowing down and seeing a different side of myself. I think of my dahlias. The beauty of summer is left behind, but downstairs in the basement there are more tubers than I started with, more opportunities for beauty. The tubers are strong and resilient and can make it through the winter, ready to give more when spring comes. But now they must rest, must embrace the dark cold days if they are to ever bloom again.

I know I will struggle in March, will long for the flowers and warmth, but for now I am okay to wander in the dark.