I spent most of my adult life working in education. And something you pick up on quickly is the “theme” of every month, to make the passage of time easier for children to understand.
These themes are reflected in the classroom decor and the laminated calendar at the front of the classroom, where the children sit for circle time. These themes usually center on the most important day or most notable element of each month. Here in the temperate northwestern U.S., January is usually represented with snowflakes. February with a heart. March with a shamrock. You get the idea.
Following this logic, November has always been “turkey month”.
The problem with this is that Thanksgiving lies at the end of the month, potentially leaving November as a sort of empty, cavernous series of rainy weeks leading up to the start of what we call the holiday season.
What is November, if not a month of eternal build-up and suddenly-darker evenings?
It has taken some time to ease off of the school-teacher mindsets and habits I’ve formed, and in the last few years I’ve found a new love for November on its own terms, not just the gateway for the holidays.
To me, November is a month to celebrate stories. As the nights draw in and the air grows cold, I start to crave the fantasy tales of my childhood more than I do in the summer. I pull dusty books out of cupboards or find old favorites on audiobook from the library. As unromantic as the new era of streaming services is, I can find gems and classic films to watch for the first time in decades. Some of them strike me as silly, now. But many of them still ring true.
Much has been said about the “hero’s journey”, the typical narrative form that so many western stories follow. In November, these are the stories I want. Epics and quests, magic and mystery. I want our protagonists to leave the familiar, meet the mysterious, find their inner strength, and prevail over evil.
The beautiful thing about stories like this is that they are cyclical, and November always gets me thinking about cycles. Pushing and pulling. Tides up, tides down. Warmth and life give way to cold and withering. The pond empties in summer only to refill in the autumn.
Whether we feel it or not, time is not just linear. It is circular.
Our days are full of tiny hero’s journey moments, tiny epics, tiny quests. We rise, we venture, we endure, we return. Sometimes we meet the mysterious. Sometimes we find our inner strength. Sometimes we prevail over evil. But often, we quest and adventure without knowing. Hour by hour, day by day, week by week, year by year. Since we don’t see magic happening and we don’t wear armor or meet dragons, we very easily think that these tiny cycles, these tiny journeys, are insignificant.
And yet…
Each epic tale is a magnified, magical version of what is real. The exhausted mother who rises in the early morning to see to her children. The spouses who lay down their pride for one another every day and choose rebirth. Friends loving friends with fierce, sacrificial love. Family stepping into the darkest gaps for one another. The animal companions who fill our homes and hearts with joy. Even the strangers who reach out and pull each other back from the brink with a word, a touch, a listening ear. Hard work, good work, difficult tasks. Caretakers, caregivers. Drawing close, even when we are afraid.
These faces, these hands, are what I see when I read or watch these fantastical tales I so loved as a child. I see real life reflected in these fables.
We are all of us heroes on our own tiny journeys, concentric circles, ripples in a pond that slowly, surely, eternally refills.
Thank you for reading!
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I love this look at November. It is so beautifully written. For the six years we lived in Texas, November was when we finally experienced consistently comfortable temperatures. We went camping for Thanksgiving. Now that we're back in Indiana, I'm once again learning to wait in anticipation of the coming winter.
I have always loved November, and these words are beautiful!