… November is my least favourite month of the year. If it happens to be when you celebrate your birthday or anniversary or any other occasion that’s important to you, please don’t take it personally. My distaste for November has nothing to do with you.
I don’t like it because it’s dreary. Dull. Sure, there’s the odd sunny day, but mostly it’s grey and damp and dismal. The days get shorter. It gets dark earlier. Piles of leaves cover the roads and sidewalks and lawns, leaving bare, sad-looking branches in their wake. And when it rains, which it often does, the leaves become slimy and they stick to your shoes. They also make it slippery to walk.
Cold as it may be, winter’s snow-covered streets and trees are pretty. Buds poking up from the still-dark earth in Spring fill one with joy, hope and anticipation. Summer’s extended hours of daylight are energizing. Autumn’s colourful landscape takes your breath away and really, it’s when Mother Nature is at her most creative.
Then there’s November. It’s neither here nor there. Fall’s really over but it’s not yet winter. It’s that in-between time that makes me feel like I’m in an abyss. It’s too bland for me. In an attempt to “brighten” things up, I’m sometimes tempted to turn the lights on, even during the day, but it doesn’t help.
My reaction to November is visceral. It makes me sleepy and lethargic. I tend to procrastinate more. My get up and go takes a nose dive. The spring leaves my step. I shiver, even if it’s not that cold.
My joints feel it and when I first get up in the morning I’m stiff. I have to force myself to seize the day and to be honest, some days I don’t.
Shades of grey can be beautiful and interesting. It’s one of the reasons why I love black and white photography.
But I don’t find that drama in November’s grey. There are no sharp contrasts between dark and light. No hard edges. It’s monochromatic. It’s monotonous. It needs a splash of fuchsia.
So, for that matter, do I.