Over the past few days, we’ve retreated to the November woods. Under blue skies, the trees look silver. When overcast, they take on a dramatic nature—a black-and-white tone. Under clear night skies, the stars sparkle, and the bright sliver of a moon swings from on high. It all feels like a prayer. It’s the stuff of sighs and gratitude. How fortunate we are to have places where we can escape a feverish, angry world.
I have been enchanted with November ever since moving here and getting lost in the mountains with Atticus fifteen years ago. There is a sacred silence to the eleventh month, a whisper among the creaking trees.
From the moment the trees disrobed from their colors, peace settled in the quietude, and nature returned to take hold of the woods once again. No other walkers, bikers, or runners. We’ve encountered more deer than humans and love listening to the crows’ crackling chatter. Sometimes, I almost thin…
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