November begins the fallow season of darkness. November, December, January, February. Ug. Back in native Boston, the trees have long since shed their leaves to stand in dead repose. In San Francisco, the sun hangs progressively lower in the sky.
The clocks change on Sunday brightening the morning but hastening the evening. The dusk owls drink their pre-flight tea at five before hunting scurrying creatures like myself.
My apartment grows colder and does not warm up until mid-afternoon. I soon will turn on the gas heat. Until then, I hibernate under two blankets for days in bed. This is not my time of year.
Winter is opportunity for long projects: ten thousand piece jigsaw puzzles, the thousand-page novel either read or written, and building new contraptions. I have built so much lately that I hesitate to start more.
I thought I might socialize during this year. If I do not work tomorrow, or even the next day, I can stay out late. Instead, I withdraw into my hobbit hole. Slowly the calls and texts stop. The world moves onward with its work rhythms. I pick the Hermit card, or Fool.
Perhaps I could live every six months in Rio or Sydney or South Africa to experience constant spring.