Sometimes beauty sneaks up on you when you’re not paying attention. You think you’ve missed your chance, and then November comes along and reminds you—the show’s still going on.
I went back to work this past week. At one of our gigs, I told some people we’d see them next week because we were playing at their friends’ Christmas Party on Saturday. They both looked puzzled, and the husband said, “That’s in December, right?” I laughed and said, “I forgot about November.”
Maybe that’s part of the reason Mother Nature seems to be making such a statement this year—as if to say, “Hey, what about me?”
Thankfully, she’s patient and knew I would come around. It just took a little coaxing—a few leaves floating past my window like messages from above.
Over the past few days, nature has captured my attention. The colors have been breathtaking. The winds have come in strong, pulling the leaves from the trees and spiraling them high into the sky. Then they fall, sounding like rain as they land on the roof of our travel trailer.
It’s an amazing thing to witness. Maybe November has always been this way, but I don’t remember it ever being so dramatic. Maybe I just haven’t been looking closely enough.
He’s holding a kaleidoscope, pointed up to the light—watching diamonds and circles in shades of gold and purple, falling into each other, exploding with color, a mosaic view of life.
He can’t believe his eyes. It just keeps getting better with every turn, it’s never the same—there’s always something new, a different point of view.
—Point of View lyric
After losing Mom, I notice things differently. There’s a tenderness to it all—a sensitivity that seems to catch the light in unexpected ways. Like turning a kaleidoscope—what at first looks ordinary suddenly rearranges itself into something spectacular.
I bought birdseed yesterday. Mom quit feeding the birds in August, which I thought was strange (still connecting dots). She used to love watching them from her window.
Since I inherited a few of her feeders, I decided to fill them again. It felt good to welcome the birds back.
Now, as I sit by the window and write, I can see the dark silhouettes of two larger birds—maybe ravens or hawks—dancing in the wind. Whatever they are, they’re having a ball, catching the different currents, with no agenda but to enjoy the ride. They tilt their wings and lean in as the strong gust lifts them higher, effortlessly.
Thank you, November, for reminding me to enjoy this ride. After all, it’s not winter yet—or as Bob Dylan might say, “It’s not dark yet.” Or, in Rodney Crowell’s words that I sang along to yesterday, “It ain’t over yet.” And in my own words, “It just keeps getting better.”
Sometimes the best view comes after the turn—A different light, a different lens.