November

“A time to weep, and a time to laugh. A time to mourn and a time to dance.” Ecclesiastes 3:4

Do you ever have moments in November when you think longingly back to late August, and dream of clear skies, bright flowers and barbecues? I remember telling a friend that the only thing I don’t like about August is how the time just disappears. Well, I finally realized that the extra time that always eludes me at the end of the summer shows up unwanted in November, making the dark and dreary month stretch out and feel  like an eternity. My mind starts sending me signals that it is deficient in sunlight, colour, and motivation, and my body just wants to curl up under a warm blanket and hibernate.

In the past, November was often a just a month to survive. A sort of featureless transition between Thanksgiving and Christmas. However the past two years, as I have learned to walk through some deep moments of grief, I have come to see great beauty in the season. This afternoon as I went for my run, I noticed that the silence in the woods made the intermittent call of the lone songbirds more beautiful. And the barrenness of the branches and twigs made the reds and yellows of the surviving leaves more striking.

Times of sadness and grief can easily become seasons to endure or hide out. Something that constantly amazes me as a mother and therapist is the way children often experience and express sadness. My three-year-old can let out the most heart-breaking sobs after she realizes she left her doll at the library, and then a few minutes later be dancing around the house in pure joy to Let it Go from Frozen. I have had young children in therapy sculpt joy and sadness as little clay figures and then portray them as being friends. Children often have a beautiful ability to experience and express the full spectrum of emotions without judgement. As adults, we can lose this freedom and try to block out or reason away emotions we don’t like.

If you have ever stayed at a hotel, you might be able to imagine the thick set of curtains that you open by pulling a single chord. Sometimes we can grow up to believe that we can keep the one side of the curtain closed to block out sadness, but still allow happiness in on the other side. However, in my experience happiness and sadness always work in tandem with each other, and ironically the more our hearts find the courage to allow grief, the more ability they have to rejoice.

Maybe November is a hard month for reasons beyond the darkness and dreary weather. There could be days that bring back sharp memories of loss or trauma. The emergence of Christmas decorations and music might bring up painful feelings. There are times that even the thought of allowing in sadness can be overwhelming. In the sermon on the mount, Jesus said “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.” (Matt 5:4) The more I read this, I wonder if mourning is much more than just a cruel pre-condition to happiness. Could it be that the process of mourning itself fosters things that are essential to a joyful life? In my experience, when I dare to feel sad without instantly requiring explanation or providing distraction, I open the door for a deeper connection with God, myself, and with others.

I am not advocating for spending all of November with a journal and tissue box. I fully intend to enjoy adventures with the girls, eat chocolate, and watch the occasionally cheesy Christmas movie. However, I wonder what it could look like to regularly allow for moments where we pull the chord, even just a little.