On grief, November gloom, and trying to make a little magic when the world feels grey.
There’s something about the first of November.
Halloween has been packed away. Or, more accurately, it’s waiting to be packed away, because my enthusiasm for putting the decorations up and my enthusiasm for taking them down are two very different beasts.
The birthday preparations and costume making have carried me through October. There have been things to organise, things to bake, children to delight and approximately nine hundred small jobs that apparently only exist inside my head.
Then November arrives, and I slump.
My dad died in early October. Every year, the bustle around the family’s birthdays and Halloween helps carry me past the anniversary. I’m always busy. There’s always something needing my hands, my attention, or a last-minute rummage through the fabric stash.
I still miss him through all of it. Of course I do.
But once the whirl slows, there’s more room to feel it.
And by then, the world has gone dark.
This time of year can be lonely.
People disappear into their coats. Shoulders rise towards ears, faces tuck into scarves, umbrellas tilt against the rain. Everyone is forging their way home, eyes down, trying to get somewhere warm.
I understand it. I’m hardly standing in a puddle volunteering for a lengthy chat myself.
But I miss the looking up. The little encounters that come more easily when nobody is being battered sideways by the weather. A smile. A nod. A pause. A conversation that wasn’t arranged three weeks ago and entered into a calendar.
The evenings close in, and it can feel as though our lives close in with them.
And if you’re already carrying grief, worry or the sort of exhaustion that a decent night’s sleep doesn’t seem to touch, those extra hours of darkness can feel very long indeed.
My response is usually fairy lights.
An unreasonable number of fairy lights, according to some members of this household, whose opinions have been noted and largely disregarded.
I know there are people who feel very strongly about Christmas decorations appearing in November. You’re entitled to your views, my love, but I’m trying to get through the dark evenings, and a small illuminated tree is helping with that. Deal with it. Preferably quietly.
For me, decorating gives these weeks something to look forward to. A little momentum when mine is faltering.
There’s comfort in opening the boxes. In finding familiar things. In deciding where a bit of sparkle might go, then discovering that the plug is nowhere near it and embarking on the annual extension-lead negotiations.
I bake more, too.
There’s something reassuring about the practical business of it. Weigh this. Stir that. Put it in the oven. For a while, there’s a job with a beginning, a middle and the possibility of cake at the end.
I lean quite enthusiastically into the Stepford wife stereotype at this time of year.
Apart from the cleaning.
I remain a shit housekeeper. There may be something lovely cooling on the counter, but you’ll probably have to move three unrelated objects before you can put your plate down.
Still. There will be cake.
I’d love to say that all this works every time.
That I switch on the lights, put something cinnamon-scented in the oven and emerge from the kitchen restored to my full woodland-witch glory.
Sometimes it does help. Quite a lot, actually.
Other days, I sit among the lovely things I’ve made and still feel sad.
I miss my dad. I worry about things I can’t fix by being busy. The pressures outside the house come in with me, however warm I’ve made it inside.
There can be a peculiar guilt in that. You’ve made somewhere cosy. You have people you love. There are good things around you, and you know they’re good.
So why aren’t you feeling better?
I don’t have a tidy answer. I’m learning to let the comfort count without demanding that it do everything. Or at least I’m trying to.
A warm kitchen can make an evening easier. It can’t answer every worry.
Fairy lights can make me smile. I can still wish my dad were here to see them.
I think that’s what I wanted to say as we arrive in November.
If you find this part of the year hard, you’re allowed to admit it. Even if you love autumn. Even if you’ve been looking forward to Christmas. Even if you were happily helping with a Halloween costume two days ago and have now found yourself crying over something you can’t quite explain.
There’s room for all of that.
I’ll be getting the decorations out very soon. I’ll be baking, making things and finding places for more lights than our available sockets can reasonably accommodate.
And I’ll probably have some days when none of it feels like it’s enough.
On those days, I hope I can tell someone. Let a bit of the sadness out instead of feeling obliged to maintain the atmosphere I’ve worked so hard to create.
For now, November is here.
I miss my dad.
I’m going to put the kettle on and switch on the fairy lights.
The washing can wait. It has considerable experience at doing just that.
