Late November

John Atkinson Grimshaw, A November Night, 1874

Late November and I couldn’t be happier.  I am in bed wearing an old pair of flannel pajamas and an alpaca stocking cap; my windows are open and outside the dark cold wind blows briskly in strong gusts, fluttering my old, torn curtains.  I love it.

And this is the time of year that usually marks beginnings and reconciliations.  I have written about this previously.  I’ll have to look.

This year I am especially eager for both things that are good and new and reconciliation with things that were good and now lost.  I feel optimistic.  Or maybe I am just naive.  Either way, I feel good.

Outside, however, police sirens are coming into the neighborhood and stopping at an address nearby.  It seems to happen often.  This is a good neighborhood and so I wonder…I wonder who might be having trouble on such a wonderful night.  Seems unbalanced and out of place somehow.  Certainly sad.

People are like that, too, turning away from good things standing before them, unable to see the promise.  I am grateful that I see beauty where others might not, like the beauty of a raw windswept night.  It isn’t cold and unforgiving, it is full of energy and comforting.

I like that.

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