Dancing in the Darkness

I love November. It's my birthday month. It's the month of Thanksgiving. It's when we start to hunker down for winter, feeling cozy but a long way from feeling weary from the long, cold, dark days. We look forward to the twinkle of holiday lights and the uplifting holiday tunes, before they get old. Morbid Halloween decorations have finally been taken down, and the leftover candy is beginning -- finally -- to lose its appeal.

The ground outside is carpeted with wet leaves, not a good thing for a klutz like me. As I pulled my garbage and recycling pails to the curb yesterday morning, walking gingerly so as not to break a limb on the slick driveway, my sweatshirt hood drawn tightly around my face to shield me from the driving rain, I wondered if there was something perverse about my fondness for the onset of winter gloom. Then I wondered why it would surprise me that I might be perverse.

There's a lot to celebrate this month, and today is no exception. It just occurred to me that today is the first anniversary of An Eagle's Tale, the blog that was supposed to take me out of "fighting warrior" mode and usher in a more peaceful, more optimistic era. Though I admit I've spent more time than I would have liked over the past year dodging bullets and lobbing a few of my own grenades, I have by no means lost hope. Nobody has waved any white flags yet, but I believe there's an end in sight to the bullshit, and I also believe life, post war, will be fine. There are worse things than living in a double wide, yes?

My mother, who gets all sentimental this time of year when she conjures up vivid memories of my birth and wrestles with the swift passage of time, commanded me yesterday to go out and buy myself something nice, on her. She means something really nice, with a designer label and a hefty price tag. Something I don't need, and would never consider buying for myself. I don't think a wall hanging for my future trailer is what she has in mind.

I will do my best today to shop around for something frivolous, not just to celebrate November milestones but also, and, more importantly, to please my mother. Old habits die hard. And, as the bitter winds kick up and the rain turns to snow and any leaves remaining on the almost bare trees finally surrender and fall to the ground, I will simply dress warmly and take somewhat perverse pleasure in the beautiful bleakness.