Checking in with November

A misty November morning

I do an awful lot of thinking and dreaming about things in the past and the future — the timelessness of the rocks and the hills — all the people who have existed there.  I prefer winter and fall, when you feel the bone structure of the landscape — the loneliness of it, the dead feeling of winter.  Something waits beneath it, the whole story doesn’t show.

~ Andrew Wyeth

The remains of an outbuilding

The Andrew Wyeth quote is one of my favorites, partly because he’s one of my favorite artists, and partly because I have similar feelings about winter and fall.  The mid- to late-November landscape is, to me, quite beautiful.

The remains of an outbuilding — a wider view.

No frost this morning.  Other than the warm temperature, it has been a typical November day.  A hazy mist hung around this morning, floating over the pond and entwining itself in the meadows and in between the trees.

The baby trees continue to cling to their leaves.  The willows are finally beginning to let go, and there are willow leaves littering the pathways and the surface of the pond.

A small willow reaches out

After the blazing glory of early autumn, I like the muted colors of November.  The browns, the grays, the golds, and the greens.  You can still find spots of red or orange or yellow if you look carefully.  (There is a bright red leaf in the photo with the willow.  Did you see it?)

I like peering into the bushes, and the way the lanky branches create frames and patterns around the trees standing behind them.

Or just a window into the shrub itself.

There is a loveliness to the quiet of the bare landscape this time of year.  The morning mist (or frost if it’s a frosty morning) settles like a hush over everything.  The air smells earthy, of decaying leaves and wood smoke.

November reflections

Have you ever noticed a tree standing naked against the sky,
How beautiful it is?
All its branches are outlined, and in its nakedness
There is a poem, there is a song.
Every leaf is gone and it is waiting for the spring.
When the spring comes, it again fills the tree with
The music of many leaves,
Which in due season fall and are blown away.
And this is the way of life.

~ Krishnamurti

The pond is a mirror

That’s all from the Bogs for today.  Thank you for joining me on another walk around the meadows and the pond.  Wishing you a delightful day, evening, night… wherever and whenever you are on the spectrum of time.

Some color for those of you who grow weary of winter before it even arrives. Bottles on the kitchen windowsill.

Be good, be kind, be loving, just Be.  🙂

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