I wonder where November has gone? I seemed to have misplaced its restless minutes as they crept into the darkness at the end of daylight savings. We don’t save daylight in November I suppose. Always a baffling juxtaposition to what I most crave at this time of year. More light. Not the long, low streaks of sun across my front lawn piercing through the now bare limbs, barely making an attempt at high noon.
I am left to savor the contrails of my releasing breath dancing with what light is available in the earlier and later parts of the day. When I am free to walk the dogs or stretch my legs. A pull to the out of doors even as winter begins to occupy the seat left open by summer and fall. Time for the next round.
The countdown to mid-December’s winter solstice is on. Maybe that is where I am losing my minutes. Wishing them to speed along as if they don’t count. As if they only serve to torture, eating away at 5:15, then 5:00, then 4:20.
But come December 21st and they turn the other way, the minutes once again offering themselves back to the light with each tick of the second hand. I wonder if I will squander them as readily then as I do today in my waiting and anticipation of what I don’t have that I now want. What will be next on that insatiable list?
And ‘tis the season, after all, of insatiability. For “wanting it all” and “never enough”. A challenging part of the year for many and certainly for a perfectionist like me. The settings, the food, the people, the moods, the lights, the smells, the timing, the outfits. The full-time job on top of the full-time job with no HR or IT department, no staff, no pay raise…but plenty of performance review and evaluation, feedback submitted randomly and readily should expectations not be met and held with immediacy and dedication. I’d like to speak to my manager.
And yet I believe in this time of year.
I believe in late-November mornings. Standing at the gas pump in only a sweatshirt having left my parka back at the house. Crossing my arms, warmth enough, until I can get back to the heated seat of my car. Bouncing my heels. Proud for my short burst of endurance.
I believe in the first frost, crab grass etched in place by the cold, standing on end, glistening, bluey grey when lit by an errant slice of sunshine.
I believe in woolly hats and ratty mittens and sweaters worn at the elbow.
I believe in mulled cider and peppermint bark. Apple cinnamon anything. Butter everything.
I believe in twinkle lights emerging at Diwali and lasting past Valentines’ Day.
I believe in the glow of my own windows as I pull up the driveway. The promise of home and family in all its messy wants and needs, cares and crises.
I want to free myself of the holiday tether to the fantastical notions already on full display in the television ads and Hallmark movies. The mythical too muchness of snow globe perfection. And, rather, lasso in a more realistic celebration of the fact that we are here at all. That that’s enough.
FH Perry Builder is well over forty years old. Founded in the mid-seventies with the same intention of bringing together talent and goodwill as today. Building well. Integrity. Self-study. Deep care. Self-respect. Respecting everyone else. Creativity. Grit. Leading. Following. Knowing. Not knowing. Lifelong learning. High expectations. Craft.
We ask a lot of ourselves and of each other. And of you. Its why we are here. For all of us. We want you. Our community. It proves we have something to offer. And that you have given to us with abundance.
You are our lit windows. Our home. Our enough.
You are our daylight.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Allison and the Crew
