I arose yesterday morning at six to the patter of raindrops on the skylight. First September rain! Early this year! Yay!

For some people, rain is just another four letter word. But the warm, fragrant end-of-season showers that break our summer drought are greeted with delight here in our muddy valley. Picking up on the general excitement, our children have been known, in years past, to don their swimsuits and perform a celebratory rain dance, thin heels stamping the yellow grass below gushing downspouts.

The rain refills the cisterns that satisfy our thirsty gardens. It washes away August’s thick yellow dust, brightening every surface. It nudges our valleybottom creek awake, to sleepily murmur her displeasure at finding herself filled with crispy alder leaves, as the first thin trickles of moisture wind their way down her parched trench. Soon she’ll be roaring along, adding her background commentary to all our valley’s going-ons and lulling us to sleep each night.

Rain. Every leaf, flower, fruit, and living creature, including me, breathes a deep sigh of contentment in the clean moisture-laden air. The hawthorn berries, flying under the radar till their rosy little faces were rinsed clean, fairly pop with colour, glowing bright red against a shiny backdrop of wet leaves. The soft dry grass luxuriously soaks in the shallow puddles and begins to blush with green from the roots on up, as it lazily considers a fall growth spurt.

This year’s chickens, some never having seen water falling from the sky in their entire short lives, run confusedly around, wet and bedraggled, relishing this new experience. They will snuggle close together tonight and dry off, no doubt dreaming about the creepy crawly smorgasbord the change in weather is serving up.

The frogs were singing last night for the first time since spring as I drifted off to sleep. It seems that all nature is rejoicing along with me at the end of our dry season.

And this morning? More delight! Fog! Sneaking in overnight on stealthly feet to wrap our valley in mysterious grey shadows. Fog subdues our world. It muffles the barnyard squacks and rumblings and makes the hawthorn berries glow even brighter, as they do their earnest best to brighten the soft gloom.

TL;DR, November is one of my favourite months

My family thinks I’m crazy, except possibly my youngest, who shares my weather tastes, because November is one of my favourite months. Chilly damp mornings, the air sweet with a clean, composty fragrance. Quiet gray indoor afternoons, raindrops pattering on the skylights. Long slumbery evenings by a crackling fire. I love it all.

October is prettier for sure. The trees change into their fancy duds, and dance frantically as if to lure summer back, throwing golden orange red confetti in the air to ward off November’s chill. Sunny days remember June, and cloudy days promise January, while the last of the apples ripen, and our equines sprout their winter fuzz.

By November, our muddy valley is drowsy, hung over from October’s harvest party. The leaves carpeting the grass begin to dissolve, the annuals turn to slime, their molecules breaking apart and reforming to be born again as fuel for next spring’s explosion. The earthworms and bugs and slugs and Protozoa munch quietly away. Nature’s cleanup crew. The graveyard shift.

November is over ripe, fermenting, transforming secretly in a cycle as reassuring and perennial as time. Look closely at the branches, tiny buds are already flashing a silvery glint of green, waiting for January’s or February’s or even March’s command to come forth.

November is for resting. For recovering from the adventures and trials of the past year. For storing up reserves of strength, and energy, and plans. For arming us to face the new.

Soon enough, too soon for me most years, December’s equinox will turn darkness’s tide and the days begin to lengthen once again. Then Christmas’ bustle and cheer, and January’s new year, and new resolves and new projects, and before we know it we are plunging headlong through another year. On the journey of our lives.