…or, at least, I loved November when I lived in Massachusetts. Out here in Arizona, November is nothing but yet another warm and sunny time of year. It’s lovely, actually – especially at night – but it’s not the same as up in the northern climes.

Lots of people would be surprised to know The Great White Shank considers November his favorite month. In my New England home, November typically means the breathless anticipation of winter to come: bare trees with their dark skeletons silouetted against gray skies, a damp chill in the air, the forests still and brown against silvery clouds that indicate an approaching storm system.

I loved the feelling of November. It was absolutely the best time of year to do retreats at Holy Cross Monstery: mornings spent reading Ecclesiastes on warm rocks by a silvery and still Hudson River, afternoons spent meditating in the chilly orange and brown woods. Since I was a teen, the emptiness, quietness, and barren sense of November was always the closest month to me in terms of connecting with my heart and my soul.

Today is All Saints Day, so I’m pleased that my All Hallow’s Eve candle still burns brightly in my prayer grove. Hard to believe that in just a few weeks the Christmas tree will be going up. How this year has flown by. And what a year it has been. And still could be.

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Pool temp: 67 degrees