Yes and No-vember

Where I grew up, November was a gray time. Here, it can be anything. This week there were plenty of blue skies and plush white clouds, the distinctive fragrance of macadamia blossoms, butterflies and hummingbirds darting about, buds forming on the branches of my intrepid lilac bush, green-blade leaves of paper whites poking through black soil.

But there were also some days of rain and almost-rain, days in which to hide. On one such day I trudged up to Gaviota Peak with my tall German friend Cornelia. We walked straight through clouds, nothing to see but the sandy road beneath our feet and the brush alongside it.

Great waves of sadness have been washing over me without warning lately, and I've been filled with a sense of loss and remorse, and it was cathartic to talk about some of this while stomping with a good friend through the mist. We were wet and cold by the time we reached the top, but also giddy and refreshed. Sometimes there is no closure, just resignation, and a self-issued license to go on.

One evening, just before dusk, everything glowed. Even the rooms inside the house were for a moment mauve and rose-lit radiant. The world held its breath in a state of enchantment, and I beheld it all spellbound.

Sometimes there is no closure, just an invitation, and nothing to do but say yes and be there.