Reminder

At dinner tonight, the kids and I were talking about this in-between time. No longer really fall, not yet winter...what is this? Flinter?

As always in late fall, I've been noticing a bit of the heaviness of November. So I was reminded, by my children, at our dinner table, of the Robert Frost poem my dear, deep and thoughtful friend Nichole shared with me several years ago. Nichole is a teacher (an extraordinary one) and every year she teaches her preschoolers Robert Frost poems. I really admire that. And I am so grateful to her for teaching me "My November Guest." After we ate tonight, I looked the poem up, read it out loud to the children (Nichole, had she been here, would have recited it for them), and just couldn't get through it smoothly for the tears in my eyes and small sobs in my throat. Harper thought I was a dork and Pat sought to console me. But I was so happy reading that poem! So happy to be reminded that if not for the quiet, dark November times, the other seasons would not be so precious. Happy for Frost's gift of this metaphor. Happy to have a friend who helps me understand those kinds of truths. Happy to have kids to read poetry to. Grateful for big feelings; for sorrow and joy and everything that means we're alive and connected to each other.  Yeah, I'm a dork.  And I'm glad.

Please read this poem and then read it again.  It's just awesome.  Thanks Nichole.

My November Guest by: Robert Frost My Sorrow, when she's here with me, Thinks these dark days of autumn rain Are beautiful as days can be; She loves the bare, the withered tree; She walks the sodden pasture lane. Her pleasure will not let me stay. She talks and I am fain to list: She's glad the birds are gone away, She's glad her simple worsted grey Is silver now with clinging mist. The desolate, deserted trees, The faded earth, the heavy sky, The beauties she so truly sees, She thinks I have no eye for these, And vexes me for reason why. Not yesterday I learned to know The love of bare November days Before the coming of the snow, But it were vain to tell her so, And they are better for her praise. From "A Boy's Will", 1913

Photos by Nichole Ruggles