November Storms and Little Choices

It’s the time of year when I start looking at pictures of beach resorts and dreaming of vacations in far-flung locales. Halloween, with all its spookiness, is over. And it’s not yet Christmastime, when holiday lights shine out through the 4:30 darkness. (and if’ you’ve ever visited here, you’d know that no one does Christmas lights like people who live in the rain 24/7.)

It’s just a dark, sludgy time. And yet, there are still so many things to be done. I’ve been working full-bore on this book, trying to get the cover finished and manuscript uploaded and navigating about a million technical annoyances that all come down to things that are invisible if they’re right and glaring if they’re wrong. (For example, the indentations for text messages in a book. Are they normally indented? Are they indented on both sides? Have I found every text message I’ve written in an 86,000 word manuscript that I’ve read more than twenty times now? I don’t know, but I sure hope so!)

I know I’m complaining but it’s not a complaint. It’s an exhalation. The world feels so dark and yet, I need to care about the little things. The big things are so very far out of my control, but the little things are manageable. So I make the dinners and check the grammar and text the friend and plant the bulbs.

I used to believe that it was in affecting the little things that big changes could happen. Maybe I’m getting older or the world has changed but I don’t think that any more. I don’t know how big changes happen. If I did, the world would look different, because I’d be out there pushing on those levers with all my might.

Instead, I’m at home, checking to make sure I used semicolons correctly.

This might sound depressing, like something written as my world literally gets darker. I suppose I could jumpstart that festival of lights. Pull out the Christmas decorations and start baking cookies. I know people who do and I appreciate them.

But here, I want to sit in that darkness for a little while. I want to let it settle into me. The reality that each of us can only do so much. That no matter how many lights I put up, the sun goes down before I even start making dinner. No matter how many Christmas carols I sing, the rain comes pouring down. No matter how many cozy evenings around the fire I have, the world seems sadder than it did.

All I can do are the little things. Make the dinners my kids love. Check the grammar so I can properly communicate the stories in my brain. Plant the bulbs so that next spring, the bees will have the nectar they need. I don’t have any illusion that those will turn into big things. But I do know one thing: those little things add up. They add up to a home filled with warmth. They add up to a community of people who read and talk about books. They add up to a garden that is full of life, even in November.

That will have to be enough. It will have to be enough to create pockets of sanctuary in the midst of darkness. Not trying to deny or pretend that it isn’t November. Not trying to ignore the rain. But providing a shelter, a haven, a respite from the storms. One little choice at a time.