This is a time of year a virus peaks its ugly head around mid-November. It spreads a virus to those most vulnerable. You may not “catch” it at the same time; you may not catch it every year and yet, there does not seem to be guaranteed antibiotic to cure its infective powers.
September days start waning as the sun sets sooner; October days rob you of nature’s dinner’s sweetest and most potent “digestif”. November drops its veil of hoary matter and thickens day after day, week after week hiding nature’s Monet, slowly slipping into Picasso’s Blue period. Nights are longer than days and symptoms of this virus multiply
Humans are deprived of nature’s nutrient feeding brains with hope and cheer. Life, death, separation and loss blend. Waiting, as it stings open wounds and those who’ve barely healed are reminded of life’s demises.
Children as well as adults struggle through these muddy paths sucked into the windstorm of grief and loss adjusting to season’s changes in the depths of their heart and soul.
Staring out her window, faithful cat by her side, cloves comes to mind. That dark bud stares at her, hard and bitter scents bleed into her soul, remembering Grandmaman in the kitchen adding spices to the turkey dressing. A portion of sage, pepper, salt and savory, are measured in the palm of her hand. She smiles when asked the portions as she adds just a pinch of cloves. Only she had the antidote that lifts the greyness of the soul and makes the heart beat anew.
Mother’s spice of life
unopened flower buds
cloves of promise