The Chippewa, unerringly adept at using earthly phenomena to describe the seasonal wheeling of the planets, call this moon cycle "Freeze Up Moon." Brrr! Natives of the tropics might draw a mental blank at this description, but  those of us who hang out above the 40th parallel get the picture. As you read this, I envision you swaddled in three or four layers of wool and down, clutching a hot mug of something. Your feet are most probably cold and you wince as you take a quick inventory of the woodshed, the propane tank, and your fuel budget. You may not be exhilarated by the bracing chill and the ravishing, Andrew Wyeth-like palette of subtle earth tones now inhabiting the landscape out your window, where posies nodded a short while ago. The winding up of autumn, followed inevitably by the onset of winter, may, in fact, make you feel old, very old. 

Shakespeare, in the winter of 1592-3, was the victim of a virulent attack of nostalgia for his lost youth. Being Shakespeare, he picked up his quill and smartly captured the feelings of mortality and foreboding that cold weather and shorter daylight often brings.  

      That time of year thou mayst in me behold

      When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang

      Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,

      Bare, ruined choirs where late the sweet birds sang. 

Yes indeed, many of the sweet birds are gone, both literally and figuratively. My spirits droop a bit when the hummingbird feeder comes down and the deck chairs go into storage. The old bones creak. But there's also some part of me -- the part that is sick of pushing a lawnmower, desperate for new ways to prepare green beans, and sloshing on sunscreen -- that again looks forward to afternoons hanging over the cooking pot to concoct savory soups and stews, and filling the house with the heavenly aroma of fresh bread. I can't help but look forward to slow, quiet evenings in front of the woodstove, curled up with (or dozing over) a  book and my knitting. 

As the year winds up -- or down, depending on your point of view -- we tend to take stock of our lives. This being a dark, often gloomy, vulnerable-seeming time, many souls become anxious, but there's an upside to fighting free of hyperative summer distractions and confronting winter's unvarnished reality. At such times, profound revelations have a habit of breaking through. While the sun dips lower and grows feeble, do you find yourself examining your articles of faith and working out your salvation in fear and trembling?  Well, it seems to be equally the case that, instead of pondering the eternal verities, in the yeasty silence of a winter evening some quirky, unanswered and unanswerable question floats to the surface to amaze and amuse. Last night, on finishing a terrific book, `a propos  nothing I suddenly found myself wondering why I  can't like the works of Saul Bellow and Joyce Carol Oates, both serious writers of distinction who have sold mountains of books (a claim I can't, and may never, make.) Why that translucent little bubble of personal bias came up just then from fathoms deep is anyone's guess, but it's part of the adventure of having time to reflect. 

As November wanes, some portion of us will still be suffering post-election blues, deflated and fearful of what the future holds. Who knows, flapping your arms and jumping up and down to keep warm may jar something loose in a good way. Stranger things have happened. I, too, was repelled by the recent inane gyrations of our political process at work, and you would not be alone if you took a few vows --say to follow St. Paul's advice to "be blameless and innocent, the sons [and daughters]  of God, without blemish in the midst of a crooked and perverse generation, among whom you shine as  lights in the world, holding fast the word of life..."  Even if your boughs are bare, ruined choirs with only a few tough yellow leaves hanging on, you still have reckonings to make and discoveries to stumble upon under Freeze Up Moon.