This time of year often feels like walking a narrow, leaf-strewn bridge between the warmth of Thanksgiving and the bright, jangling chaos of December. Many people leap into the holly-jolly part long before the calendar catches up, but November has always carried a different kind of weight for me. It feels quieter. It feels more sacred, like a month that asks us to slow down and take stock of what we are carrying.
My uncle died in November of 1986. Five years later, in 1991, my grandfather died in November as well. Those losses rooted themselves in the month and changed how I move through it. November became a time that invited reflection instead of rush, a month that asked me to notice the small, meaningful things that often go ignored.
Years later, when my grandmother died at Christmas, it forever changed the texture of December. She loved Christmas wholeheartedly, even when she could not remember which gift was for whom. She coaxed her African violets through winter with warm chatter and welcomed cardinals at her feeder as if they were old friends. Her house always carried the scent of coffee and anisette toast, a fragrance that wrapped itself around memory and comfort in equal measure.
After she was gone, the season felt quieter, but also richer in meaning. It reminded me that caregiving begins long before we recognize it. We tend to the people who shape us, and when they are gone, we tend to the memories they leave behind. That work is emotional as much as practical, and November brings those truths to the surface with steady insistence.
Perhaps that is why early Christmas décor unsettles me. It feels like an invitation to skip past remembering and jump directly into celebration when November still deserves its own gentleness. I need the pause before the sparkle. I need the slow simmer of the season before everything starts to boil.
Small rituals help me create that pause. I light a candle at dusk and watch the flame steady itself. I cook simple, soothing food. I check in on people who might also be carrying heavy stories this time of year. I rest without apologizing for it. These small acts may seem ordinary, but they anchor me, and they remind me that tending to myself is as necessary as tending to others.
Gratitude often arrives quietly for me. It settles into the breath before the first Thanksgiving bite, into the acknowledgment of who is missing and who remains, and into the understanding that love makes room for both. It is not loud or showy. It builds slowly, the way flavor deepens when given time.
This November, I am choosing to honor memory, to move at a pace that feels right for my heart, and to trust that even the smallest rituals can nourish me. I am choosing gentleness, both given and received.
As I look for ways to stay grounded this season, I find myself returning to a practice that feels both comforting and familiar: treating reflection the way I treat a recipe, something to be prepared with care and savored with intention.
A Recipe for a Thanksgiving Meditation
Ingredients:
- 1 quiet moment, any size
- A comfortable chair or patch of sunlight
- 3 slow, intentional breaths
- A pinch of memory
- 2 heaping spoonfuls of gratitude
- 1 softened heart
- Optional: a candle, a warm mug, or a loyal pet underfoot
Instructions:
- Begin by settling yourself, the way you would settle dough before it rises. Allow your shoulders to drop and your jaw to unclench.
- Inhale deeply. Let the breath taste like something warm and familiar — coffee, anisette toast, or the scent of a kitchen where someone you love once hummed over a stove.
- Exhale slowly, releasing whatever you carried into this moment that does not need to stay.
- Fold in a memory. Choose one that rests gently on you: a voice you miss, a ritual you still keep, or a small kindness you once received that has lingered far longer than expected.
- Add two spoonfuls of gratitude — not the sweeping, dramatic kind, but the quiet gratitude that comes from noticing who you are now and who helped you become that person. Stir until combined.
- Season with compassion. Offer yourself the same tenderness you extend to others, especially on days when the holidays feel heavy or uneven.
- Take another breath. Let it rise through you, soft and steady. Let it remind you that caring for yourself is part of the recipe too.
- Finish with one final thought: There is room in this season for both grief and grace, for memory and joy, for rest and resilience. Let that truth settle like a warm dish placed on a table full of people you love.
Serve warm.
Reheat as needed.