About a week ago I decided that November topped the list of least beautiful months, at least here in New England. What a foolish thought, I realized later. In that moment I must have been wrapped in my own bitterness, bemoaning the cold air and a landscape stripped of color. I had not thought about the beauty of things laid bare. Nature unadorned shows the strength of the core. Here, in November, we are given the gift of endurance and the beauty of the self that cannot be hidden.

I am remembering my dreams during this month. The wild, naked woman running free, yet still grasping the garment that refuses to hide unadorned beauty. A red room filled with ancient wonders pushing up from the roots. The face of a wolf projected in the clouds and the unseen urgings of bear and bobcat drawing the dreamer into the inner cave of the soul.

The fruits that still cling to bushes in November are most often red. Brilliant red. The color of blood. Of the water of life. The root of being. The berries remind us that life endures, waiting to be reborn in the spring. That beneath the surface, the roots are continually nourished, quietly stabilizing and preparing for the inevitable new growth that will occur after the winter months have passed.

November marks the passage from the fruitful abundance of early fall, into the stark landscape of winter. The outer growth turns inward. November begins the season when the soul seeks to be seen in its naked truth. It is not always an easy time, but it is a necessary turn in the wheel of life.