Turning back the clocks embedded in my household and vehicles, I'm reminded once again that I'm an analog girl in a digital world. My alpha-geek spouse usually helps with this, but he's overseas, so this task, so rich in seasonal symbolism, falls to me.
Alone at home, I busy myself with all manner of time-consuming tasks, fending off the inevitable onset of winter darkness. More than just the end of summer and the gathering of the bountiful harvest, November fills me with a visceral sense of foreboding of dark days to come.
Living in sunny Texas, this seems a bit absurd, and more than a bit self-indulgent. But most of my life was spent in New England, where November meant that winter had once again gained a toe-hold in our lives and would not be leaving us for a while. Like a visiting in-law, the anticipation of the visit was more daunting than the reality. November's darkness, its cold rains, its rustling leaves playing tricks on us in the light of our headlights on our weary drive home - all of this messes with our psyche in a most unsettling way.
Thousands of years ago, our ancestors shivered and clutched their winter robes, watching apprehensively as the sun faded day by day, replaced by the gathering darkness. It was a time of uncertainty when the return of the sun - and the fertility of field and family - were by no means assured. Bonfires burned against the night ski, and torches drove away the evils lurking in the wintry shadows.
In modern times, of course, we know that the sun will return, and we can spare some contemplation of other seasonal perils, political, economic, and meteorological. We can spare a moment to rant about the Christmas carols already driving us nuts in the stores. We can commiserate with those who,like us, are soooo ready to glimpse this election in the rearview mirror. We can allow ourselves to revel in the success (or lament the underperformance) of our fantasy football team.
Still, there's that uneasy feeling that we've lost something essential. Our sense of foreboding and dread is wired into our DNA. Even when we turn up our thermostat or throw on a fleece jacket, we know we're not fooling anyone. We can decorate our home with lights and put our electronic candles in the window, and try to trick ourselves with balsam aromatherapy, but our ancestral wiring reminds us that these are nothing more than feeble attempts to forestall the inevitable.
We become fearful, relucatant to be alone with our thoughts, haunted by an unidentifiable sense of melancholy. We long to stay inside, play it safe, pull the covers over our heads. Ironically, increasing our time outdoors would go a long way towards allaying our fears, as our life-giving sun works its luminous magic. Still, we hurry home at night, as darkness consumes our commute, making the world around us less familiar, more perilouus.
Our inner child, still wide-eyed with wonder, cannot always drag the circumspect adult out to marvel at the stars or to frolic in the autumn leaves. All grown up, we should understand that we're simply in the grip of a temporary biochemical set-back. We tell ourselves that we should be happy. After all, it's the start of the holiday season. Everyone expects us to be gracious hosts, grateful guests, opening our homes and hearts, eating, drinking, and being merry.
Perhaps it's the dissonance between celebration and trepidation that drains us and leaves us feeling anything but festive. Perhaps it's the dread of family gatherings, dredging up generations-old hurts, piling on unattainable expectations, and making hibernation seem like a truly viable option. Perhaps it's the absurdity of striving for the perfect commerialized holiday, where our weary treks through the malls or the e-tail sites leave us emotionally and financially depleted and not a footstep closer to any sort of true holiday spirit.
November is the kick-off to this season of paradox. When we set our clocks back, perhaps it would be better to set them way, way back. Back to a simpler time, when our only worry was whether the life-giving sun would return after its journey to some other time and place.