A November to remember

Lounging on the porch and soaking up the morning sun, I placed my palm flat on my stomach, right over my womb and sighed contentedly. I was feeling warm in the cold weather of Belgaum (which is at its coldest in winters). As I braved an episodic day and night pregnancy sickness, Sweet November had marched in arm-in-arm with a chilly weather, orchestrating the 'symphony of love' back in my life.

It was overwhelming to watch the vibrant display of gold, scarlet and orange leaves offer a spectacular show of fall foliage. I realised then that November beautifully embodied the meaning of the word 'self-celebration.' You can see the self-celebratory passion in the way November magically tosses hue-changing leaves to mark its own welcome.

Similarly, as an expectant mother, I needed a heap of self-confidence and assistance to celebrate the joy of a new life. That day, November and I had developed an in-depth connection - both yearning to nurture and care for the blossoms, and to get a head start to the parenting season.

That pretty much sums up why I gave birth to a November born baby girl. She was the showstopper in the spectacular fall show of 2014. Doe-eyed, with blank expressions, she had a loud, yet pleasant voice. Surely, to me, November will always be sweeter than pie - diving into this pile of crunchy colourful leaves felt like I was literally 'falling' in love.

Two years later, as November revisited, my daughter and I waited for her school van to arrive. It seemed like Mumbai had turned 'sixteen' that year; there was some silence in the chaos and some warmth in the cold air, or was it just me who had stopped to smell the roses? I can't be sure. But as I waved a "bye" to my daughter, I looked around: November had arrived.

The porch was missing, but I was still soaking up the morning sun. The womb was missing, but I still sighed contentedly. In the backdrop of the same chilly weather and the tossing of dried leaves, the self-celebration continued. November was humming a welcome song, telling me to wake up to each day, acknowledging it in its entirety - be it playful, joyful, uncomfortable or challenging.

In the words of Arlene Stafford Wilson, every November I remember: "a distinct smell a mixture of the dried leaves on the ground and the smoke from the chimneys and the sweet ripe apples"

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