November, So Long

plus, a little Something Good

Nov 30, 2025

0:00

-6:57

two polaroid of fall scenes. the one on the left is a sprawling elm tree with bright yellow leaves, many of which have fallen and made a carpet beneath the tree, covering the grass. the one on the right shows a pile of bright red maple leaves filling a gutter in the street.

Every day, around midday, I sit on my back deck and say hello to the trees. This month I’ve been looking and listening for the sandhill cranes as they make their way south, but I haven’t had any luck. Maybe they take a different route in the fall. Come to think of it, I’ve only seen one flock of migrating geese so far this season, and by the time I grabbed my phone to take a picture, they were gone.

People all around Chicago have been seeing the Northern Lights again. And once again, I have not. I can’t stay up late enough, don’t have the energy to drive into the darker areas outside the city. I’m in bed by 8:30. Asleep by 9. My sanity depends on this ritual. Right now, the miracle of 9 hours of consecutive sleep is enough.

two polaroids. the one on the left is a bunch of dried prairie flowers, capped with snow. the one on the right is that same elm tree, seen from a half open window, the lawn beneath it covered in snow.

The trees are releasing their leaves, the plants have gone to seed. Kurt Vonnegut called this space between peak leaf color and full-on winter “locking season”:

The poetry of four seasons is all wrong for this part of the planet, and this may explain why we are so depressed so much of the time. I mean, spring doesn’t feel like spring a lot of the time, and November is all wrong for autumn1, and so on.
Here is the truth about the seasons: Spring is May and June. What could be springier than May and June? Summer is July and August. Really hot, right? Autumn is September and October. See the pumpkins? Smell those burning leaves? Next comes the season called Locking. November and December aren’t winter. They’re Locking. Next comes winter, January and February. Boy! Are they ever cold!
What comes next? Not spring. ‘Unlocking’ comes next. What else could cruel March and only slightly less cruel April be? March and April are not spring. They’re Unlocking.

I agree wholeheartedly with the idea of six seasons as opposed to four. But I’d propose we rename this one Goodbye, because like it or not, this is the season of letting go.

Leaves, flowers, sunshine. Mosquitos, tree frogs, bees. Migrating birds, shorts, celestial particle collisions.

Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.

two polaroids. the one on the left shows a bright blue sky with crisscrossing chemtrails. there are the tops of many trees, in various states of color and leaf loss. the one on the right is two children throwing leaves into the air, their faces blurry with movement

This isn’t necessarily a bad thing, all this letting go, but it is hard. Humans love leaves and flowers and sunshine. I think most of us love tree frogs. I love bees. (No one likes mosquitoes. I don’t even know why I included them). We know, rationally, that the sun will come back. The leaves and the flowers and the birds will return. What we don’t know is whether we’ll be around to see it. We don’t like to think about that kind of goodbye, but it’s there, too, tangled up in all the sticks and bare branches. I’m trying to make space for it this year. It’s heavy, as so many things are these days. I let it spread out a little, take up some of the space left by the tree frogs, so it can breathe. Hello, big feelings. Hello tenderness. Hello fear.

two polaroids. the one on the left is a colorful stand of bridal wreath bursting over a chain link fence. the leaves are orange, yellow, and pink. the one on the right shows the branches of a maple with yellow leaves entwined with the branches of a bald cypress, whose leaves are the color of rust.

Hello, Goodbye season. Celebration of impermanence. Opportunity to practice letting go. You will leave someday, too, which reminds me that everything, every single thing, ends. Which also might mean that nothing ever really ends at all.

a single polaroid. the elm tree from the half open window. the sky is gray, and the branches are now bare.

Some Good Things

Robert Emmons, a gratitude researcher, says that gratitude is “an affirmation of goodness.” Well lucky us! We’ve been sharing good things this whole year. I suppose one really big thing to be grateful for is that piece of Margaret Atwood’s poem, which I first saw on Instagram, which is completely lifted out of context, which I’ve been using for my own selfish purpose of finding good in my life and in the world. THANK YOU MARGARET! Your words are Good.

So many people traded me for zines! What a joy to receive all your gorgeous, hilarious art and words in the mail, on actual paper. Here’s the roundup:

a photo of all the zines listed below, arranged on the green and white cutting mat on my desk.

Clockwise from top left corner:

“Going Gluten Free” and “Directions to the End of the World,” by Zareen Choudhury. More of her work here!

“How to Make a Zine” and “I Am Not a Brand. I Am Human.” by Sarah Shotts (they/them). Art, zines, books, and more right here!

“The Glue Baby Gazette,” by Brigitte, the Commonplace Zine Queen (my title, but well deserved). Check out more of her work here!

A gorgeous painting/collage/print by the artist Jill Nahrstedt, who wrote me a note about fall on the back.

“Penpocalypse,” “The Oddscope, Summer 2025,” and “Aloe Gerald,” by Maggie Slater. These speculative flash zines made me laugh out loud. Read more from Maggie here!

My kids, my spouse, and my mom helped me wash and fill my bird feeders, and the finches, chickadees, and nuthatches are back. I look forward to spending the winter with the birds who stick around. Looking at you, juncos.
I didn’t write a Good Things for October, so I didn’t get to share with you my absolutely epic Halloween costume. Please enjoy me dressed as the superhero I would actually be if I were a superhero.

a photo of me dressed as Peter B. Parker. I'm wearing a Spiderman top, sweatpants, an olive green utility jacket, and two mis-matched hiking boots. I have stubble painted on my jaw line.

SWEATPANTS.
saving the best for last: I’m still here. Still clinging to this spinning hunk of rock in space. Still drawing and collaging and writing and photographing. Still sharing my weird with the world. There are a lot of bits about my life that are hard, but damn, goddamn, I am lucky and grateful for every day I’m alive.

I hope all of you spent a decent chunk of time last week with good food, loving family and friends, and comfortable pants. I’m deeply grateful to all of you for making me feel less alone in the world. (Also, make sure you tell your kids the true story of Thanksgiving.)

this year, thanks to climate change, the first two weeks of November were the pinnacle of fall. Another lesson in impermanence, I guess.

(Extra) Soft Animal

Discussion about this post

Ready for more?