The Magic of November - Introspection & Reflection

Salem's coastal forest at flow tide, 8 November 2025

It's hard to believe that it's been a month since I've been able to sit down to write! October came in like a wrecking ball, as it's wont to do here in Salem and from that point on, all bets were off. Admittedly, I've felt that this entire year has gotten away from me - but October hit like a freight train and I'm only just now beginning to breathe again.

I was able to post a reel on Saturday, the same day that I took this picture, and I can't possibly express how much better I felt after getting back to my sacred spot to recharge my connection to earth and water. I walked my paths, picked up entirely too much rubbish that had come in with the tide, and I was richly rewarded by the ocean for my troubles. Those rewards came in the form of some spectacular pieces of sea glass, each one seemingly prettier than the last. I was also gifted with a deep, deep silence.

The forest itself felt as though it's gone to bed, and the shoreline was giving a sense of hibernation having begun. I was able to make myself still, even as I walked slowly down the coastline, gathering trash and finding sea glass underneath the leaf litter, and before long, I realised that I had become part of the silent stillness of both the coast and the forest. The few animals I did see didn't notice me at all as I passed quietly by and I felt the land and sea folding itself around me, as McGee Island had done back in May. It was humbling and a welcome relief from the noise of the day-to-day.

I returned to my little cove and sat in the stillness for a while, reflecting on the year now gone by, while the flow tide encroached the shoreline and lapped quietly at the rocks. November is truly a month for introspection and reflection - especially as the days grow darker and the nights longer. I thought of how this year started, staring down the barrel of a cancer diagnosis and pending double mastectomy, while navigating my mother's new diagnosis of Alzheimer Disease. By spring, I was coming out of the hardest part of the post-op recovery and was officially cancer-free; however, I learned very quickly that the physical healing process takes far longer than the 6 - 8 weeks usually quoted by the surgeons. A return to "normal" was still a long way away.

As I sat on the shoreline in stillness and thought of all of the change that this year has brought, both good and perhaps not so good, I realised that, if this year was a tarot card, it would certainly have been The Tower. Almost everything that I knew had collapsed around me in a dramatic and spectacular fashion. But as we know, The Tower isn't necessarily a bad thing. It paves the way for new growth, new light, and new life.

I'm looking forward to the coming dark months. I will be reviewing the year as a whole, thinking of where I could have done better, and acknowledging where I did well. I also remind myself that even though my life as I'd known it has absolutely burnt down, the foundations upon which that life was built are strong ones. I'm already starting to build again, and I can't wait to see what seeds will be planted, what things will grow, and what the life I'm building now will look like.

For the moment though, I will continue to return to the rocky, muddy, briny shoreline and sit in stillness with the hibernating coast, and sleeping forest. It is from this silence and stillness that the seeds I'll plant will come, and it is in the silence and stillness that I will find the peace that I need to rediscover myself.

This is the magic of November - the inward spiral as the world around us settles in to sleep so that it might grow stronger in the coming spring.