I don’t have writer’s block. I have a life block. Nothing feels quite right with me of late, and I don’t feel particularly present, either. Everything feels a little bit skewed and off-kilter.

Part of this is timing – November is not my favourite month. It’s not the dark and dreary cold dampness, though that’s not thrilling either. It’s memories. The body remembers trauma, and I seem to collect it in the late fall.

This year I have the added stress of the approaching first anniversary of my mother’s death.

Time marching on feels somewhat offensive at times. It’s not that we can’t handle them, it’s that having to is enraging.

I’m not new to troubled Novembers, so I prepare for the worst. I start planning my coping strategies in October. I remind myself to be gentle with myself. I remind myself about connection, compassion, sleep, and eating.

I remind myself that November will pass. It’s too bad that as the end approaches, my inside negative voice ups its game. That last-minute push is always a pain.

It’s been a long month for all that it’s only thirty days. Working hard on the daily to ignore the constant, inside critical voice wears one down. It’s hard at times to remember self-kindness, even when we need the grace. Especially when we need it.

Hitting ourselves when we’re down is a popular human sport. We seem to like nothing better than to take a problem and make it worse. Or perhaps that’s a “me” thing?

It’s odd – we’re often the opposite when it comes to other people. I’m an enthusiastic cheerleader with a “go-to” attitude. I’ve got your back and the props you need. It’s too bad we mostly don’t do as well by ourselves as we do by others.

As I metaphorically stomp my way toward the end of November, I’m reminded of a poem I’ve always liked. Snippets keep dancing about my brain. In November, the world is too much with many of us.

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The World Is Too Much With Us

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;—
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not. Great God! I’d rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.

-William Wordsworth

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