The Turning Point
November has been surprisingly gentle with her touch. She’s given us t-shirt days, golden pockets of sun for laying out and letting the light find our skin, and warm afternoons for slow, satisfying work under an open sky. I’ve been watching the weather like someone watches the tide—steady, hopeful, curious. But now, the forecast speaks of rain, maybe snow. The temperatures are dropping. You can feel it in your bones: this is the pivot, the last deep breath before the cold fully settles in.
We’ve been in the garden, saying goodbye in small rituals. Mowing down the leaves, pulling spent stems from the beds, tucking things in. And then there’s the ceremony of covering the patio furniture—a gesture that has become sacred in its simplicity. Canvas draped over chairs, one final act that whispers: fall is over, winter is on her way.
Last year, the furniture covers suffered against the winter winds—small tears, worn spots from relentless friction. This week, I rolled them out like old stories, examined them, patching what needed mending. I tried denim iron-ons, but they didn’t stick. I dragged the sewing machine outside, tried to force the neatness of precision into fabric that’s meant for weather, for rough edges. It didn’t cooperate. So I went back to instinct—spray glue, patches pressed on in faith. Resilience, handmade.
I grouped the furniture closer, in a sort of huddle, hoping to soften the blows of the coming months.
As I worked, it struck me—how often do we miss the chance to prepare for the winters of our life? Not just the ones the calendar promises, but the seasons that arrive unannounced: divorce, depression, deep fatigue, the grief that reshapes you, the loneliness that guts a room. Some winters come quietly; others roar in like storms. We can’t always predict them—but if we’re paying attention, if we’ve learned to feel the shift in the wind, we can prepare.
What does it look like to ready ourselves? Maybe it’s rest. Maybe it’s asking for help before we feel broken. Maybe it’s a journal, a meditation cushion, a long walk in the cold where breath becomes prayer. Maybe it’s just time—time to sit with the truth of what hurts and the tenderness of what still wants to grow.
I’ve learned to patch my own heart the way I patched those covers—imperfectly, but with love. I’ve learned that preparation isn’t fear. It’s trust. It’s saying, I know what’s coming, and I’m still here for it. I’m not running. I’m listening. I’m softening into what must be felt.
Winter will come—both the one outside our door and the ones that enter through other thresholds. But we can meet them. We can stay. We can become the ones who thrive in every season.
