November has been gray. In all its shades. The day breaks around ten, accompanied by dark, bare ground and rain, barely brightening the morning before deepening into more shades of gray, only to fade back into the darkness of night a few hours later. Snowfall offers a glimmer of hope with its brief whiteness once a week, but soon surrenders under the pressure of warmer weather.

The rain has freed the river from its temporary ice cover. The current sways in the strong wind against the weary, faded birch groves along the banks, from which the biting northern wind has stripped the last of their colors. The water appears to flow northward in the gusting winds of late autumn, opposite to the direction it should be heading. The deserted shores are silent, as if all life has retreated to some hidden corner, waiting for better days.

November is a tough time. Not just for nature, but for us humans as well. The lack of light alone takes its toll, and on top of that, the pressure of busyness weighs heavily—something I try to avoid at all costs, though I often don’t succeed.

Why is there always such a rush?

A question that has been on many people's minds in recent weeks. Yes, why? Especially in November, when we humans are already challenged by the forces of nature—or the lack thereof—why does the rush pile on even more? A rush that we’ve entirely created ourselves. The surrounding nature sleeps, waiting for spring, the sun, or at least a snow blanket that will brighten the landscape and make our steps easier than on muddy ground. Why do we humans push ourselves as if it were our last day, often beyond our limits? Because we feel we must endure, hurry towards the end of the year just to start everything again?

It sounds like madness to me.

I function terribly under pressure. I fumble, get confused by my own fumbling, and stumble over my feet and thoughts even more. Yet, I haven’t learned how to avoid it or even how to handle it moderately well. Is this rush something we just have to accept? Something we can't escape? Something we have to learn to live with?

I really don’t want to.

In the rush, the joy of life gets lost. All that remains is an unnatural state of survival—sleeping, eating, working. Is that what life boils down to if we don't make a point to care about more? Creativity, enjoyment, timelessness, peace, joy—where do they go in the midst of all the hurry?

Nature knows how to wait, how to give time. It doesn’t rush or hurry. Why can’t we learn to do the same? After all, we aren’t separate from nature. Even though we often think we are. Even in this modern age, we are still part of one big natural system, with all our gadgets, smart devices, and rushes. We invented the clock to enslave ourselves, and the calendar to shackle us.

Sometimes I take time, even when there seems to be none to take. I take a moment, just to stay upright in the midst of the rush and confusing hustle. I don’t own a clock, and I avoid checking the time on my phone whenever I can. Instead, I watch the slowly brightening shades of gray from my window, and step outside when I think the light is at its fullest, savoring the little that it has to offer right now. I try to live by the light, however little of it remains. It feels natural, calming. It’s enough.

Could November’s theme, instead of darkness, slush, and hurry, be "it’s enough"? Small things are enough. A moment of timeless joy, marveling at the many shades of gray—a moment of peace. In the end, we decide what is enough and what isn’t. Ultimately—if you think about it—we are the ones in charge of our own lives. So why wouldn’t we decide that November is just enough as it is? Without the rush, without the pressure to perform or push through the gray, dark days. Without the enslaving ticking of the clock and the exhaustion stretched out by artificial light.

I plan to try that. It’s enough right now.

❤️: Sanna