November has always behaved like a month with an old soul, the sort of calendar neighbor who sits on the porch as the leaves finish falling and tells you quietly what you already know. There is more year behind us than ahead. The light is thinning. The animals have figured this out without any fuss, but people are slower on the uptake. We insist on taking stock, on telling ourselves we are ready for what comes next, even when we are not. November has always been the place where reckoning and resolve meet. The Romans sensed it. Medieval farmers sensed it. The twentieth century all but shouted it. You live long enough and you begin to see that November is not simply a matter of thirty days. It is a way of thinking.

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