Sensing stillness, space and sparks in November.

taking cues from November’s quiet, unassuming, unadorned energy.

Hello, I am so glad you have found your way here… I’m Lyndsay — mother, creative and storyteller with a background in interiors PR.

Step inside Story & Thread., a cosy, layered home where the threads of creativity, interiors and mothering meet. Here, we unearth the stories from the seasons of our lives, with a house & a garden at the heart, and everyday beauty as our guide…

“It’s November now and there’s something different afoot”.

—Nina MacLaughlin.

Dearest reader…

How are you feeling as we move deeper into November?

Although the low sunshine has been pouring in over the past few days, there is a certain chill and a distinct change in the air here in London.

We stepped further inwards this week as we passed Martinmas on 11th November — once known as Old Hallowe’en or Old Hallowmas Eve — it marked the official end of the harvest season and the beginning of winter revelling! It was celebrated by feasting on the ‘Martinmas goose’, symbolising the closing of the season of plenty, and by tasting the first wine of the season. Bonfires were lit and children took part in evening lantern processions, honouring the concept of light overcoming darkness, and the importance placed on nurturing our own inner glimmers in the darkest seasons…

A beautiful illustration depicting Martinmas by Robin Elise Pieterse.

This week I thought I was going to write to you about how this transition into late autumn signals a shift away from all of the gathering, harvesting and layering of early autumn, and about all of the things I am shedding and streamlining… but as I wrote, I realised that I what I am yearning for is a necessary November pause, to simply be still enough to notice what is here in front of me, before any sifting begins…

Seasonal cues from the woods and the garden.

All around me, the glazed golden abundance of early autumn has drifted towards the ground, and given way to a quiet, muted, and somehow more mystical energy of November.

A woodland dream.

Stepping foot in the woods this week has transported me to woodland dream scene of magical proportions. Towering trees provide a cavernous backdrop in varying tones of ‘terre verte’, with a soft filter of sunlight catching the parcel paper leaves as they float towards the earth.

There are many treasures to be found amongst the mottled mosaic of crumpled birch, hornbeam and oak leaves in gingerbread and gold, on the woodland floor — including a glorious and whimsical fly agaric mushroom (the first I have ever seen) — this toadstool, a trusted friend of birch woodland (aiding the tree’s root growth), is said to be home to fairies and woodland creatures, and was a Victorian totem of good luck, which I will gladly take.

This year, rather than mourning the fading and falling leaves, I see clearly that the downward drift is an intentional, considered yet seemingly effortless move on the tree’s part, to focus instead on quieter, inward, unseen growth. Statuesque trees stand resolutely in their quest for the kind of growth that takes place not externally, spurred on by sunlight, but in the womb-like darkness below the surface of the earth.

Shedding extraneous layers allows for a conservation of energy and attention to be turned to root extension for nutrient gathering from the soil — often aided by mushroom’s mycelial networks underground.

By leaning into subterranean growth and reaching out for community, trees lay strong foundations for meaningful growth when the light returns.

In the woods this week.

An autumn garden.

A walk around the garden early in the morning is dew-drenched and damp underfoot. The earth is covered in a layer of fallen ombre leaves that this year I leave well alone, learning that they will insulate and enrich the soil with their goodness. The very last flame-like Boston Ivy leaves hang on half-heartedly, eager to rest on the ground now.

Dried, brittle stalks of previously flowering plants sway amongst the tall ornamental grasses with their bowing bronze florets. The soft pink ballerina blooms of Japanese anenomes have faded into the background, but veined skeleton hydrangea petals remain, protectively guarding the beginnings of next year’s buds.

The grass is unkempt and interspersed with wildflower weeds and burgeoning mushrooms (something else I leave well alone). Unfurling lords-and-ladies flank the steps up to the shed, their green glossy leaves provide welcome ground cover and the feel of a woodland glade in shaded corners of the garden, whilst plentiful red berries hang amongst cascading ivy over the back fence. Cosmos and calendula (and a handful of persistent sweet peas!) are in, what I imagine to be, their final flourishes, and the very last half-opened rose seems suspended in time.

Autumn in the garden.

Autumn is the ending of one cycle of growth but it is also the beginning of a new one, it is the gardener’s new year (not spring as I had previously thought). I notice the beginnings of tiny new buds revealed on branches as leaves fall to the ground and become nourishing mulch for soil; and as seedpods scatter, they find a new, receptive home to grow from.

Where summer blooms have withered, I am embracing the small pockets of opportunity for tucking bulbs into the earth in the coming weeks. There is a comfort in knowing that as much as this cycle of growth is ending, that some things will return, and if not we can try it all again.

Sensing stillness and space.

Without the shimmer of September and October, we can see more clearly in November. Shedding layers reveals stark silhouettes and sparseness — negative space emerges after all of the fullness of previous months. After the movement of the leaves from sky to earth, there is a stillness, a necessary pause to cultivate clarity. Even within the beguiling mists of autumn, familiar things take on a new form and sense of beauty the closer we get.

Bejewelled webs and berries on a misty day.

At home, I have removed (some) of the Halloween/Samhain decorations and have finally organised (some) of my children’s clothes destined for new homes. There is a call to lower the volume, to lessen the load, to find space that matches November’s quiet, unassuming, unadorned energy.

This is the time to inhabit the liminal, we are existing within a space after the burnished gold of the harvest but before the glistening sparkle of winter festivities.

It is time to rest in the darkness — to root into the not knowing exactly what comes next, to sense shapes in the shadows, to lean into an embodied knowing that growth happens in the dark, and that if we allow our vision to adjust, things appear clearer too.

November feels like a good time for kindling of ideas, allowing them to simmer, and the embers to burn gently in the cave-like darker months. Taking time to listen inward lessens the overwhelm of early autumn’s changes, moving me to a place where whispers of thoughts and opportunities can come to the surface and make themselves known.

This fertile void is both mysterious and ripe with opportunity. Taking time to pause allows me to really see — to intentionally notice, distil and discern before I begin to shed, and then nourish, entwine and integrate what remains. A pause reminds me that growth never really begins or ends, that it is a transfer of energy and a continuation of all that has come before.

Perhaps the next growth cycle is not about newness but about melding what already exists, about moulding, carving and deepening. Until then, I remind myself of the necessity of stillness and space to find clarity, that there is no rush, that there is a season for everything.

Seeing sparks.

Whilst we sit in the darkest part of the year, I choose to turn my gaze to the celestial — the indelible tie between sky and land, above and below that exists both around and within us.

I am looking to all of the sparks at this time of year to light a path and reveal the unseen and unknown. With Martinmas lanterns, fireworks, bonfires and Diwali lamps, followed by Chanukah candles and Christmas sparkles in only a few weeks’ time, I don’t think I am the only one looking for the glow of a guiding light…

A luminous sunrise.

I witness the luminescence of an apricot sunrise, giving way to ice blue skies and a soft dusting of clouds.

I notice the sudden shift into half light in the early afternoon.

I seek out the faintest of stars above our cityscape and the glistening call of the growing November moon.

As radiance drains back into the earth, I revel in fireworks providing a shower of kaleidoscopic colour across the dark skies.

Cycles and spirals.

The darkest months remind me that a pause is an essential part of all continuous cycles and spirals of growth.

We need the stillness in order to foster our own root growth below the surface.

We need the space to plant bulbs of intention, and trust that they require the cold and dark to germinate.

We need this time in the dark to see the true sparks of what lights us up, and to kindle the embers that burn within — and perhaps for right now, that is enough.

How can you find stillness and space within this month? Where have you noticed sparks?

Thank you so much for reading, I would love to hear your thoughts and chat more in the comments, or of course feel free to send me an email, it is always wonderful to hear from you.

A Seasonal Salon, autumn edition.

If you are feeling called to immerse yourself within this seasonal time, you are welcome to join A Seasonal Salon which took place last week.

A Seasonal Salon is an online creative gathering as part of The Beauty Thread. membership, where the intention is to carve out time and space; to find an anchor in our days; to weave ourselves into the season’s energy, to find some sense of alignment with its cues for creativity.