Next general meeting
January 13th, 2026. 9:30am-11:30am
LFP Third Place Commons (near the stage).

Why I Love November in the Garden By Mark Schauer November arrives quietly, like a soft sigh after the exuberance of autumn. The garden exhales too, its energy slowing, its colours deepening into russet, bronze, and smoke. Many see November as the garden’s end — the time when blooms fade and bare branches take hold — but I’ve always found it one of the most beautiful, tender months of the year. The Poetry of Stillness In November, the garden is hushed. The frantic pace of summer is behind us, and what remains is stillness — an elegant pause between abundance and dormancy. The air carries a chill that sharpens the senses; every sound seems more distinct: the whisper of dry leaves underfoot, the distant call of a crow, the faint crackle of a nearby bonfire. There’s a kind of honesty in this season. With the foliage fallen, the bones of the garden are revealed — the sweep of a pathway, the curve of a hedge, the silhouette of a tree etched against a pale sky. I find beauty in that simplicity, in seeing the true structure that all the blooms once adorned. The Subtle Palette of November Gone are the bright petals of summer, yet the garden remains rich in colour — just softer, quieter. Frost traces lacework along the edges of leaves, turning them silver at dawn. Grasses shimmer gold in the low sunlight, and seed heads stand like tiny sculptures, each one a vessel for next year’s promise. There’s a particular light in November — diffused, melancholy, and utterly captivating. It lingers low through the day, casting long shadows and illuminating cobwebs with a silken glow. It’s the kind of light that makes you linger outside longer than you meant to, simply to watch how it plays on bark, soil, and sky. The Comfort of Rituals November’s tasks are gentle ones — clearing, cutting back, tucking the garden in for its winter rest. There’s satisfaction in sweeping the last of the leaves, in spreading mulch, in planting bulbs that will sleep unseen until the early spring sun wakes them. Each small act feels both an ending and a beginning, a quiet investment in the seasons yet to come. And then there’s the planning — the delight of imagining next year’s garden. I find myself poring over seed catalogues, marking pages, dreaming of colour combinations and new textures. November, for all its stillness, is fertile ground for imagination. A Season for Gratitude Perhaps what I love most about November is its sense of reflection. The garden has given so much — flowers, fruit, colour, calm — and now it rests. I walk its paths in gratitude, gathering the last of the herbs, admiring the resilience of a lone rose that refuses to surrender. November reminds me that beauty doesn’t always shout; sometimes it whispers. It’s in the curl of a leaf, the glint of frost, the patience of bare branches waiting for spring. The garden teaches me, again and again, that rest is not the opposite of growth — it’s part of it. And so, as the year draws toward its close, I find peace in the quiet company of my November garden — serene, stripped back, and full of promise.