Moby Dick

 I have told this story before-and it has no point-so if you don't wish to gather around now, I understand.

You have been warned.

                                              Photo by Marcus Woodbridge on Unsplash

    Ahab's Wife came into my life in 2002. It held everything I loved about a book-romance, passion, a bit of academia, wistful settings. More than anything I longed to be Una having Captain Ahab crushing me to him with his passionate obsession. I wanted to walk in intellectual circles and live on Nantucket and discuss astronomy with Maria Mitchell. I was drawn in, a little obsessed, and knew that was the life for me. 

    Now my grip on reality is strong enough to realize I couldn't be a fictional character living out life in the 19th century on Nantucket. But suddenly I was interested in Astronomy enough to take classes in college and convince myself I had the brainpower to study it, at least temporarily. I couldn't have a whaling sea captain fall in love with me, but I could light a kerosine lantern at night and fumble through pages of Moby Dick in bed. 

    I never made it through Moby Dick. I haven't read Ahab's Wife in years. I am not an astronomer. I am not a great conversationalist. I haven't had any of the things I though I could conjure up with hope back in 2002. 

    But it is November-such a romantic month.

            

“November is usually such a disagreeable month...as if the year had suddenly found out that she was growing old and could do nothing but weep and fret over it. This year is growing old gracefully...just like a stately old lady who knows she can be charming even with gray hair and wrinkles. We've had lovely days and delicious twilights.”  ~L.M. Montgomery

I always feel a little more like the real me in November. So I am snuggled up in bed, my fake fireplace heater blowing warmth into my room, soft pjs, and wooly socks cradling my body. This is the sort of day when I can be the me I should be. When I can imagine my days are spent climbing over rocky shores as grey, storm-driven waves crash upon themselves at my feet. I am Anne scrambling home to her house of dreams. I am Una of lofty thought and wise words. I long to be free of musts and have-to tonight. 

And I am sleepy and have forgotten my point. 

Good night.