The November Witch In My Mind

Songs I sing in the halls of my ice-water mansion.

Gordon Lightfoot’s epic “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” was part of the soundtrack of my childhood, as was his “Sundown” and several other songs. My Dad, Bob, loved the folk singer’s work and played it often. The first song, in particular, stuck with me for its poeticism, with fantastic imagery like, “Superior sings/In the rooms of her ice-water mansion,” and “…every man knew, as the captain did too/T'was the witch of November come stealin'.”

I don’t know if “The Witch of November” was Lightfoot’s invention, but his use of it testified to his skill with a lyric. Over the last five decades, newspapers have regularly appropriated the term to describe chaotic, intense storms that lash the Great Lakes in the late autumn, sinking untold numbers of vessels through the years. That’s why I think of it every November when I turn another year older on the third of the month, cold winds blow, and the night comes too early.

Over time, the phrase has accrued added layers of meaning—for me. It also describes a state of depression in which I can’t make decisions, I have trouble enjoying things, and I slowly become mired in chaotic thoughts that spin around the same drains daily, all conspiring to pull me into a melancholy void.

This state of mind is independent of treatment for depression. I take two antidepressants each day, and they do an ace job of keeping my moods relatively steady. Still, it’s as if the November Witch of the Mind slinks around those chemical barriers—and if the drugs don’t let me get fully, critically depressed, they don’t stop the heavy thoughts, either.

All of these are to say the first thing I meant to write here: Sometimes I don’t know what I’m doing anymore, but I know I have to do it. The November Witch of the Mind has kept me from keyboards, from writing at length, and from caring about much of anything. Recently, though, I had to confront some health issues I’ve had for a while (nothing fatal or severe, but part of the aging process), and I realized I had to find a way to clear the storms in my head and start telling people things again.

To be much less vague: I have saved myself through writing before, on many levels, and will do it again. My favorite quote from Hamilton is, “Why do you write like you're running out of time?" That was how I often felt when writing in the past, and it gave me clarity on what I was doing and a sense of purpose.

Depression will not get the best of me. Part of that is making some concrete changes in my daily life, including how I write anything—which can be scattered and discursive on the best days. Also, most importantly, I need to write. I have some gifts as an opera singer, but this right here is what I do.

This is now perilously close to one of those “HEY GUYS, PROMISE I’LL BLOG MORE” pieces that people have published online for decades, turning good intentions into a running joke about procrastination. But all I’m saying is that I’ll keep doing this.

I make no promises about content. For the first time in quite a while (believe it or not), I will write anything I think other people might find interesting to read in some way. I’ll continue the story of my father, mother, and family, but that’s just part of the mix.

Sometimes, the only way to escape being trapped in an ice-water mansion of despair is to resurface and push through the storms. A great ship loaded with ore couldn’t do that. People can. It’s always worth the trouble to try.