November is auspicious in so many parts of the country: the rice

Host: The late afternoon sun hung low and golden over the rice fields, turning every stalk into a thread of burning amber. The wind drifted lazily through the palms, carrying with it the scent of harvested grain, wood smoke, and something faintly sweet — the first trace of the coming festive season.

A small village road wound between the fields, where children ran barefoot, their laughter echoing against the distant mountains. The world seemed to breathe slower here, softer — as if the month itself was taking a long, contented sigh.

At the edge of the fields, under a banyan tree heavy with old lanterns, Jack and Jeeny sat on a rough wooden bench. Between them, a small radio hummed with an old folk song, and the light of the setting sun lay across their faces like a quiet blessing.

Jeeny: “F. Sionil Jose once wrote, ‘November is auspicious in so many parts of the country: the rice harvest is already in, the weather starts to cool, and the festive glow which precedes Christmas has begun to brighten the landscape.’”

Host: Her voice carried the same warmth as the afternoon light, gentle and nostalgic. Jack tilted his head, his grey eyes tracing the sky’s slow shift from gold to violet.

Jack: “Auspicious,” he muttered, his voice low. “I always wondered about that word. People talk about blessings like they’re written into the weather. But November doesn’t feel auspicious to everyone, Jeeny. For some, it’s just another month of struggle — the fields empty, debts piling up.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But isn’t that what makes November beautiful? It’s not about abundance — it’s about relief. The harvest’s done, the air softens, people can breathe again. Even the poorest farmer gets to look at his field and think, ‘We made it through another year.’ That’s grace, Jack — not wealth.”

Host: The wind shifted, bringing with it the sound of a church bell from the nearby village. A few firecrackers popped faintly — early preparations for the coming fiestas. The light flickered against Jack’s face, revealing a faint, contemplative smile.

Jack: “You talk like November is a person — generous, forgiving.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Every season carries a face if you know how to look. November wears the face of forgiveness. It’s when the land finally rests, and so do the people.”

Jack: “Forgiveness? That’s a poetic way to see it. But the land doesn’t forgive. It just takes what it wants — water, labor, life. You give your sweat, your time, and sometimes your children to it. And still, it asks for more.”

Jeeny: “And yet, people still return to it. They plant again. They don’t stop. That’s the faith of the farmer, Jack — the same faith Sionil Jose wrote about. He understood that beneath hardship lies an unbroken rhythm: sow, reap, rest, begin again.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice seemed to merge with the wind, with the distant chant of workers heading home, their baskets heavy, their bodies tired but upright. Jack watched them, his eyes following their slow procession across the fading light.

Jack: “You know what I envy about them? Simplicity. They work, they eat, they sleep. There’s no pretense. Meanwhile, people in cities chase meaning through screens and salaries, never realizing that happiness still smells like wet soil after rain.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. November reminds us of that — that joy doesn’t need spectacle. Just enough to live, enough to share, enough to feel the season’s peace. That’s why Sionil called it auspicious.”

Host: The first stars began to appear, small and hesitant. The radio had gone quiet now, replaced by the low hum of crickets and the occasional bark of a dog from a distant household. The sky above the rice paddies deepened into a bruised indigo, the color of rest after labor.

Jack leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

Jack: “Do you ever think about how different this month feels depending on where you stand? For us here, it’s calm. But in cities — November’s chaos. Deadlines, traffic, stress before Christmas. It’s strange how one country can breathe two different lives at once.”

Jeeny: “That’s true. But maybe that’s the beauty of it — that contrast. November is both rest and rush, both prayer and commerce. It reminds us we live in layers — not all of them visible.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s why writers like Sionil Jose matter. They write the parts that go unseen. They remind us that beneath all the noise, there’s still quiet somewhere.”

Host: His voice softened, almost reverent. Jeeny smiled faintly, her eyes glinting under the flicker of a nearby lantern.

Jeeny: “You sound almost poetic, Jack.”

Jack: “Don’t tell anyone.”

Host: A small boy passed by, carrying a bundle of firewood on his shoulder. He waved at them shyly; Jeeny waved back, her smile wide. The boy disappeared into the gathering dusk, his silhouette swallowed by the twilight.

Jeeny: “You see him? That’s the spirit of November. Work done. Family waiting. Light on the way home. You don’t need miracles when you have that.”

Jack: “Maybe. But it’s also nostalgia, isn’t it? We romanticize it because it’s fading. Kids like him will grow up wanting malls instead of fields, screens instead of skies. The glow of the season will come from advertisements, not lanterns.”

Jeeny: “Then it’s our fault if we let that happen. The world changes — it should. But memory shouldn’t vanish with it. November is memory. It asks us to remember where everything begins — the land, the hands, the harvest.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, soft but powerful. Jack sat quietly, his face caught between light and shadow. The faint sound of singing drifted from the village — a group rehearsing for the parish choir. Their voices rose, thin but clear, threading through the night like a promise.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, my mother used to light candles on the windowsill in November. For All Souls’ Day. I’d watch the flames flicker against the dark, and she’d say, ‘They’re for those who worked before us — the ones who made our lives possible.’ Back then, I didn’t get it. Now…”

Jeeny: “Now you do.”

Jack: “Yeah. Maybe November isn’t just about harvest or weather. Maybe it’s about gratitude.”

Jeeny: “It always is. Gratitude’s the truest prayer we have.”

Host: The wind picked up again, stirring the grass, the faint rustle like distant applause. Above them, the stars brightened, free from the weight of clouds. The fields, golden even in darkness, seemed to shimmer with quiet pride — as if listening.

Jack: “So November’s not just a month.”

Jeeny: “No,” she said softly. “It’s a pause between what we’ve done and what’s to come. It’s the earth taking a breath.”

Host: Jack looked out across the fields, the vast expanse glowing faintly under moonlight, and nodded slowly.

Jack: “Then I hope the world never forgets how to breathe.”

Jeeny: “As long as there’s someone who looks at a field and calls it beautiful — it won’t.”

Host: The church bell tolled again — slow, deliberate, tender — and the two sat in silence, the kind of silence that isn’t empty but full. In the distance, the lanterns flickered, lighting up the paths home, and the faint scent of roasted corn drifted through the evening air.

November had settled upon the land — not with noise, but with grace. The fields slept, the stars watched, and two hearts, weary from their own roads, found stillness in the season’s quiet benediction.

And as the first fireworks bloomed faintly over the village — early, bright, brief — the night whispered what every harvest teaches:

that peace is not the absence of struggle,
but the moment you look at the world,
and call it enough.