Imbolc Incident

It is the last week of January—which to my mind can be the epitome of the doldrums of winter. Well, maybe not the worst of it. The worst is more like late February, when I become very disheartened, because winter seems to be interminably stuck and refuses to yield to spring. 

What we experience in late January or early February is the cross-quarter day called Imbolc. It is a Celtic day of observation that falls halfway between winter solstice and spring equinox. The solstices and equinoxes occur at precise astronomical dates, which designate when the Earth is at a specific location in its orbit around the sun. Their timing is known; even to the exact minute. The cross-quarter days, however, are imprecise, because their timing depends on local weather; thus Imbolc, for example, falls on about February 1, or maybe a few days on either side.

Imbolc's significance is that it signals the very first signs of the quickening of life in the spring. While we may look around and see no discernible change at this time of year, plants and animals at Imbolc time sense the change coming on and begin to stir. Deep underground, seeds begin to swell, getting ready to pop open. Cows begin to lactate again (Imbolc means “with milk”). While we humans can watch the calendar and note that cross quarter time is here, animals and plants sense it. 

I heard a great example this morning that showed me that Imbolc had arrived—even though the weather lately has been extremely cold and snow coats the ground. I was having no thoughts of spring—only my lamentations over the frigid conditions. Stepping outside, I heard the call of a titmouse. I immediately stopped and listened. Was I really hearing a titmouse call in late January? These birds call in spring, during mating season, and occasionally during the summer—but never in fall or winter. They might chatter scoldingly on frigid days, but they do not sing.

That's what halted me so abruptly. I had not heard a titmouse call for five months or more. Was I imagining it? No, the call came again. It was way off in the woods. An hour or so later I heard the call yet again—this time from another direction, again off in the woods. That told me that the first call did not come from an addled bird, who was maybe suffering from hypothermia. This was another titmouse. I later heard a third... then a fourth.

Why this untimely singing, on such a frigid morning? The sole explanation I could come up with was they were responding to Imbolc. Something was stirring deep in the breast of these birds—a primeval urge that the earliest hints of spring were causing. I wondered if underground seeds might also be showing the slightest hint of swelling—getting ready for the new year. I would remain ignorant about that, however, since the ground is coated with a thick, ice-covered coat of snow. Icy winter is in no hurry to depart, but that first sign of spring is here!