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!

Pillbug Pervasiveness

We had a very wet spring this year—rainfall for April and May was twice normal. An abundance of rain in early spring rapidly changes the surrounding hues from winter's browns and grays to countless shades of green. It's a wonderful experience to see the growing season get such a watery boost and watch the garden vegetables luxuriate and flourish. The plants get so happy!

A wet spring causes many shifts in the balance of the local ecosystem, as compared to a dry spring. With lots of rain plants get a good season's start and insects abound, as they find many blossoms to visit. We'll be paying the price later, I fear, when mosquitoes and gnats will also proliferate. One of the unusual population explosions we've noticed this spring is pillbugs. These little terrestrial crustaceans, also known as woodlice or roly-poly bugs1, are always found in dark, wet spots. (Other delightful names are armadillo bug, doodlebug, roll-up bug, and chuggypig.) Since the wet spots have recently been everywhere, so have the pillbugs. Turn over a damp log and the bottom will be coated with these little guys. Lift some soggy mulch and bunches of pillbugs will scatter.

Pillbugs are in the family Armadillidiidae. Doesn't that make sense? A pillbug is about a quarter inch long, with 11 armored body segments. When threatened they roll into a ball, causing the critter to resemble a round little pill. This process is also known as conglobulation. (Doesn't that word just roll playfully off the tongue?) Kids call it roly-polying. These bugs also conglobulate when their environment dries up, to conserve water.

Pillbugs are one of nature's important agents for decomposing rotting wood and other decaying organic materials. They have even been kept by some people as pets—most often used to keep cages for rodents clean, by eating feces, mold, and discarded food. With that kind of diet we don't worry much about them causing any real harm, unless a bunch of them get into the strawberry beds and snack on the berries (it's their one sweet-tooth exception).

Every year is a little different in its particular mix of flora and fauna. Sometimes it's easy to ascribe and abundance (or lack) of a given plant or critter to the weather, but sometimes it also can be a mystery. If I keep a sharp eye out, maybe next year I'll solve a few mysteries.

Avian Quickening

I once described the four Celtic cross-quarter days in an earlier posting—those times of year when the Celts saw measurable seasonal change and held festivals and appealed to their gods to watch over them. These four events meant more to those ancient people than our modern calendrical milestones, because they lived so close to the land and the cross-quarter days more closely related to events on the ground.

One cross-quarter day that we heartily greet is Imbolc—which falls half way between winter solstice and spring equinox—during the first week of February. Imbolc brings the true passing of winter, as the dark season begins to yield to increasing sunlight. For the month or so before Imbolc the day length increases a miserly minute each day—a difference that anyone is unlikely to notice. Winter seems to have settled in and is disinclined to move on. But right after Imbolc the day length grows by about three minutes each day. That becomes noticeable!

Animals and plants notice too. They may not be able to peer into the future or read a calendar and anticipate the arrival of spring as we do, but evolution has taught them to prepare for change. Tree buds swell, underground seeds begin to sprout, and mammals begin to lactate (Imbolc means “in milk). Our Celtic ancestors were attuned to the signs as well. They celebrated the goddess Brighde (pronounced “Breed”) at this time—a lady who reigned over birth, healing, inspiration, nature, and their precious livestock. They even cleaned the winter’s accumulation of trash from their dwellings in honor of Brighde. Is this the origins of our spring-cleaning?

It’s around Imbolc time that we hear the year’s first real bird calls in our neighborhood—not the brief, almost accidental bursts of sound that an isolated bird will emit on a cold winter day, but a true song to spring. Just as we know that the swelling buds will bring leaves and blossoms before long, we know that more bird songs will soon fill the air.

We know Imbolc is here and have learned what to expect in the quickening of nature at this time of year, but what’s stimulating the birds? Is it the increasing light that cues them? It can’t be a warming of the air—it’s still as cold as it was a few weeks ago. They can’t read a calendar (at least not the human kind). What might be stirring inside their wee breasts? A little testosterone? The sheer joy of spring that instinct somehow brings?

They’re not as yet ready to divulge their secret—or maybe they are, but we just don’t understand their language. Maybe I’m once again looking too hard for reasons. Regardless of what’s going on, we love to hear these early bursts of song. For us it’s a better sign that winter is coming to a conclusion, than trying to catch a groundhog being startled by his shadow.

From Flocking to Fighting

One of the joys of spring is watching and listening for the return of migrating birds. Those first calls of the phoebe, the robin, the wood thrush, or the indigo bunting are sure to bring wide smiles to our faces and an excited, “Did you hear that!?” All’s right with our little vernal world when we know that our winged travelers have come back for the season.

But there’s another fascinating spring event that I like to observe: the year-round resident birds, as they morph from close-knit feeding buddies in a flock, to sparring rivals, who enter into courting rituals.

Throughout the winter we have chickadees, titmice, and goldfinches flocking at the feeder—maybe a dozen or more of each species. To my untrained eye years ago, they all seemed to be close-knit friends, but that was a bit of anthropomorphizing on my part. Birds rarely are friendly with one another—tolerant is a better word for it (at best). In fact, they most always aggressively establish a pecking order that determines who dominates. At the feeder, sweet little chickadees are the most submissive and intimidated. Titmice pick on them, while they in turn are subservient to finches and nuthatches. Small woodpeckers come next, topped off by the cardinals.

But there’s also a harder-to-distinguish pecking order that gets established within each species. It’s more difficult to follow, because I’m as yet unable to tell one titmouse from another. Thus I can detect a hierarchy process going on, but do not know which bird is boss, or if he stays boss for long.

Despite the pecking order dynamics, however, during the winter the birds flock together in a decently non-combative manner around the feeder. Come spring, though, inner mating urges begin to control their behavior. It’s combat time. Winter’s proximity gives way to spring’s territorial jousting. The birds begin to call incessantly, in order to establish their mating and breeding turf. It’s fun to watch their antics, as they begin to challenge each other for the nicest patch of ground. They dive, feint, chase, squabble, show off, sing vociferously, and just as quickly stop and perch next to one another, as if a truce was suddenly called.

I’ve read that the dominant male of each species (the one in command at the winter feeder) gets the first pick of breeding territory. Around here that means the clearing, as it’ll have the highest population of insects during the summer. Maybe someday I’ll learn how to trap and band birds, so I can identify individuals. Then I can verify if Dominant Tom Titmouse at the feeder is the same guy whose mate now reigns in the nesting box in the back yard, or if Submissive Sam managed to outwit Tom or sing better than he did, and get the prime location.

Spring Overshoot

Every second or third spring we get a serious case of temperature overshoot. Week after frigid week creeps by in February and March, when we crave warm weather—much as kids impatiently wait for Santa to drop by with his load of goodies. Then in late March or early April, those warmer days finally arrive and we revel in their luxury. But even before we get a chance to enjoy the pleasantness, the temperature slides on up past cordial to somewhere near tropical. From chilly 50s to pleasant 70s, then on into the nasty 90s.

It’s not fair! We’ve far too quickly morphed from shivering to sweltering. A couple of brief days of delight get sandwiched between two disagreeable extremes. Besides it being unfair, the body can’t adjust that quickly. Come July, I can endure 94 degrees pretty decently. But the 94 we had today… in early April?? Whoa!

But the problem with spring’s overshoot goes far beyond our physical uncomfortableness. It even goes beyond the sadness of watching flowers wilt and die well before their time. (In cooler weather, they’d last a couple of weeks, not a measly two days.) The hardest part is watching all the fruit trees pop into bloom one afternoon—knowing that a night of killing frost is surely coming. We can pretty well count on a 26-degree night in the next few days, when all those vulnerable blossoms will get zapped by Jack Frost, die, and turn a ghastly brown the next day. It seems so unnecessary. Why must the weather make these wild swings? Why does it so sneakily lure the buds open, only to kill them the next day?

Mother Nature can seem cruel, but it’s mostly our perception that reads motives into natural events. A gorgeous sunset does not intend to please us. A drought is not our punishment. An earthquake has no malevolence in it. It just is. Our suffering is caused more by doing things like building houses in a flood plain or planting a delicate cherry tree that is susceptible to frost.

Oh well, so we lose a cherry or peach or pear crop every two or three years. But those other years… oh, how sweet their fruit is! Besides, we planted a backup years ago: strawberries. They’re smart enough to blossom later, when all the frosts have passed.

The Firsts

It is early spring—such a glorious time. Anyone who is in close touch with the natural world (in temperate climates, at least) gets excited as spring comes in. The thrill emanates from deep within our beings. Entrenched in our DNA are countless times that our ancestors successfully negotiated nasty winters, to celebrate the return of life. Hallelujah! Once again we’ve survived the trials of winter and now we greet the New Year.

Many naturalists have expressed the sentiment that our calendar ought to commence with spring. That’s Mother Nature’s inauguration of the year—not that dark, bleak time surrounding the winter solstice that we choose.

What makes spring so exciting, I think, is the string of “firsts” one encounters. The first opening bud on a tree. The first tiny blossom hunkering down close to the ground. The first phoebe call. The first T-shirt warm day. The first tentatively fluttering butterfly. And what adds to the level of excitement is the long wait one endures during those last trying days of winter—day after day of cheerlessness, as you press your metaphorical nose to the window, surveying the monochrome world, wondering if color and life might (please!) come today.

And what adds to our excitement is the knowledge of all the future firsts that these heralds of the New Year signal. We know that soon we’ll taste that first strawberry, pick the first lettuce, and savor that first tender sprig of asparagus. The garden will morph from graveyard to nursery in a few short weeks.

Spring’s pace is difficult to keep up with. One’s emotions become overwhelmed, as all the firsts are encountered so swiftly. I try to allow the mind’s adrenalin to flow freely, however, knowing that this spring fever will pass equally quickly. I don’t want to stand still a minute, lest I miss so much!

Soon the firsts will be behind us. In some cases we will become accustomed to the routine; even becoming slightly jaded by all the seconds, thirds, fourths, and so on. That may be so, but when the abundance comes, I will then be in awe of the fecundity of a meadow of daffodils or a tree full of apples. Bring that abundance on! I will look forward to reveling in the cornucopia of August.

Phirst Phoebe

After such a trying winter we are thirsty around here for any small sign of spring. We’ve always craved the advent of spring, but this winter left us especially parched for precursors of the renewal of life. We had a record-breaking snowfall this winter, and then it was followed by a persistent cold period, so the white stuff lingered far longer than usual. Even a decently warm day felt chilling, with all that snow around.

By this time of year we are usually taking our first tentative steps in the garden—slogging through muddy walkways and scoping out the first plantings. But not this year. The garden did not cast off its blanket of snow until just a few days ago and the soil is still too frozen or soggy to even think of plunging a shovel into it.

Confined to the house far more than we’d like at this time of year, we’ve been unable to monitor those early spring awakenings that we always hunger for. Normally, if we walk the grounds in late winter and glance through the bare branches of trees, we usually can begin to detect the most subtle change in color: a hint of red or the slightest change from charcoal brown to burgundy. No green yet, but something stirs deep within (the soil or your soul), because you know it’s coming soon.

Another hint is the tentative calls of the year-round resident birds. The Carolina wren might set off in January, but that’s no indicator of spring. It’s the titmice who become the initial heralds of the verdant season. It’s startling to hear one of them spit out a quick, uncertain call in early/mid February—as if he didn’t really mean it… just couldn’t contain himself.

Then there’s an increasing bird chorus in the next couple of weeks. On sunny late-February days they really get into their warm-up act. Even cardinals and chickadees—other year-round residents—pick up on the enthusiasm and begin singing. I wonder what stimulates them. The lengthening of day? A flush of extra sunshine? A zest for spring? A knowledge about the coming season that I lack?

These are all hints of spring, and all are welcome. But I’m not sure I can trust a resident titmouse any more than I can trust my own wishful spring-feverish desires. What is more trustworthy, however, is the first sounds of returning migrating birds. I saw a flock of Canada geese headed north a few days ago, but the deal was sealed this morning, when we heard the first returning phoebe. No mistaking that exuberant call: “FEE-bee FEE-bee, I’m back. Whew! I’m tired. Where are the bugs?”

The March of Spring

It is now mid March, and spring is well sprung. The many anticipatory weeks of longingly looking for early signs of the vernal period are over. It’s here! The endless stretch of the late winter doldrums is finally behind us. Celebrate! Equinox is just around the corner. The pace of awakening is quickening.

There is no gloomier time of year for me than the couple of months following winter solstice—when the pace of seasonal change slows to a glacial crawl. The root meaning of solstice is “sun stand still;” and nothing seems to move for weeks on end, except blowing snow. The old expression “slower than molasses in January” pretty much says it all for me. But now excitement bubbles up from within, as the welcome signs of spring are everywhere. Life is moving, is rejuvenating itself!

The earliest hints of spring—seen back in February—were very subtle and often invisible. One had to take it on faith that they were really there. Buds began to swell ever so slightly, animals stirred in their dens, and the days (if one really took note) were a teeny bit longer.

Now the signs are far more strident than mere hints. They are in your face! Days are strikingly longer. Birds begin to practice their territorial and mating calls—intermittent and tentative at first (as if their chirps are a little rusty), but getting bolder by the day. The more audacious of them already are singing long and lustily. Until recently the birds flocked cooperatively, sharing food and territory—but now they occasionally squabble and feint at one another, as if seeing which one will blink first. They are warming up for paring off.

The tree branches have gradually shifted from their gray-brown winter dullness to a shy flash of burgundy—soon to show a lusty red. Look close and you can see buds swelling and tentatively lifting from the protection of their twigs, as if to look cautiously around, before daring to burst open. They are pregnant with possibilities. Look closely at the ground and you can see the first tiny shoots of plants poking up. Oops!, there’s a crocus blossom. How did that happen so fast?

All these vernal outbreaks of nature also elicit a welcome change in us homestead humans. A warmish day will draw us outside to revel in the fresh air and sunshine. The garden calls out for its first ministrations—to which we joyfully answer with an overly-abundant enthusiasm. Then we find ourselves nursing aching muscles the next day. That’s OK; our spirits are lifted so high by spring’s arrival that a few aches are a welcome price. Hmmm, I wonder how this year’s first tomato will taste.