Celtic Cross-Quarter Days

We humans have always had a need to mark the passing of seasons. Modern people keep a precise calendar, as we tick off the days, months, years. We take special note of days like Christmas, New Year’s, and the solstices. We celebrate them and attach much significance to them—even though many of them are arbitrary milestones. (Why does the new year fall on January 1? Or the week begin with Sunday?)

For most of my life I have observed these popular milestones, and had my activities governed by them. The four seasonal days—the solstices and equinoxes—are not arbitrary; they are precise astronomical events. They signal summer’s longest and winter’s shortest days, as well as the in-between times when day and night are exactly equal in length. When I lived in an urban environment, in mainstream culture, these were the notable benchmarks of the year.

For the close-to-the-land, rural life we now lead, however, I have discovered four other seasonal days that hold more meaning for us: the Celtic cross-quarter days. They fall halfway between the solstices and equinoxes. Why do they have more meaning for us? Although the summer and winter solstices have definite astronomical significance, their passage can barely be discerned. Since the root meaning of solstice is “sun stand still,” the solstices are a pretty sluggish time of the year. Despite knowing that it’s an eventful day, the weather pretty much stagnates in the days before and after a solstice. Just the opposite happens at the equinoxes: the day’s length is changing so fast that one can’t keep up with the pace. They’re gone, before one can get tuned into the change.

The cross-quarter days meant much more to our European ancestors, because they marked turning points of the seasons, signaling the advent of a new period that could be felt right then. The life of an agrarian dweller turns a corner at the cross-quarter days, shifting into a new phase. The ancients threw major celebrations at these times, to show gratitude for being alive and to entreat the gods to smile upon them. These four days did not fall on a precise day. Since seasons vary from year to year, the cross-quarter days fell within a week-long window.

The Celtic New Year began with Samhain (inexplicably pronounced, in true British Isles tradition, as SOW-win); on or around November 1. Thus it falls halfway between fall equinox and winter solstice. It begins the dark quarter of the year—the onset of winter. Nature is preparing to shut down. Many plants and insects die to next spring’s generation, or go dormant. Death is at hand. Halloween is our modern marker of Samhain.

Three months later Imbolc arrives, at the beginning of February. This is the time when winter is losing its grip on the land. It’s the earliest hint of spring. Buds swell, underground seeds stir, cows lactate. (Imbolc means “in milk.”) The European ancients divined the near future (Is winter really over?) by consulting hedgehogs. In Pennsylvania, German immigrants found that ground hogs worked.

Near the beginning of May, Beltane is celebrated. Life is thoroughly blossoming. Plants are beginning vigorous growth. But our ancestors, leery of cold days still hovering in the woods, felt the need to encourage the fecund summer to fully arrive by dancing around a maypole—a phallic symbol of an erotic and sensual time of the year.

The last cross-quarter day of the Celtic year is Lughnasad—at the beginning of August. It’s harvest time—time to reap the benefits of Nature’s gifts. Named after Lugh, the solar god, Lughnasad was a time to celebrate the horn of plenty, but also to note the closing of summer and turning the corner into fall. With the harvest in, they knew colder days were coming—the Wheel of the Year turns ‘round once again.

Values, Valuables, Goods, Services

These four terms have overlapping definitions. Thus they are sometimes used in a confusing manner. They also get a spin put on them that implies money is the determinant factor in defining them. Capitalism tends to put a price on everything. Everything becomes a commodity—to be bought or sold for a profit. When used in a more fundamental (i.e., from the dictionary) sense, however, there can be interesting distinctions between these words, I think. First, let me be clear on how I’m using them.

Value is a word I’m using more as a verb—in the sense of having esteem or regard for something. What we value is a personal choice and can say something about our priorities and morals. Moreover, one can value both material and immaterial things. If I value truth, for example, I’ll tend to act differently than if I value owning a lavish house.

Something that is considered valuable often has a high price put on it by society. Most of us will pay good money for an item that the general public values, if we really want it. American culture urges me to acquire as many valuables—in the way of material things—as I can. On the other hand, an item can also be personally deemed valuable, even if it’s commonly considered inexpensive. (We all possess what we consider to be valuables that would bring little or nothing on eBay.)

By goods, I mean the merchandise or property that we exchange for money. Goods and valuables can be quite interchangeable, from this perspective.

Finally, I’m using services as meaning nonmaterial goods. Services may be thought of as one’s labor or time that one person provides to another. Sometimes it’s a gift, sometimes it’s for a price. Many people work “for the man,” providing services in exchange for money that can then be used to acquire goods or other kinds of services.

To be reckoned valuable in a public sense, therefore, something must have a certain market appeal. Supply and demand determines the cost of something; and raises that cost if it’s perceived as scarce. We’re taught to get the highest price for what we’re selling and the lowest for what we buy. It’s the way we acquire more goods; it’s how we grow the economy.

What I find intriguing is that many of the things in life that I consider to be the most valuable are actually free—or once were, and maybe ought still to be. What price can we put on love? Religious freedom? Clean air? Pure water? Often, however, they all come at a price… a high price. For example, bottled water (not as pure as we’re led to believe) costs hundreds of times more than tap water.

What kind of a society might we be, if the following goods and services were freely available (were a citizen’s right, even): clean air and water, a college education, a fair wage, good health care, safety, an unpolluted environment? Is it inevitable that they either cost a lot or are simply unavailable to most of us?

Bird Ventriloquists

I love listening to birds. They sing constantly around here and I’m up pretty early in the morning, catching their concerts. I love to hear their songs—taking joy in listening to old friends’ familiar calls and puzzling over songs that I can’t yet identify. Bird songs—when you put attention to them—are amazingly varied and complex.

Most of the singing occurs in the morning, by males declaring their territory. Before they dive into the day’s work, they wake up with boisterous song. The louder, longer, and more complex his song, the better his chance at attracting females, as well as deterring his rivals.

Birds can tell how far away their challenger is by the timbre of the received call. As sound propagates through the woods, its acoustic properties are altered. For example, high frequencies are muffled more than low frequencies; so the farther away the caller, the softer the call. A bird can listen to what he hears and judge the range of his adversary. If it comes from what he thinks is a safe distance, it’s no problem. If it sounds close, however, he’d best consider flying toward the sound and facing the guy down.

Now here comes the fascinating part: Some birds are able to alter the timbre of their song in a way that makes it sound to a rival that he’s closer than he really is. It’s a way of fooling the adversary into defending a boundary that’s appears nearer than it really is (or backing off). The crafty singer can then lie back and goof off, having effectively expanded his territory—by voice alone.

I look upon these birds as ventriloquists. I have no idea if we have such gifted avian tricksters around here—it’s a subtlety that my ear is as yet too uneducated to catch. But I do believe that our resident birds sometimes “throw their voice,” in the way that a human ventriloquist does—making it sound to the listener as if it’s coming from a different place; maybe not farther or closer, but a separate location.

What I sometimes can distinguish is a voice-throwing sound, when a bird calls in the woods—particularly with a two- or three-part song. When I hear the first part, I can roughly guess where he is—in what direction and how far away. But then the second part of the call sometimes throws me off: it can sound as if it’s coming from a different part of the woods—even though I know it’s the call of the same bird. It is discombobulating to hear the source of the call seemingly and repeatedly jump from one area of the woods to another. He may sound first like he’s down by the creek, but then he’s up on the hill, then he’s back down by the creek, then...

The Dangerous Hominid

In their recent book The Last Human, the authors describe Homo sapiens as a “dangerous hominid.” We are the last surviving human species. All others went extinct—some of them directly driven out by us or our hominid ancestors.

Some 6-8 million years ago there were several species of primates—all dwelt in trees and moved around mostly on four legs on those brief occasions when they came to ground. Then when the dense tropical forests dried and disappeared, some primates descended from the trees and adapted to walking on two legs. Nature tried several parallel experiments—fostering several alternate species of hominid. Some failed, some were driven to extinction. Our ancestors won the contest.

In time our brains grew and we developed sophisticated tool-making skills. These adaptations pulled us away from other animals—including our primate cousins, like the great apes. We became the only species for which symbolism was the dominant way of relating to our world. We deconstruct and then recreate the world in our head, using a mass of mental symbols. It is that mental world in which we live—not necessarily the real one.

This capability is powerful—it’s how we were able to develop those sophisticated tools, create language, and spread knowledge via that language and written symbols in books. The use of language involves the manipulation of mental symbols, giving them an infinite variety of meanings. Language is a complete metaphor for symbolic thought. It’s also allowed us to project forward and backward in time, and to transmit our mind to the outer limits of the universe. What other species has any concept of what’s happening on the other side of the planet, let alone Mars? Our symbolism has allowed us humans to become dominant; a formidable creature. We’ve enveloped the globe and turned its resources to our use.

Although the use of symbols is not exclusive to humans, we dwarf all other species in its use. While we live mostly in our heads (manipulating those symbols), other creatures interact with the world simply as nature presents itself to them. While they do not have our superior cognitive abilities, their world can be more real. Ours can become dangerously aberrant, when our inner symbols become distorted.

We are continuing to find out just what we can do with our big brain and our still-emerging symbolic gifts. Human history is scattered with multiple examples of our dangerous activities in the world—both to other species and to ourselves. What does the possibility of ongoing evolutionary development of our symbolic capabilities say for our future? It may give us hope that we are still evolving and may do so in a more peaceful direction.