What will the consequences be of this mast year? Of this Autumn when trees splurged out their fruit, scattering thousands more seeds on the ground, when fungi bubbled up their myriad of fruiting bodies to the surface, spores thickening the air. It could be exciting to look out for this bounty, this treasure.
Spring – it’s a fun word, conjuring up something comic – a bouncy surprise, perhaps clumsy in its enthusiasm. It is a word with origins in ancient European languages meaning ‘to burst forth’, ‘emerge’ ‘sprout’ or ‘shove’.
As someone who loves etymology, I did enjoy exploring the origins of the names of our Spring months. March is named after the Roman god of war and agriculture, Mars. We can often sense the elements battling in the changeable weather this month, as wind can whip away the sun and charge in with a rainstorm. The Old English name for March was Hlyda, which meant noisy. Then April gives us the beautiful image from its root apriere – ‘to open’.
Many of you will already know some tales of the goddess Eostre, or Ostara who signifies Spring, as well as the golden glow of dawn. In one of her stories, she is in the form of a hare being pursued across the moors by the Devil on the Wild Hunt, only to be rescued by an old woman who hides her in her basket of eggs. In others she escapes the hunters by transforming from a hare into a bird that can fly away. Either version suggests the egg-laying bunny that lines supermarket shelves. I find it heartening that Christianity happily adopted Eostre for the name of the holy festival of Jesus’ death and resurrection. As the seasons change, so can we, and our stories too.
In times past, people followed the solar year, marking time by the position of the sun and the length of the days. The Romans brought us the word calendar, which we’ve absorbed and take for granted as an essential tool for society. The word comes from the Latin calare, which means ‘call out’, referring to the practice of calling out the New Moon; it was a vocal acknowledgement of the start of the new month. I love the image of someone looking up to the sky and announcing the moon has disappeared again, the dark void for the changing month is today.
The Gregorian calendar – the one we use now – came into law in 1752. As you might imagine, there was much grumbling and outright protest. How can you impose change to the way we mark time? But, as with so many norms in societies that don’t sit well, the law was adopted and eventually unquestioned. The improvement was precision; dates with numbers and names that we could all agree on, even with an official First Day of the season (Spring is March 21st). But is it more precise? With our ruinous changes in climate, Spring flowers are appearing earlier and earlier, with disturbing sights of blossoms in December, we tend to call out an incredulous lament. Could it actually be more precise to call out the New Moon when you see it, or declare Spring when you witness it?
To chart the arrival of Spring, a botanist measures isophenes – lines that connect the average first flowering of certain species. In his wonderful book, The Flowering of Britain, Richard Mabey writes that these measurements suggest that Spring moves North at around 2 miles an hour ‘strolling pace’. He imagines following Spring on foot as a ‘guest behind an unrolling carpet’. What a fitting way to measure time.
Perhaps we could feel that wonderful springiness of Spring more fully if we choose how we mark time. It can be jarring, and sad when the season change is bound by law and its natural rhythms no longer fit. There is a small glimmer of hope that nature can adapt despite the expectations of the calendar – it is Spring when it springs. Humans are good at adapting and adopting the things that work for us. Instead of lingering on the disappointment of failed appearances, or arrivals too soon, call out what you can see, and make a new calendar.