In Time: The Clockwork of Seasons

Late winter magnolia buds.

Last night, while we were sleeping and in accordance with the Uniform Time Act of 1966, our temporal world sprang ahead one hour—gracefully, we hope, not with an ungainly galumph. Without chime or alarm, bell or buzzer, 2:00am became 3:00am—in the blink of a drowsy eye. And so this morning, I wandered a bit dazedly about the house, manually adjusting timekeepers that did not automatically comply: stopping the grandfather clock pendulum, moving the minute hand past Roman numerals I through XII, restarting the pendulum; pressing buttons continuously on one digital device, turning dials while simultaneously pressing buttons on another; addressing the battery-operated wall clocks, the kitchen appliance clocks; coaxing the homefront into conformity and calibration. After fiddling, futzing, and a few moments of finagling, Daylight Savings Time arrived...as a technical matter. Convincing mind, body, and spirit of this change will take time. As I gazed out the porch window onto a morning draped in fog, wavering between winter and spring, I asked, what time is it, truly? How does the garden know? The snowdrops, the crocus, the golden daffodils... the birds, the bees, the butterflies? How do magnolia buds know?

Sundial at the Old Library, Millersville University.

Back in the day, when long-ago childhood time moved whimsically and flexibly, Dad would adjust the domestic clocks of Grantham Road and Knepper Drive on Saturday evening, right before lights out. We watched this ritual with a mixture of fascination and confusion—the mantle clock in the family room said it was bedtime, but it was just about snack time in the kitchen! Even now, I approach Daylight Savings Time with ambivalence: the promise of more late-day light, balmy weather and springtime on the way—countered by initial sleep deprivation, a touch of disorientation, a few days to acclimate, and a vague sense of being rushed. What time is it, truly?

Winter sunlight and snow shadow in the garden.

I've thought a lot about time this winter, pondered how it moves—how it starts and stops and then stands still, suspended for a chill instant in a breath of coiling vapor. There were mornings after nighttime snow when I'd step into the garden and look skyward through dark, intertwining boughs of beech, maple, locust, and oak. The garden seemed a winter sundial: angled sunlight, branches casting blue shadow across a plate of drifted, ice-glazed lawn. And I asked, where is the warmth, the rose-gold blush of landscape, the joyful palette and bounty of other seasons... isn't it time?

Helleborus niger, aka Christmas rose.

There was a mid-winter day when I visited a forgotten corner of the garden, creating fresh footprints because no one had ventured there in weeks—since the season had begun accumulating layers of fluffy snow, wet snow, ice on snow, snow on snow. I paused beneath the beech tree, my mittened hand brushing a fresh dusting from our old concrete bench. I sat, and the north wind showered crystal through branches, like a frost-etched hourglass. Where is the ease, I wondered. Where are the carefree footsteps and lively blooms nodding in afternoon breeze? The garden was silent. The garden was in repose, at rest. At my feet, though, there was a small cluster of helleborus niger, aka Christmas rose, rising from a melt ring—deeply lobed evergreen leaves and creamy bell-shaped blooms, drooping but accepting cold with equanimity, at once fragile and resilient. How long? The answer was something between a thought and a whisper. This moment, then the next.

Morning landscape in the river hills.

This morning, Daylight Savings Time, we walked the river hills, high above the Susquehanna, beneath a sky that couldn't quite decide. Early fog had lifted, revealing mood-filled clouds, varied in shape and altitude, restless and ever-changing. The air was milder than it's been of late, but a billowing southwesterly wind tempered declarations of spring. The landscape was winter-weary and swept with nuanced browns and grays—dry grasses, desiccated stalks, and dormant vines—yet now and then, here and there, we found cheerful daubs and shoots of green. The trail was ascending, descending, yielding. And by yielding, I mean that there was mud—melty, messy, mushy, boot-mucking mud. It was tempting to detour. Had we forsaken the muddy path, however, we would have missed a pair of mourning cloak butterflies spiraling in tandem in the dappled fringe between high meadow and leafless wood. We would have missed them puddling on the wayside and basking on leaf litter—we would have missed their pecan-dust wings with golden border and blue spots. It turned out that our morning walk was something in between—well past winter wonderland and far from glorious spring day. But it was real and true. And beautiful in its time. —B.

Mourning cloak basking on leaf litter.

What time is it then, truly? Beyond clocks and past modern timepieces, winter turns to spring in increments—not with the click of a digit or the tick of a gear, but more in the manner of an ancient water clock, telling time drop by droplet, ice to thaw to trickle to flow. In sister-conversation with D, we often touch upon practices of discernment and the ongoing work of acceptance. In a way, we're speaking about the phenology of all things: understanding the recurrence and interconnection of joy and sorrow, sunlight and shadow, blooming and wilting, peace and struggle, stillness and storm, physical and spiritual, seen and unseen, moving ahead and falling back--embracing each season as it arrives and passes, and learning to walk the path between. Like clockwork. —B.

Sundial at Yaddo, Saratoga Springs, New York.

Robin perched on magnolia branch.

The Clockwork of Seasons

Beyond clock and bell-chime,
past pendulum and gear—
What time is it, truly?

It is the repose of a winter-stilled garden—
It is one snowdrop encased in ice—yet blooming.
It is angled sunlight casting long tree shadow
across the pearlescent varnish of drifted lawn.
It is rose-drooping hellebore meeting north wind—
It is the snow moon shining through darkened branches.

It is cold crystal sifting through an hourglass—
It is the robin perched
on a frost-dusted limb,
singing to morning sky.
It is second hand, minute hand, hour and year.

It is curling fog, windswept meadow, and soft mud—
It is a mourning cloak basking on leaf litter.
It is crocuses rising through rough detritus
and daffodils emerging near retreating snow.
It is billowing sky and gauzy brushstroke cloud—
It is drop by droplet, ancient water flowing.

It is with acceptance—
and all the while knowing
how beautiful and true.

—B.

Snow moon through barren branches.

Snowdrop encased in ice.

In the middle of the frosty winter, it is always a gift to see a few hardy plants start to push their way out of the ground. How do these plants know when to wake up and blossom? The amazing process depends on sunlight in the environment along with the plant's internal clock. Plants have evolved to make certain photoreceptive proteins every day at the same time, essentially allowing them to "see" how much sunlight is available to them each day. Individual plants bloom at specific times when the combination of light, water, and warmth is best for them. Over a thousand different molecular reactions may work together inside a plant to create a singular, simple, perfect bloom in the winter months.

Daffodils and retreating snow.

In the mid eighteenth century, Swedish botanist Carolus Linnaeus noticed the accuracy of plants' internal timers and claimed to have built a horologium florae, or "Flower Clock," a systematically sequenced garden from which he could tell the time of day. From a practical standpoint, no one has ever been able to replicate his claim. Even very reliable flower species have subtle variations in opening and closing times due to local climate conditions, humidity levels—even electric field differences. It's unlikely that we will ever crack the code to an individual flower's circadian rhythm enough to set an alarm for an important meeting, but the idea of a Flower Clock continues to fascinate. In a world where we rely on cellphones, calendars, clocks, and alarms to dictate our schedules, wouldn't it be nice to meet a friend at half-past the bloom of the winter aconite? —D.

Winter aconite rising from leaf litter.

In our modern, productivity-based culture, we tend to find ourselves at dis-ease with time, taking a confrontational stance to "beat the clock," "seize the moment," and win the "race against time." There is a strong pressure to be keeping ourselves busy every moment, to resist being still and quiet, to never "waste" our time. Many of us develop "Alarm Anxiety," a conditioned release of cortisol at the sound—or even the setting—of times and alarms breaking our peace.

 

Crocuses in the winter-to-spring garden.

Consider your relationship with the signals of time passing. What if the sound of a bell was not a call to action, but an invitation to stop and rest? Buddhists practice using certain sounds as reminders to enjoy the present moment—to stop, to breathe, to listen, to stop the busy-ness and express gratitude. The next time you set or hear an alarm, you might take inspiration from the ancient tradition and the Winter Flower Clock. Pause, close your eyes if possible, inhale, and exhale deeply and slowly, notice how you feel. When you are ready, bat your eyes open, notice the details around you, give thanks for this precious single moment, and trust that there will be a time for blooming. —D.

To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and time to pluck up that which is planted; a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together....

—Ecclesiastes 3: 1-5, King James Version

New Year's Eve: Celebrating the Spiral

Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end.
—Seneca the Younger, 4 BC-65 AD, Roman Stoic Philosopher

Looking upward through silhouette branches at new winter sky, I’m contemplating how time moves in December. Moment by moment, as Earth bows in celestial declination to the Sun, daylight diminishes, shadows lengthen, and time seems at once abbreviated and expanded. Then, at the still point of solstice, time suspends in crystalline silence, and there is mystical synchrony of solitude and community. The rush of Christmas preparation and ephemeral festivity declare time as fast and fleeting—until a post-holiday evening lingers drowsily in the hush of a softly illuminated tree. And now, New Year's Eve—the hours of one year waning, fading to echo like erstwhile tin horns and harlequin noisemakers, like the kitchen pot-and-pan-ladle-and-spoon bands of childhood—a year, as we mark it, vanishing at midnight.

 

Ornamental cabbage, a winter rosette.

This has been a blustery December, storm after storm knocking out power, toppling holiday decor, scattering organic debris, and rearranging all manner of best laid plans. The wind, it appears, is bound and determined to propel us forward, sweeping the calendar pages away. Gust by gust, the cadence becomes syncopated, the arc unsettled—the passage of time incomprehensible. Where did the day go!

A wayside Christmas ornament.

And yet, as we take the final footsteps of the year, there is something in the air. A sense of coherence, perhaps, a breath of peace, a brush of awareness. A crisp scarlet ribbon coiling amidst storefront evergreens and antique baubles, ice-encased branches twining with silver gray sky, a pearl-glass ornament turning on a whim, catching multihued reflections of thicket and open field. There is something borne on the breeze: something coiling, twining, turning—a present moment holding both ending and beginning, memory and promise—something freed from constraints of chiming clocks, suspended crystal balls, and calendar pages. Something like a spiral.

A summer moonflower poised to open.

I think about how time moved in the hours, the days, the months—the seasons after we lost Ben. Suddenly and irrevocably, time was broken and rendered linear. The past was lost forever, the present jagged and rough, the future a desolate, windswept plane leading to empty horizon. In continuing sister-conversation with D, I'd share how I missed the gentleness, the smooth edges, the sphere of love and comfort—the fullness of life before a most profound loss. I miss the circle, I said. Think of a spiral, she mused. Think of a circle moving through time. Maybe all of it is never really lost. Maybe all of it is right over there....

A rock-cap fern in winter woods.

Right over there. I reflect upon how Brad and I have changed the way we measure time, how we're still learning to walk through the world without Ben. We try to follow the rhythm of the seasons—taking comfort in the familiar, seeking discernment in pattern, finding joy and wonder in variation—embracing the circle that’s moving through time. We collect spirals along the way: the fiddlehead fern of springtime, spooled and tender, unfurling on the forest floor; the moonflower vine of summertime, twining on a trellis, blooms poised to open at twilight; the tinctured leaf of autumn, pirouetting in balletic descent, coming to rest beside an exquisite mountain pinecone; the rock-cap fern curled against winter morning; a swirl of ice lining the snowbound trail. All of this, every day, walking a landscape without Ben—and somehow with him. We are journeying the beautiful, bittersweet spiral. —B.

Trailside ice swirls.

The Spiral

last

breath

from joy

to sorrow

bittersweet spiral

we are the humble travelers

concerned, at times, with calendars, clocks, and confetti 

hastening outward, then sheltering inward, moving

through shadow to luminescence 

beautiful spiral

from struggle

to peace

first 

breath

—B.

A springtime fiddlehead fern.

Suppose you have a limited circular space and are trying to fill it with as many smaller circular objects as you can. The best way to do this is to start at the middle and create a spiral outward, wrapping the objects around in a coil with the fewest gaps possible. Spirals are inherently structurally strong, energy-efficient shapes that allow for internal growth along a long path.

A dandelion gone to seed.

In nature, survival depends on smart use of precious resources. This is particularly true in the cold and gloomy days of winter. The winter solstice marks the longest night of the year in the Northern Hemisphere, an ideal time to reflect on our own ability to withstand life’s darkest times. Not surprisingly, humans have associated the winter solstice with the shape of the spiral for thousands upon thousands of years, connecting the shape with the turning of the seasons, the path of the sun across the earth’s sky, and our own resilience moving into and out of the light.  Resilience within the spiral is not about avoiding pain or “muddling through” hard times—it’s about tapping the courage and strength to face darkness head-on, seeking a path forward, and finding meaning in our struggles.

A late autumn pinecone.

Spirals can be found everywhere in nature from the whorls of a pinecone to the furls of a flower, the curls of sleeping animals, the whirls of icy water, and the curves of the wind blowing snow. The power of the spiral is embedded in the helix of our DNA and in the enormity of the galaxy we call home. Even our perception of time—which sometimes feels not-quite linear—might find a better metaphor in the spiral as we move forward, but always circle back to people, places, and experiences that we are meant to revisit.

Iced branches and an opening to morning sky.

Walking a spiral-shaped labyrinth is an age-old ritual for many cultures and faiths around the globe. The solstice is a beautiful time to be inspired by this practice. Unlike a maze, a spiral labyrinth is unicursal, with a single clear line for walking to the center of the pattern, then back out along the same route. There are few directions on how to walk a labyrinth. You can walk alone or with others. You may want to choose an intention for your walk—to clear your mind, seek an answer to a question, ease your worries, listen to your inner voice, or focus on a goal. You might also walk with no set intention and see what develops for you. 

Curled cinnamon fern fronds.

Begin walking at the outside of the path and work your way to the middle. It's customary to walk slowly, mindfully, listening to your breathing and noticing your state of mind. You can choose to chant or pray as you walk or simply walk in silence. When you reach the center of the labyrinth, you might pause and consider what it represents to you. Mindfully work your way back out along the same path. If you want to try walking a labyrinth, you can design your own in almost any space, indoors or out. You can also find an existing labyrinth near you using a site like https://labyrinthlocator.org/ —D.

From The Glass Bead Game

Thus his path had been a circle, or an ellipse or spiral or whatever, but certainly not straight; straight lines evidently belonged only to geometry, not to nature and life.

—Herman Hesse, 1877-1962, Poet and Novelist

The end is where we start from.
—T.S. Eliot, 1888-1965, Poet and Essayist