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