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Emerge

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March is a month of intermittence. On Colorado’s Front Range, the weather changes daily, often mid-daily, from sunshine to rain to snow and back again.

March is also the month of emergence. After the dormancy of long winter, plants and animals wake up to spring’s warmth and light, an arousal reinforced for humans by the “spring forward” of clocks.

Walking around the farm these days or weeding cool beds in preparation for planting, I search for green. Poppies and daffodils reach for the sun. Tiny leaves of mint and thyme unfurl along roots and stems. Fall-planted garlic pokes through grassy mulch. Rhubarb propels its brainy head above a deep mat of autumn leaves.

With longer days, the chickens have started laying again in earnest. I laugh at myself for thinking that daylight savings time has made a difference in their productivity. Chickens respond to longer daylight, for sure, but do so quite separately from our mechanical and digital manipulations.

Near the bridge by the flower beds, my grandson and I find a hole an arm’s width in the grass fifteen feet from the edge of the ditch now flowing with snow melt. Muskrat, most likely, which means its burrow cuts under the bank much farther back than I would have imagined. We are disappointed not to be greeted by a furry neighbor popping its head out its back door, but we think it’s cool a creature lives under our feet.

All these signs of emergence promise growth and regeneration of the natural world. Early spring—late March and April on the anthrocentric calendar—is a time of emergence for humans, too, at least those who live in a climate where the seasons make a difference. Warmer weather and longer daylight brings more time outside as we shed heavy coats and boots and the ennui of cold and dark. Many of us celebrate a spring holiday of renewal in faith or love. Ever the optimists, farmers start seedlings in the greenhouse.

I have to admit I need a little shove in March to get myself back out into the world again. January and February are quiet times for me when I write, organize, read, and stay home by the woodstove as much as possible. March is my transition to a very busy summer and fall with farming and writing, not to mention recreation with family and friends.

But March also gives me a chance to emerge a bit at a time, taking my cue from the weather. When sunshine beckons, I keep an eye on the sky, not trusting the forecast. Spring snows don’t bother me as I prolong my respite by the fire. But finally, I awaken to find flowers blooming and the first spinach ready to pick in the fields. By my late March birthday, I’m ready for new plans (I’m an Aries, after all, so dreaming up the next big project is part of my MO), with winter forgotten behind me.

Ecobiography can examine the influence of the natural cycle of seasons on human activity and the plants and animals with which we share an ecosystem. Thinking of the transition from winter to spring as emergence brings an opportunity to consider what is new in our lives, as well as observe the changes such transformation plays in the natural world around us.

Writing Exploration: In a short essay or journal entry, write about your experience of spring. As the days grow warmer and longer, in what ways do you experience the transformation from winter to spring? From dark to light? From cold to warmth? From quiet times to busy-ness? From solitude to social ties? From root stew to fresh garden salad? From fireside to patio?

As you write, think about words that evoke a sense of emergence. You may have noticed I’ve used some in this post like “propel,” “awaken,” “transition,” and “renewal.”

Next, write about the ways spring brings new interactions with the natural world. What do you observe in spring that was missing in winter?

Finally, reflect on the idea of emergence. With this change of season, what are you emerging from? And what might you be emerging to?

 

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If You Were a Bird, Where Would You Nest?

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I’m not a birder, but I love observing the many species of birds that take up residence or make a migratory stop on our farm. When I see a bird I can’t identity, I consult one of our talented birding members like our young friend Joel, whose photographs of birds in the wild are as much portraits as they are ornithological research.

Despite needing back-up for the Western Tanager I spotted on a crabapple tree, I do recognize some stand-outs: Lesser goldfinches pay an annual visit to our farm when autumn leaves start to turn, while bald eagles are regular visitors here, along with red-tailed hawks and a pair of great-horned owls that sometimes nest in our trees. Common birds like house wrens, mourning doves, blue jays, magpies, and starlings are in residence, too, some building nests in inconvenient places like tool racks, downspouts, and barn walls.

Once, a robin built a nest on the bristles of a push broom leaned upside-down against the tractor barn, the tip of its wooden handle balanced on the slim edge of a pail. We assumed that the nest was attached to the rough wall against which it rested. Everyday when we passed that broom, we wondered when the whole contraption would fall. We worried about the eggs so precariously perched as the mother flew protectively to and from the nest.

While we watched the robin nesting for days on that broom, we shared a parent’s concern for the future of its young. After the babies hatched and fledged, we were relieved. Then we discovered the nest was simply resting on the broom, not affixed to the wall in any way. How easily that nest might have blown down in the wind or fallen as the fledglings pushed off on their first flight. The happy outcome seemed to attest to the robin’s skill—and some luck that we wouldn’t need our broom or pail.

The answer to the question, “If you were a bird, where would you nest?” depends on what type of bird you choose to be. According to their habitat and breeding practices, birds build as many different kinds of nests as there are species. Most birds nest once per year, but robins may have 4 or 5 nests during a breeding season (maybe because they build nests in precarious places?).

In fact, not all birds build nests or live in them regularly. Some birds lay eggs on the ground or on ledges. Others, like cuckoos, lay eggs in other birds’ nests. Around our farm, birds often nest inside tall trees. We see the holes pecked by flickers and downy woodpeckers, but not the nests or young. For birds, nesting has one purpose: breeding to produce the next generation. Nests provide a place for eggs to be laid and hatched and to keep chicks safe until they are ready to fledge.

Humans have borrowed the idea of nesting to mean making a cozy home. Humans don’t “nest” just to breed, although expectant or expecting-to-be-expectant parents might fix up their homes to make them more suitable for raising children. Often, nesting is related to décor and the desire to make one’s home a refuge from the busy, workday world. I found over 800 shops with “nest” in their name on the crafting and vintage platform etsy.com alone. Looked at that way, nesting is about creating a habitat conducive to survival for humans and birds alike.

Nesting is a reverse example of anthropomorphizing, the term for placing—some say imposing––human characteristics on other-than-human objects, creatures, and landscapes. Anthropomorphizing can be a form of privileging human actions and agency over all others and reducing the intelligence and consciousness of other beings to what is only observable or understandable by humans.

Scientists have generally denigrated the practice of anthropomorphizing as lacking objectivity or overlaying behaviors with conscious intent, but more recently some scientists have acknowledged that animals may exhibit the kinds of emotions or intentions associated with humans. Further, emotions like empathy between researcher and animal are recognized as important to the understanding of animal capabilities and conducive to the research relationship itself.

In borrowing the idea of nesting from birds, we could say nesting is a human concept that has been ecopomorphized from an animal practice. As the opposite of anthropomorphizing human characteristics on other beings in the natural world, ecopomorphizing adopts the habits of animals or plants onto human behaviors. This adaptation may be practical, experiential, or metaphorical, but all begin with an other-than-human trait.

By recognizing the basis in nature of ecopomorphizing relationships, humans hopefully learn to empathize with other-than-human beings through gaining insight into their needs, habitats, and characteristics. Through ecopomorphizing we can also expand our care for and about the natural world through acknowledging our mutual interests with creatures, plants, soil, rock, water, and air.

Which brings me back to our broom-nesting robin. When I told a friend the story, he said, “We can learn a lot from that bird.”

“Like how to build a nest!” I joked, but I didn’t mean to be glib. Nest-building is an admirable skill, requiring the ability to find the right location and materials, as well as knowledge of construction techniques to ensure strength, safety, and warmth.

But nest-building means more than that. My friend was right. From that robin, we realized our mutual concerns for protection of habitat and family. Even our need to use the broom and bucket was superseded by our empathy with the bird and its chicks. Our kinship may have been temporary, but in our shared space, we went about our daily lives, coming and going, crossing paths, trusting that the land could support all our nests in kind.

 

Writing Exploration: In answer to the question “If you were a bird, where would you nest?”, write about aspects of nesting you share with birds in making your own home. How might starting with an actual bird’s habits and habitats influence how you think about home and shelter differently? To learn more about the birds around you, consult the Audubon Society or other birding organizations’ websites for your area.

Next, think about examples of ecopomorphizing with which you are familiar. Nesting, rootedness, and hibernation are a few. Describe the ideas or practices borrowed from nature you recognize in your own life. How does acknowledging them open new perspectives on mutual needs and concerns shared with others in the natural world?