‘The power of the snowdrop’
Good morning,
Here is a contribution to our reflections on the first year of the coronavirus pandemic restrictions in the UK from Barbara Davey, honorary Quaker Chaplain.
In a recent Companionship from Donald, we read of St David’s Day and the stocky Tenby daffodil that has come to be associated with the saint and all things Welsh. Where I live, just outside St Andrews in the village of Ceres, there’s hardly sight of daffodils yet, but the snowdrops are finally coming into their own. After such a prolonged spell of severe weather, winter has been slow in turning: no doubt there are snowdrops aplenty at Cambo now, spreading down along the burn to the sea…
By the burn in the centre of Ceres
With the plant in such profusion here, it can be hard to understand that the bulb is classed as threatened in Eastern Europe where it is native and grows truly in the wild. Many of these wild varieties of Galanthus nivalis are rare, occurring in tiny ‘relict’ populations. I’ve read they are endangered due to the climate emergency and drought, and because we are destroying their woodland habitats.
Snowdrops are a fairly recent introduction to the UK, probably during the sixteenth century, and they were first recorded growing wild in 1778, naturalizing freely wherever they feel at home. There is also a connection with the Crimean War – the flowers heralded spring on the battlefield after the harsh winter, and soldiers are said to have brought bulbs back to plant in their gardens.
In traditional medicine, snowdrops were used to treat headaches and as a painkiller. In modern medicine, a naturally occurring substance within the plant, called galantamine, is used to help treat the symptoms of Alzheimer’s disease. I find it moving to think of this modern application – a plant so much associated with the beginnings of life coming to the aid of people towards the end of theirs. It’s a powerful example of our interdependence and we would do well to show humility to the humble snowdrop!
In the ‘language of flowers’ the snowdrop can symbolise friendship in adversity, and because of the purity of its whiteness, and the season when it first appears (at least down south) vernacular names include Mary’s Taper and Candlemas Bells. These qualities of purity and vulnerability have led the flower to be taken up by SANDS, the charity offering support to anyone affected by the death of a baby. Our youngest daughter Angelica was an Easter child and lived through one summer. The house was filled with russet and golden flowers when she died, but of course I think of her too when the snowdrops appear; when I encounter again such energy, impelling the plants to trust in the process of living. I am filled with awe and gratitude. The shakiest of things can also be the most solid – watching snowdroppers day by day grow to their height and come into flower, when all around lies bare, is a wonderful echo of Nan Shepherd’s The thing to be known grows with the knowing.
Fellow members of the writing group I belong to will perhaps recall my various efforts to capture something of the snowdrop. I’d like to share with you this year’s attempt –
Snow-piercer, Fairmaids, Candlemas bell
Just imagine, a soldier at Sebastopol
cherishing the sight of the snowdrops.
He tucks some bulbs ‘in the green’ in his kit
taking them home to a village in Fife,
perhaps as a keepsake for a chum who has died,
or for his mother, or his intended.
They are such wayward, wilful flowers,
so particular in their three-petalled neatness
but always wanting to be wild, free: to spill
from the gravestone and colonize the churchyard,
to breach the farmer’s wall and litter the den,
to escape the semi, its immaculate garden,
for the banks of the burn on the edge of town.
I had a friend who knew the places
where they sought refuge. He’d look out for them
each winter as the light began to lengthen,
his stick gently lifting fallen leaves
to reveal the earliest in flower.
Yours,
Donald.
Revd Dr Donald MacEwan
Chaplain