As we leave February, and round into the homestretch of a full year under Covid, I must (for the first time) praise the short month – and not because it’s the last time I remember washing my hands for less than 20 seconds.
Yes, February, the month of love per Hallmark and St. Valentine, but to me a blip on the calendar where future memories stumbled on barren ground, always seemed to vanish before I knew it was there. Whatever I recall fondly as occurring in February was usually proven as late January or early March instead; and whichever plans I made for the year seemed to skip the scant four weeks of late winter.
Over time, though, that’s proven a good thing. How else might I have slowly observed, with annual iterations, and unplanned hours, the subtle awakenings from horticultural dormancy that so many plants display at this time. In the Bay area, devoted gardeners know that a true coastal California Spring begins in the early days of February. And though it’s been a month that literally comes up short every year, those transitions have gradually changed my perspective, and I really feel it’s the most interesting time of year.
Some of you were likely ahead of me. And it’s true, February has always been special: how many months get a makeover every four years? Yet the virtues of February 29th have also made it notorious, like the day we turn our clocks forward: a good thing that often simply feels like seasonal aggravation.
So, I’ve wondered recently if it’s time we all embrace February and celebrate its character. In fact, rather than lamenting its short days, I propose we emulate its concise ways, and let’s make every month 28 days long. Let’s redefine the year into 13 months of 28 days with one extra day at the end we can all celebrate together – a true Earth Day.
Not sold yet? Perhaps we can review how our months came to be in the first place. Don’t worry, in the spirit of February I’ll keep this brief. Our second month got its name from februa, an ancient Roman festival emphasizing purification and cleansing. Now I’m not saying our calendar needs purification, but did you realize September, October, November and December were once months 7, 8, 9, and 10, as their etymology properly suggests? And then someone declared that “All hail Caesar” should be an annual priority of the seventh month, Augustus should own the eighth month, and the rest should go to the back of the line.
I admit rolling thirteen months would come with a cost. I’ve always admired the unique tidiness of February and how it seemed to accelerate us out of winter with natural haste. And the recurring dates of March, where March 3rd is the same as February 3rd, give us a veritable month’s worth of groundhog days (excepting leap years) - at once expressing the daily grind of late winter and the expanding notions of Spring. Now it would be just another month. A cleansing, I suppose, that seems about a month late. Not to mention the blow to our sense of the seasons. The neat recurrence of seasonal equinoxes and solstices, with their consistent numerical precision and fixed brandings of months 3, 6, 9, and 12, define calendric conciseness. Without them, those dates would stand as roughly March 24, July 4, October 12, and some unnamed 19. Whaaa?! And about that thirteenth month, what are we supposed to call it anyway? And what happens to Christmas, Thanksgiving, or my birthday?!
No problem. It turns out the idea of 12 zodiac signs as a basis for our calendar is an astrological myth, and in truth there are 13 astronomical zodiac constellations. Where art thou Ophiuchus the Serpent Charmer? Yes, we’ll have to reconfigure a few million birthdays outside of January, but what’s better than a birthday surprise, as in “Surprise, your March birthday is now in April!”? And February can still be special by keeping its distinction of having leap year. In fact, it will be even more special, as that one extra day will no longer come off like a desperate reach at 30 but a regal reminder that, in fact, February stands tall over all the others.
Listen, the months were rejiggered before, and it’s good to mix things up every couple thousand years. Now that they’ve moved, we’re over it. In fact, who knew? It’s just the way things are. And far be it from our design office to simply accept things as correct because that’s just how they are right now. Might there be improvements? Can not only space but also time be better? Can we experience the braiding of nature and time in a more emphatic and enlightening way?
I ask you, reader, and I suggest as you drift out into the evening one of these nights (perhaps pondering what might make for a good thirteenth month moniker), gaze up, and give a nod to Ophiuchus.
DJ