The Snowdrop
It’s January, and nature begins to stir as it slowly wakes from its winter slumber. A messenger is sent on ahead, to alert us all that, cold though it may be, the darkest moments of winter have passed and the time for rebirth is coming.
The hardy little snowdrop, Galanthus Nivalas (Galanthus for milk-white and Nivalis for snowy) is for many of us, the very first harbinger of Spring. Come mid-January, Instagram is awash with the optimism of first snowdrop sightings and there’s something about these tiny white bells, shaking their heads in the chill east wind, that feels brave and bold and hopeful, just at the moment that’s most needed.
Though not native to the UK (the snowdrop originates in alpine regions, and the flowers were brought here in the fifteenth century by Italian monks who first introduced them to the gardens of monasteries), the snowdrop is well established in the wild, and cultivated widely, with more than 2,500 identified species and some coveted bulbs changing hands for upwards of £600. Its mountainous origins make the snowdrop very hardy, able to withstand snowfall and cold temperatures and it thrives in lightly shaded woodland areas.
A symbol of light and purity, appearing as the light returns to the northern hemisphere after the winter solstice, the presence of the snowdrop honours the strengthening winter sun. There’s a magic and tranquillity to these little blooms, making them beloved of faerie kind (hence we’ve planted hundreds on our faerie trail!). They are often represented as shy flowers, afraid to raise their tiny drooping heads. The real reason for their droop though, is that their pollen must be kept dry and sweet to attract the few insects flying in winter - not an easy task in the blustery winds of these early months of the year!
Yet for all the associations with light and magic, there’s a definite shadow to snowdrop lore (the facts that they grow quite prolifically in Britain’s churchyards and are poisonous to eat might go some way to explain this?). The comparison is drawn between the shape of a snowdrop and shroud, and superstition has it that to bring snowdrops into the home is to invite misfortune; the Victorians believed this could result in curdling milk, pale and thin butter in the churn, spoilt eggs; and that the presence indoors of the delicate blooms might even result in early widowhood. Given that snowdrops droop so quickly after cutting, they’re much better in any case enjoyed in situ rather than as a picked flower anyway – so leave them in the ground!
Although poisonous to eat, snowdrops have long been used medicinally. In Eastern Europe, snowdrop tea was for many years used to treat children with Polio, to prevent them becoming paralysed by the disease. Here in the UK, a remedy made from the flowers was applied for the treatment of grief and to treat traumatic injury to the nervous system. And as is so frequently the case, science is now evolving to support the ancient wisdom of the herbalist, with the alkaloid found in snowdrops, galanthamine, being researched in connection with treatments for Alzheimer’s and HIV.
The snowdrop features widely in myth and legend and story. To conclude our little meditation on these diminutive white messengers, here’s one of my own favourites:
The Garden of Eden. A place of bounty, of plenty, of peace and perfection. The desolation in being ejected from such a place, to head out into the unknown and undesired beyond. For that, of course, is the fate of Adam and Eve.
It was the eve of St Brigid’s day, when the Angel descended to the earth once again, to carry out his unwelcome task, that of expelling the first man and woman from their home. He landed lightly on grass fragile with frost, spread his monumental wings and stepped towards the shivering forms before him in the garden. He told them they must leave, immediately, and the sheer presence of his power compelled them to move, taking their first stumbling steps on the path towards the nameless outside.
Hand in hand, heads bowed with tears, the Angel watched them, noticing, as well, the first flakes of snow drifting through the silence of the night. Pity arose in his heart, and he stretched out his hand. Snowflakes gently kissed his palms, settling there in all their icy perfection. Bringing them closer to his mouth, he breathed a sigh at their beauty. As the flakes were touched with the breath, each turned to a three petalled flower white as the snowflake from which it had originated.
The Angel called to Adam and Eve - "Take these as a sign of hope," he called, "a sign for your kind and for the earth outside."