Eagerly Awaiting Mustard Greens
guest written by Tessa Barkan
I’ve been walking around the last few weeks with an almost frenzied energy. This matches the weather. It snows one day, is sunny enough for short sleeves the next morning, then rains that afternoon. Then the wind comes in. Paths and unpaved roads oscillate between ice rinks and mud canals. Spring fever-themed comments make an appearance in most conversations.
On March 5, our community held an effigy burning of two elk sculptures, made for the purpose of burning by artist Joe Pachak. The timing of this event, chosen because the snow still covering the ground made for a safer burn, felt very serendipitous! The burning of effigies has occurred in some places and in some time periods as a part of Purim, Carnival, Mardi Gras, Maslenitsa, and Imbolc celebrations.
The transition between winter and spring does not happen gently, at least not where I live. I like to think about how the edge of chaos I feel in my own body, which is reflected in the transitioning weather, is an old feeling. In my Jewish lineage, the full moon that occurred on March 7 marked the holiday of Purim. It’s a rather bawdy holiday with an emphasis on chaos – explosive joy rimmed with undertones of something darker, perhaps even anger. There are similar energies in Mardi Gras, Carnival, and the Russian festival of Maslenitsa. I’ve read that each of these holidays come from older festivities, and I’m sure there are many more like these throughout the world. I like that these holidays, many of which are still practiced, teach us about the catharsis that comes from chaos. How embracing the intensity of this change, from winter stagnancy to spring rebirth, might involve letting go of our tameness and actually getting swept up. What can come out of that?
This same full moon has been called the Sap Moon or Sugar Moon in some North American cultures. It’s interesting that, in order to create sweet sap, the maples and box elders and birch trees require this weather chaos, the freezing nights and thawing days. I really like this as a metaphor. How much do we need this time of “spring fever,” of high and low emotions, of restless waiting, in order for sweetness to come through?
The mustard greens also embody this energy to me. As I write this, ten days before the spring equinox, they are not yet coming up. As I walk around outside, I look for them everyday, with a bodily sense of urgency. I can try to explain this urgency by saying I want to see them because they are an undeniable sign of spring. When I do see them, this is what it will be like:
The mustards will initially be soft and benign in appearance, and have a mellow watery taste with just a hint of shrill. The taste will strengthen each day, as if they are suckling up all excess winter forlorn from the still-hard ground. The central stalks will thicken, reach higher; the surrounding leaves will tighten, bristle, rise, pinch inwards until final explosions of yellow or purple flowers burst forth, even more sharp tasting than the stalks and pointed leaves. They are pulling up stagnancy, transforming scarcity into something spicy and alive. The earth is left softer. Eating them entails a quick burn in the back of the mouth, forced opening of nasal passageways, sharpness. It feels like they snap me to attention, help my blood flow, release the ways I too have been stagnant.
Beautiful chaos! Constance’s garden in the summer. It’s hard to believe, while the ground is still sparse and frozen, that in just a few months the garden will look so vibrant!
There are so many intense flavors in early spring! Those spicy mustards, the bitter dandelions and wild lettuce, pungent wild onions. All of these plants seem cathartic to me, plants that open up passageways towards release between earth and air, between stagnancy and freedom, and do the same in our bodies.
I’m asking myself the question, how can I embody this energy in my actions? What avenues do I have for release? I actually yearn for the ancient ceremonial and community-based festivities that involved debauchery. There’s an old teaching that on Purim you must drink wine until you cannot tell the difference between “cursed be Haman and blessed be Mordekhai,” the villain and a protagonist of the Purim story. But this type of ecstatic bonding experience, this use of altering substances in the course of community ritual, does not feel available for me. So instead, I will be honest and say that me embodying chaos has mostly looked like dancing erratically out in the wind. It has also looked like being more social, letting myself speak more than is usually comfortable for me, sometimes having challenging conversations that feel overdue and actually leave me feeling freer and more connected.
This equinox occurs on the new moon. Again looking to my Jewish tradition, this time of darkness marks the first day of the month of Nisan. It’s a month known for the theme of freedom, with the focal holiday of Passover, a liberation story. That Passover is the next major holiday after Purim is not a coincidence. It’s a teaching that a healthy dose of reckless abandon – dancing in the wind, coming together with friends, emulating the sharp bite of mustard greens with the power to transform stagnancy – opens the door towards a springtime full of vibrancy, full of renewal, full of life.
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