There's nothing like a cardinal in winter
Male cardinals in their regal redness are stunning. Credit: Newsday/Audrey C. Tiernan
Behold the cardinal.
If that sounds reverential, it is.
There is nothing quite like a cardinal in winter. Especially this winter. It's been a tough one, in terms of both the cold and the color. The long-lasting blanket of snow has made our bleak landscapes look even more monochrome than usual.
Into that dreary black and white tableau flies the cardinal.
The females are pretty but the males in their regal redness are stunning. We've seen them in the backyard with some regularity these past few months — sitting on a bush, perched atop a fence, pausing on the compost bin, hopping along the snow. A sighting is always welcome.
A cardinal does not land unattended. It comes with a deep well of cultural significance. It functions as a symbol of hope and persistence, especially in winter, a suggestion and a reminder that we persevere through difficult times.
In some cultures, cardinals signify romance and new beginnings and are avatars of family life; mostly monogamous, pairs remain together after mating, both parents taking care of their chicks, and the whole brood sticks together as a family. In other cultures, cardinals are harbingers of luck. In many, they are messengers from the spirit world; a visit from a cardinal means a loved one who is now deceased is nearby and will always be with you, sending you love and comfort.
But cardinals never stick around for long. They appear, case their surroundings, grab a bite or a drink of water, then are gone, a reminder that even timeless beauty is ephemeral and a gentle admonition to never take a cardinal for granted. Its peripatetic nature suggests it wants to spread that message to as many of us as possible.
The cardinal's beauty is both absolute and relative. Its sheer brilliance is striking on its own, the kind of beauty that can stop you in your tracks. But it is beautiful also, and perhaps especially so, in comparison to its surroundings. And in that way, the cardinal bestows what might be its most important lesson: Life is richer and more meaningful for its contrasts. Nature teaches us that in abundance in spring and summer with its panoply of resplendence. It's harder work in winter when the cardinal, with some help from the blue jay, has to do the lion's share of that effort on its own.
Make no mistake, this is important work. Goodness knows we need all the reminders we can get about our human panoply of resplendence, about how we are better and stronger and richer when we are not all the same, when we are not a monochrome mélange. Nature functions best in its varied profusion. So do we.
I was in the backyard a few days ago changing the water in the birdbath. The finches chattered away in nearby bushes, like they were spreading the word around the neighborhood. A mockingbird landed a few feet away on a pole in the asparagus patch, and began picking berries off the old stalks that had been culled and were poking through the snow. A flash of red caught my eye and I turned to see a cardinal in the barren stand of forsythia about 10 feet away.
We looked at each other for a moment as I thought of my parents and my in-laws, and I marveled silently at his glorious wonder. Then he flew off, one more reminder delivered on an endless flight.
Columnist Michael Dobie is a retired member of the Newsday editorial board.
Michael Dobie is a retired member of the Newsday editorial board.
