In temperate climates, the appearance of masses of bright, cheerful flowers is probably the most universally recognized marker of Spring. Here in Davis, where freezing temperatures are rare, the flowers come early. By the end of February, the bright yellow flowers of wild mustard appear along roads and in farmers’ fallow fields, along with the pastel hues of wild radish. Tulip and daffodil bloom proudly in people’s front yards. In patches of native vegetation, fiddleneck unfurls inflorescences bedecked with yellow flowers. I love them all. But to me, no flower is more emblematic of spring than those of western redbud (Cercis occidentalis).

The relatively small five-petaled flowers, bilaterally symmetrical like those of peas and bunched in modest fascicles, are a vivid magenta pink that shouts “look at me!” The redbud trees cover themselves with these radiant blossoms before giving much thought to the making of leaves. The flowers remain there like a vibrant cloak for several weeks while the leaves grow from tiny purplish buds to shiny green discs. To gaze at a mature western redbud in full flower is to be astonished that nature can be flashy, so profligate in her use of color.

Western redbud grows as a native in a U-shaped band of chaparral and woodland habitat that rings the Sacramento Valley and extends southward into the foothills of the southern Sierra Nevada. Smaller, scattered populations occur in southern California, Arizona, and southern Utah. Western redbud doesn’t grow naturally in the Central Valley, but it is everywhere in the state’s horticultural trade and people have been using it in their landscaping for decades. It grows quite well here in Davis. I am blessed to have a mature, nearly five-meter-tall redbud growing in my yard, planted there as a sapling by previous owners of my house.

Nearly every morning in March and early April when the weather is amenable, I go outside with my binoculars to see who is feasting on the redbud flowers’ nectar. The insect visitors put on quite show when the redbud is bathed in warm sunlight. Bees, of course, are the most numerous nectar feeders, but it isn’t just honeybees who are attracted to the redbud flowers. I typically see mason bees, shiny black carpenter bees, hairy bumblebees, and sweat bees. Occasionally I notice small flying insects among the flowers that I take to be various kinds of solitary native bees. There is also the occasional wasp. I’m sure there are more kinds of insects that I have missed. Sometimes I put down the binoculars, get closer to the tree, close my eyes, and just listen. The thin, chitinous wings of the many bees of different species, humming energetically at different rates—up to 230 beats per second for honeybees!—thrum and pulsate like a chorus of angels.

The bee’s song reminds me of naturalist John Muir, who wrote enthusiastically about the six-legged creatures. He believed California was “the best of all the bee-lands of the world” and noted bees’ occurrence in the state “from sea level to timberline.” In a favorite passage, Muir gives praise not just for the bees but for all the flying insects:

The deeps of the sky are mottled with singing wings of every tone and color; clouds of brilliant chrysididae dancing and swirling in exquisite rhythm, golden-barred Vespidae, dragon-flies, butterflies, grating cicadas, and jolly, rattling grasshoppers, fairly enameling the light.

My redbud is not just a treat for my eyes and ears—and a salve for my spirit—but also a teacher of wisdom. Its flowers attract the bees with their color and tempt them to probe inside by offering drops of sweet nectar. As they brush against the anthers, they are dusted with pollen, and some of those pollen grains find their way to the stigmas of subsequently visited flowers. When the genetic material of a pollen grain merges with that of an ovule inside the flower’s ovary, an embryonic seed comes into being. After development in the leguminous fruit, the seed will fall to the ground and perhaps sprout into a new redbud seedling. Both organisms have their needs met through this interaction: the bee receives the raw ingredient for making bee-larvae food and the redbud is pollinated. It is a partnership, a mutually beneficial interaction that ecologists call a symbiosis. The redbud and the bees are proclaiming, to anyone who will listen, that much of nature rests on a foundation of cooperation.

The redbud and its pollinators also encourage me to see beyond the boundaries of everyday perception. What I see in the flowers is a progression from a dark pink bud to a bright pink fresh blossom to a light purple post-pollination flower ready to fall. But what do the bees see? I know their eyes are sensitive to parts of the light spectrum, especially the ultraviolet, that I can’t see. Redbud flowers undoubtedly appear different to them. What messages are the redbud flowers sending the bees through the medium of color? What do the limits of our own perception tell us about our concept of beauty?

As I stand beside my redbud studying how other organisms interact with it, I wonder how I could be more like the bees—more than a detached observer. Native Californians provide a good model for how one might have a relationship with redbud that goes beyond having it grow in your yard.

Redbud figures prominently in the material culture of many California Indian tribes. After pruning or burning, the tree puts out young, straight shoots that are prized for weaving beautiful carrying vessels. Tribes burned parts of the landscape regularly in part to encourage the growth of these shoots. This cultural burning had many benefits for the redbud. It cleared out the dead material, which might harbor insect pests and diseases. Regular burning also kept the tree in more of a juvenile state, which increased longevity. Finally, cultural burning promoted reproduction by enabling germination of the hard-coated seeds and creating better conditions for seedling growth. Overall, Native people’s care and judicious use of redbud kept both individual trees and redbud populations healthy and strong. This is yet another kind of symbiosis. The fact that one of the interacting organisms is human makes it no less important ecologically. After so many years of work with Native Americans, I can’t help but see humans and plants interacting in the wild as another lesson in ecology.

When I look deeply into redbud, the word blessed bubbles up and it takes only a moment of thought to understand why. I see that bees are blessing flowers by pollinating them, and flowers in turn are blessing bees by feeding them and their young. Redbuds are blessing indigenous basket makers by offering young wine-red, flexible branches for making beautiful baskets and weavers, in turn, are blessing redbuds by burning and pruning them, ensuring long-lived redbud trees with many seedlings.

Redbud also blesses me by linking me back to my ancestors. Some years ago when I researched my ancestry, I learned about my great aunt Stella, who I met only once when I was a little girl. She never married and kindly took care of my great grandmother Moma Rowland for many years in Hobart, Oklahoma. I was delighted to find out that Stella greatly admired the eastern redbud (Cercis canadensis), which is Oklahoma’s state tree. Stella and some of her friends, I learned, gifted a young eastern redbud sapling to the new Hobart nursing home shortly after it was built, to be used in landscaping the grounds. Our mutual affinity for redbud makes me feel a special connection with her. When I look at my redbud, I think of Stella with fondness. I wonder if the eastern redbud that she planted is still there at the nursing home. I hope the residents gaze upon her beauty, see how the tree offers food to the bees, and are reminded of the arrival of Spring.

Edited by Eric Engles

References
Anderson, M. Kat. 1999. The fire, pruning, and coppice management of temperate ecosystems for basketry material by California Indian tribes. Human Ecology 27(1):79-113.

Anderson, M. Kat. 1991. California Indian horticulture: management and use of redbud by the Southern Sierra Miwok. Journal of Ethnobiology 11(1):145-157.

Muir, John. 1882. The Bee-Pastures of California. Pages 388-396 in Century Illustrated Monthly Magazine, Volume 24. Quote on page 392.

O’donohue, John. 2005. Beauty: The Invisible Embrace. Harper Collins Publisher, New York, N.Y