I looked out into the snowy woods and saw some robins in the burning bush. There were more than two. There were nearly too many to count. I stopped at fourteen.
I mentioned it to my mother, who said she’d learned a few years ago that “they don’t really go away.” I looked into it, and it’s true. The robin is a winter-hardy bird who retreats into the woods in cold weather, emerging on milder days in search of food. The robin doesn’t fly south for the winter. So, while seeing one is a sign of milder weather, it isn’t a reliable harbinger of seasonal change.
Nonetheless, the robin, with its red breast, has long connoted transformation. The symbolism of the robin originated on the other side of the Atlantic, with the American robin‘s European cousin. The European robin is smaller and looks more like a wren. Its face, neck, and breast bear a splash of orange-red. Centuries ago, the robin became symbolically associated with the Christian concept of rebirth, with believers imaginatively interpreting the bird’s red breast as a reminder of Christ’s passion (i.e., suffering) and blood-sacrifice.
Thus, as one website puts it, the sight of “our little red-breasted friends” signifies the coming of a “life-changing experience,” tacitly encouraging us to anticipate spring: to set aside grief, “uncover happiness,” and prepare to “move forward with determination and grace.”