Uncanny

Uncanny is a rich word. My New Oxford American Dictionary shows it to mean: strange or mysterious, esp. in an unsettling way: an uncanny feeling that she was being watched. The dictionary informs us of its late 16th century Scots origin, having the sense of: related to the occult, malicious.

I'm not altogether convinced. I turn to "canny." "Having or showing shrewdness and good judgment." Here, however, is some additional flavor in a second meaning: "Scottish & N English pleasant; nice: she's a canny lass." With additional derivative information: from late 16th cent. (originally Scots): from CAN (in the obsolete sense 'know'.)

Now we have something going! It is apparent to me--perhaps to you as well--that that which is referred to as occult can sometimes be scary for some folks. We know, too, that fear, when projected outward, often results in a judgment of "strange" or "malicious." So if we back those terms out of the definition of uncanny, we are left with rich possibilities of the mysterious and occult.

And when we add those positive meanings to the root of canny -- "know" -- then we have a fuller understanding of the uncanny: to know the mystery. And, by extension, to be aware of being in the presence of the mysterious. This opens us to fear, yes, perhaps, but also to the possibility of awe.

It is in this fuller sense that I speak of the uncanniness of the awakening of birds in the morning.

During these days approaching six weeks past the Vernal Equinox, the length of daylight (sunrise to sunset, that is) has increased to nearly 14 hours at the latitude of Columbus, OH. It has been lengthening in a great rush of 2-3 minutes each day. As the Summer Solstice approaches, it will moderate to a calmer 1-2 minutes added daily, until the rate of increase comes to a virtual standstill in the four or five days on either side of the Solstice itself. You will recall that the term solstice refers to the sun (sol) standing still (stices). But I digress. Onward to my point.

During the last couple of weeks, the temperatures have gentled to where I can sit out on my front porch reading by the light of my neighbor's porch light, drinking my morning coffee. A splendid time of quiet, with the cleanest air of the day bringing fragrance of newly opening leaves. My body's day has me up shortly past 3:00 a.m. At that hour, the traffic is sparse, with a lone car passing by a block away on High St. about once every 20-30 minutes; a train passing by a mile across the Olentangy River about every 40 minutes, its nighttime-dampened horn signaling for no apparent real reason in these isolated hours.

Then comes the delicious moment of the first bird's song. At first, I simply dropped my reading and listened raptly, sipping coffee occasionally. But as the days went by, I became curious, wanting to note the time of day. Which led to my observation of the uncanny.

The birds know, to the minute!, what time Sun will be rising. Day by day, they are up 2-3 minutes earlier. Three days ago, at 4:05. Day before yesterday, at 4:03. Yesterday, at 4:00. This morning, at 3:58. Mind you, there is not the slightest hint of any change in the sky's light. Realize, of course, that the city's lights mask any subtle sky changes. And that on some days, thick, dark cloud covering further masks any gathering light. But I am imagining this is true for the birds as well as for me.

What could possibly explain the birds' awareness of dawn's unhinted approach?

Uncanny. Awe.