Plants in their own words
There are a multitude of things in the dang universe, and some of them are plants. I can’t speak about lichens because I’m not that smart, but plants I encounter have stories to tell. Here is some of what I heard on my brisk midwinter morning jaunt.
Along the fence, I found a cluster of Italian arum plants. “Good morning,” I advanced.
“Yeah, it’s good, and I’m glad you asked,” the chatty arum replied. “I’m not from here, ya know. Not even close. You ever been to the Mediterranean? I’ve got it surrounded. Lots of family over there, but we’re so dang adorable that travelers who didn’t know better brought us everywhere, and once we settle in, we settle in.
“By which I mean we might still be green when other plants wither, and in mid-spring we produce bright orange clusters of berries that resemble an orange corn cob on a stick. Adorable. We’ve been called an orange candleflower. Cute. What our hosts learn in time is we are clever with our adventurous corms spreading underground with purposed abandon hither thither. Soon enough a healthy outpost becomes a thriving community. Some consider us invasive. I consider us happy overachievers, though, it’s true, we are poisonous, so there’s that. The State of Washington classified us as a Class C noxious weed.
“All I can say is we do our best.”
Not far away are patches of purple dead nettle. “Hello,” I ventured.
“Hi. We’re humble,” the patch among the stones said. “Mints are our cousins. Did you know we were everybody’s favorite in Medieval times in Europe and are still considered an edible powerhouse? Though mints taste better, we hold vitamins, calcium and antioxidants… pretty nifty for an herby-looking green you add to your compost. Try adding a few leaves to your salads. It’s okay to add us to your compost because we’ll continue to sprout all over, even in winter like we always have, plus we have tiny humble pink flowers.”
Last spring, in a flower bed with meadow sage and yarrow nearby, up sprang a Prunella vulgaris, known to me as self-heal. “Pleasant morning again, happy gardener,” it evinced as I passed. “Snow is gone, and woofa!… here I am again. Thanks for the soil improvements because I intend to stay.”
“Happy mid-winter to you. You’re awake early,” acknowledged I. “Don’t know how you got here, but I heard you have a reputation among rural Chinese farmsteads.”
“Yeah, we got a reputation, hence the common name. Like other plants, we’re here to help in our way… and we spread because it’s our job, but some folks learn to love us. Folks in New Zealand call us invasive, but in Morocco, an elixir of our leaves soothes muscle soreness. Everybody’s different. Our leaves are edible and common in Native American and Asian traditions, and they dry our parts for tea. Butterflies and bees slurp our nectar, so let’s be neighbors. Let us settle in and you’ll learn to love us. Please feel free to monitor our spread.”
And we should mention yarrow, because at least two varieties live near the self-heal. “I’m way old, but I’m new,” yarrow said,” because we never go away. We wandered the world with your Neanderthal cousins, and even before. We had a street-cred medicinal reputation for millennia before ancient Greeks – athletic, fun-loving but nerdish – included us in their myths! We supposedly healed mythic Greek soldiers, but, to the point at hand, we sprouted in your yard in at least three places. It’s okay with us if you are not a mythic champion because we chose you. Use our dried leaves in a bitter tea to aid stomach distress. History claims a poultice of our leaves soothed wounds. You decide. At the very least, folks who notice things claim our presence improves the health of nearby plants. Good for us and everybody else. If we all do our best, then that’s what’s we did– every day’s a holiday!” Yarrow is philosophical.