Our theme for the month of February is “plants.”
I spent much of my childhood outside: hunting bugs, building forts, and climbing trees. I knew the best trails for hikes and horse rides, knew just where in the pond to catch the biggest frogs, and knew by the smell of morning air through my window if it would be a sunny day. I took for granted that I knew the place and the place knew me.
Looking back now, I’m grateful that I grew up with a dad who is basically a walking encyclopedia of random fun facts—he and my mom are both avid outdoors people, and I didn’t notice until recently how much of that knowledge had seeped into my subconscious. When I was back home on the farm most recently, I remembered how much knowing the place made the place feel like home.
When it comes to the native fauna of my childhood home, I know as much as anyone. I know that the juniper trees that cover the landscape in central Oregon come in male and female trees, and that they’re an invasive species brought over by Russian explorers. I know the difference between rabbit brush, bitter brush, and sage brush by sight and smell; I know to wear gloves when you pull mullen weeds so you don’t get a rash and that if you don’t remove the full tap root on button weed it will grow back bigger. I can distinguish between the poisonous water hemlock and the tasty mint that grows alongside our pond, and can tell you that myrtlewood trees are native to just two places in the world: Southern Oregon and Israel. I can identify ten types of pine trees by needle and cone and can spot the telltale red of an Indian paintbrush flower from ten yards off.
In college, I only noticed what I was missing when I took my nose out of my thermodynamics books and took a hike. I asked my Michigander friends what kinds of trees there were and which plants were invasive, but few knew the answers. I remember visiting Tahquamenon Falls with a friend and being delighted that the interpretive signs told me the difference between a sugar maple and a beech tree. As I learned more and more about the benefits of native plants, I grew more curious to know which plants actually were native.
Now living in upstate New York, myself a transplant from the arid landscape of Oregon’s high desert, I am often reminded of how little I know about the place. It’s one thing to need Google Maps to get me to a new restaurant, but for me it’s totally different to step into the woods and not know what plants will be there to greet me. I see some trees I recognize, some I have to look up. Flowers in neighbors’ yard who tell me columbine is native but mums (like me) are not.
Tromping through the woods and trying to identify new plants, with an internal monolog along the lines of Okay, that’s an oak tree for sure…and those are…ferns? Is “fern” actually the name of a plant? Or is it like “tree”? Or maybe those are sedges? Wait, what is a sedge anyway…sedges have edges…oh, I give up!
For me, walking into the woods and knowing what plants I’ll find is akin to knowing my neighbors—building relationships with creation in ways that invite me into closer, healthier relationships with the communities of flora and fauna I have the opportunity to encounter. I’ve found that loving myself means letting myself love and delight in the things around me —things like plants who, for no reason I can explain, just know how to grow.
This summer, I have the chance to start my own garden for the very first time. I have no garden boxes, no seeds, and an undetermined quality of soil, but I’m excited! For the last few weeks, I’ve been spending evenings reading about soil compositions and native flowers, about my growing zone (6a, for those of you following along at home) and which plants best support pollinators. As I do my best to make New York my home, it helps to know that some plants have already made this place home for hundreds of years, while others (like me) are doing their best to add value to a foreign ecosystem. I’m reminded that my growth, like that of the plants I hope to cultivate, takes time, gentleness, and love, and there is hope for what the future holds.
Lillie grew up on a forty-acre hay farm in Central Oregon, making the trek to Michigan to study mechanical engineering and sustainability. After graduating in 2020, she moved to Rochester, NY, where her day job as an engineer for the local gas utility funds her outdoor adventures, love of books, various craft projects, and investment in her new community.
