Skunk Cabbage: Past a First Impression

Across the miles of early spring, we are delighted to happen upon dainty, ephemeral hepatica on hillsides, to discover delicate, butter-yellow florets on trailside spice bushes, to glance skyward and catch sight of tender leaf buds on poplar, maple, and birch— the stuff of lyrical poetry. And then there are mornings like this one. We're on a walk— let's be honest, in places, we're on a slog— along Climbers Run in southern Lancaster County, and despite boot-sucking mud, we are moving with great enthusiasm and anticipation. Tracing a gentle bend in the vigorous stream, along the low-lying fringe between flow and meadow, we find the dissonance we've been looking for, one of the surest and strangest signs of the season: eastern skunk cabbage. Emerging, if not from primordial ooze, then from last winter's muck, and a bit prehistoric in appearance, there is a figurative air about skunk cabbage. Apparently, there is also a literal air about skunk cabbage: the bruised leaves release a fetid odor that has been likened to several things, none of them particularly pleasant.

While we've never smelled it, we have given skunk cabbage a good look, concluding that it's both weird and wonderful, something akin to a science fiction nesting doll. Each plant first presents an unusual, hoodlike spathe in variegated shades of deep maroon, verdant green, and electric yellow that sometimes rakishly skewers a fallen leaf on its dramatic rise from boggy earth; an equally unusual knoblike spadix setting forth tiny, unassuming flowers; and eventually, large, not-so-unusual, cabbage-like leaves that seems to glow from within. When we encounter skunk cabbage on early spring trails, we think of inveterate walker and transcendental philosopher Henry David Thoreau, who pondered and then journaled about nineteenth century Symplocarpus foetidus. While the malodorous nomenclature, idiosyncratic appearance, and spotty reputation of skunk cabbage has inspired prose across the ages, perhaps there is a touch— or whiff— of transcendent poetry in this inherently self-reliant, intractably optimistic, often misunderstood plant. — B.

Skunk Cabbage

rising

from mired bog,

from winter's somber grasp,

the wisdom of millennia,

ancient

mottled bloom:

by kinder name or distinction,

might we sing the praises

of these strangely

brave spears?

— B.

Is the first impression the one that counts the most? Fans of the skunk cabbage (Symplocarpus foetidus) might have an opinion about that. Granted, the plant is named for its less-than-appealing aroma— described by many as the smell of rotting flesh. It might take a minute of holding your judgment— and breath— to give the plant the benefit of the doubt.  Skunk cabbage is a native perennial that blooms as winter turns to spring in swampy woodland areas throughout the middle Atlantic, north central, and northeastern United States. It is an ancient species— it was probably growing in its current form over 100 million years ago when dinosaurs walked the earth. Individual skunk cabbages are also determined survivors. It’s estimated that a single plant can live for decades— maybe even a century— if its roots are undisturbed.

Unlike almost all its early-blooming companions, the skunk cabbage is not frost resistant. The clever little plant instead evolved with an amazing ability: thermogenesis, or heat production. Using oxygen from surrounding air, it breaks down the molecular bonds of starch stored in its roots, releasing heat energy in the process. The colder the air, the more oxygen the skunk cabbage takes in— and it can generate heat for weeks on end, melting any snow or ice around it, until the temperature finally warms up for spring. As one of the very few plants with this ability, it offers important cover for birds, salamanders, turtles, frogs and toads, and other lifeforms in its ecosystem. Oh, and that smell? It serves an important purpose as well. It is quite effective in keeping predators at bay while attracting its primary pollinators— flies and carrion beetles. The skunk cabbage may not make a good first impression, but—given its history, role, and ability— it surely can earn your respect. — D.

In a pluralistic, diverse society, we expect disagreement, but it seems that our times are particularly vicious ones for rushing to judgment. Under-researched opinions run rampant, and it is far too easy to let initial observations become harsh and permanent beliefs. Perhaps we could take a little inspiration from the skunk cabbage and consider a different way.  How might our experience of the world change if we were to give others the benefit of the doubt? Try it for just one day. When you have a choice to ascribe good intent or bad intent, pause. Assume that people are trying to do their best. Recognize that you don’t have all the information about someone else’s situation. If someone cuts you off in traffic, imagine that they might be rushing to care for an ailing relative. If someone is gruff with you, wonder if they could have a splitting headache. If someone has an outburst of anger, consider that someone modeled this for them when they were a child. How does this perspective impact your feelings and behavior? Note the distinction between respectfulness and letting people take advantage of you. Caring about others does not mean you don’t hold them accountable for their actions. It means that you think before reacting, setting boundaries with our common humanity in mind. When you can, be calm and respectful as you stand up for yourself and others. In a challenging world, a little grace can go a very long way. — D.

from Journal, 1857

If you are afflicted with melancholy at this season, go to the swamp and see the brave spears of skunk-cabbage buds already advanced toward a new year... See those green cabbage buds lifting the dry leaves in that watery and muddy place. There is no can’t nor cant to them. They see over the brow of winter’s hill. They see another summer ahead.

— Henry David Thoreau, 1817-1862, naturalist, essayist, philosopher

Hepatica: Following a Path to Healing

This morning, we are walking a trail that traces meandering Pequea Creek in southern Lancaster County. The stream looks to be running full and cold. We move quietly and steadily; nevertheless, a skittish pair of mergansers and a belted kingfisher are stirred to flight by our unannounced approach. Late this evening, our Northern Hemisphere will mark the vernal equinox, the astronomical beginning of spring— until then, this day seems determined to waver betwixt blue sky and leaden cloud, between chill sunlight and snow flurry, unanticipated flakes swirling in a brisk westerly wind. Despite wishes to the contrary, it remains jacket-zipped-to-the-chin, hand-warmers-and-earmuffs weather. Partly from curiosity, but mostly from desire to escape the high-line chill, we duck down a steep, narrow path to meet the creek. 

Picking our way across damp, sometimes yielding ground, we spot a few bluebells, Dutchman's breeches, and Virginia saxifrage gathering intention to bloom. Just as we're ready to turn and clamber back to the main trail, we spot an array of round-lobed hepatica sheltered on a precipitous creek side embankment. Here and there and everywhere, hepaticas rise from winter-weary litter and debris on slender, finely-haired stems— blooms in soothing shades of cream and lavender, framed by captivating, fleshy leaves. We maneuver with care, soon gaining foothold and handhold to get a closer look. This hepatica hillside is poised in the lingering moment between season-past and season-to-come.

Several weeks ago, as D and I were sharing initial thoughts about hepatica, I observed that, in my experience, it was a rare, almost elusive spring ephemeral. D, in her sisterly way, mused that cursory reading indicated that hepatica was both widespread and easily located in our corner of the natural world. I'm not sure why, but in recent days— perhaps challenged, or perhaps inspired by these contradictory pronouncements— we've been finding hepatica more and more frequently and at unexpected turns of trail— almost as if someone is whispering— walk patiently, look carefully, and see.

In truth, we are still learning this new way of walking, following a path that travels beyond winter's mantle of grief and loss, walking patiently, looking carefully— and sometimes finding hepatica in the waking woods. I've read that in the language of flowers, hepatica is emblematic of healing, reorientation, and focus— recovering oneself in the aftermath of confusion or loss. And so, we metaphorically gather hepatica where and when we happen upon it. We are still healing, still learning, and still walking— across the seasons, through joy and sorrow, in sunlight and in shadow. Isn't that the way? — B.

Hepatica—

the hush
of morning path,
a still and present loss—
then sunlight falls through leafless tree,
softly
showing
the flush of creamy lavender—
not a panacea,
but patience, like
healing.

— B.

From the dawn of humankind, people have looked to the plants around them for relief from pain and suffering. For most of this time, determining which plants to use and how to use them has been an exercise in trial and error. Some people reasoned that a divine power must have left a hint on the plant as to how they should be used. This thinking that like heals like developed in cultures around the world— and eventually was called the Doctrine of Signatures. The doctrine has always had its skeptics, particularly since people read the signs differently, and many herbal treatments either don’t work or cause more— sometimes fatal— harm. Still, the Doctrine of Signatures continues to intrigue both scientists and laypeople because sometimes it has worked— and it has certainly been a useful way of remembering and communicating knowledge about the healing power of nature. 

So it is for hepatica, named from the Greek hepar, meaning liver. The leaf of the plant— also called liverwort or liverleaf— has three leathery, rounded lobes like the shape of the human liver. Hepatica, a native perennial in the Buttercup family, can be found around the entire Northern Hemisphere of the globe. Its unproven use as a folk medicine for liver ailments has often led to wild misuse and toxicity in the hands of the inexperienced. The species Hepatica nobilis is commonly found throughout the United States in woodlands, meadows, rocky areas, and gardens. Each flower of this species has its own fine-haired stem, and a bloom of 6-12 petals— technically sepals— in vibrant shades of blue, pink, purple, and white. The beauty of the flowers revitalizes the early spring landscape and offers an interesting complement to the way hepatica leaves have interfaced with human lives for thousands of years. — D.

Probably because of its historical use in folk medicine, hepatica has a long association with the idea of healing. Healing— recovering from physical or emotional injury— does not mean getting life back the way it was. It is a deeply personal, complex, non-linear process of readjustment, and it usually requires facing off with pain. Most of us want to avoid pain, so there is a strong cultural pressure to snap out of it quickly. Suppressing pain isn’t a good idea— in fact, repeatedly dismissing strong emotions can intensify them. On the other hand, it is rarely useful to get stuck in pain either. An alternative is to acknowledge and validate your pain. Think of pain as a crying baby. You may not be able to know or fix the problem that is making the baby cry, but you can recognize the crying, hold the baby, and comfort it.

In the same way, the next time you feel a painful emotion you can try recognizing it. You might even say to yourself, This hurts. Sometimes just this is enough to help. Deep breathing can help too: breathe in and acknowledge the pain; breathe out and give it attention and comfort. Sometimes your body will tell you it needs more— some first aid, a walk through the wildflowers, a good cry, some rest, a hug from a friend, or consultation with a professional. If it is possible, listen and respond. If it is not possible, you can tell yourself that it is not the time now, but there will be time later. Commit to the healing that your body needs. — D.

 from Hepatica 

Like robin's song or bluebird's wing,

Or throats that make the marshes ring,

Her beaming face and winsome grace

Are greetings from the heart of spring.

— John Burroughs 1837-1921, naturalist, poet, journalist

Bloodroot: Bloom with Hidden Resolve

This early March morning, we're walking to the ruins of an old lime kiln at Silver Mine Park in Pequea Township, Lancaster County. A capricious breeze moves across undulating terrain, and this corner of the world wavers between sunlight and cloud cover— it seems the sort of day that can't make up its mind. We look to the hillside beyond the kiln. On-and-off for more than two hundred years, local laborers and wishful thinkers excavated an extensive tunnel system across the sloping ground, tracing quartz deposits containing silver-bearing veins with diligent digging and sporadic success. While there is evidence of at least three mines and a vertical shaft on the site's surface, nature has slowly regained its claim, and much of Silver Mine's history remains hidden underground. The bluff is quiet and still, echoing with long-ago purpose and tinged with abandonment. Suddenly, today seems the sort of day for bloodroot.

Across miles and through many spring ephemeral seasons, when we find bloodroot, it is in places like this and on days like this: blooming on the unpredictable bridge between winter and spring, bloodroot seems to have a preference for undisturbed wooded ground and a penchant for precipitous slope. This morning's path is rugged enough— having inexplicably left my hiking stick in the car, I pick up a sturdy fallen branch to assist with the ascent. As suspected, on an incline beyond the kiln ruins, we spot several bloodroot— blooms closed with cloud cover, single leaves wrapped possessively around each flower stalk. After exploring the hilltop, peering into yawning openings in the earth, noting time-scarred, moss-covered rock face at every turn, we begin picking our way down the rootbound, cobbled, yielding-possibly-slick trail. As we descend, a fortuitous turn of breeze banishes the clouds, and we return to find bloodroot in bloom, striking white petals and golden anthers basking in newly arrived sun, reddish sap secreted within. We greet these fleeting yet resolute beauties one by one, with bittersweet recognition that as Silver Mine's canopy opens, bloodroot blooms will fade and eye-catching leaves will recede to earth, rejoining buried histories and seasonal mysteries beneath our feet. — B.

One leaf

enfolds each stem

in furled, rapt protection

until bud rises to blooming.

In truth,

bloodroot,

with milk-white delicate flower

and sanguine demeanor

belies hidden

resolve.

— B.

Although the bloodroot is a member of the poppy family, it is monotypic— the lone representative of its genus Sanguinaria. Both the scientific name and the common name of the flower reference the idea of blood, describing the bright red sap that fills the root, stem, and veins of the plant. Bloodroots are early bloomers, braving unpredictable conditions with a set of remarkable and sometimes paradoxical abilities. The plant appears simple and fragile— with just one stem carrying just one leaf enwrapping just one flower. Bloodroots are surprisingly hardy, however, and able to rise with resolve, even out of a bed of snow.  In full sun, the single leaf unwraps, revealing a flashy white, multi-petaled flower with a golden center. Pollinators that visit the fragrant flower in hopes of finding nectar will discover that the sly plant has none. If no pollinators arrive, the plant can self-pollinate. As temperatures drop at night, the leaf rewraps itself around the flower like a mother protecting a baby, ready to emerge again in the sun of the next day.

Despite this protective strategy, the flower is ephemeral, dropping its petals days after pollination. Bloodroot largely spreads its seeds through an unexpected source– ants. The plant’s seeds entice the insects with tasty sugars and oils, and the ants carry the seeds back to their nests. After eating their fill, the ants discard the remaining parts of the seeds, allowing them to begin growing in their new home. Even the distinctive sap of the bloodroot is a paradox: while it has been used in traditional medicine for centuries, it is also known to be highly toxic for humans and other animals when consumed in excess. — D.

 

The bloodroot depends on its ability to acclimate to the uncertain conditions of late winter. In our fast-paced world, we all can find ourselves needing to adjust and respond to sudden changes in circumstance. Change is difficult for most of us; it works against our instinctual ability to predict and manage threat.  The next time you find yourself feeling adrift and uncertain, you might remember the bloodroot’s adaptability. None of us can reliably know what the future holds, but we can all work on our ability to manage unexpected difficulties. One of the basics to successfully navigating change is knowing your strengths and leveraging them when needed. Think about a time when you handled an unforeseen challenge well.  What thoughts and beliefs carried you through? What reliable resources did you use?  Where did you find courage and comfort? What traits and abilities are so ingrained in you that they carry you through dark days?  Jot down some of your thoughts so they are there for you when you need them. — D.

from A Niello

It is not early spring and yet

Of bloodroot blooms along the stream,

And blotted banks of violet,

My heart will dream....

— Madison Julius Cawein, 1865-1914, American poet

Spring Beauty: Like Breath before Song

On a mild, early March morning, we're following a gently inclining hillside path, through woodland poised between slumber and wakening, across a palette mingling taupe and gray repose with tender sprout and sprightly green. We're moving slowly and looking closely because here— here and there— we're finding spring beauty, with its delicate, pearl and rose-dust petals arrayed amidst hay-scented fern, ivy leaf speedwell, wild orchid leaves, wind moss, and fallen branches. We take care that our footsteps fall only on the trail, for Claytonia virginica blooms randomly across this tumbled slope— in a garden not of our design but broadly in our protection. Both foliage and flower will withdraw to woodland floor by late spring, but this morning, spring beauty seems both a harbinger and a lovely traveler between seasons— like a pause before dancing, a breath before song, a feather quill-pen trembling in the breeze before poetry.

As our pace slows to pausing and our senses become attuned to the hillside, we discover that we're not the only wanderers drawing winter-to-spring inspiration and sustenance from spring beauty. We spot a small, solitary bee reveling in a receptive bloom. The spring beauty mining bee, we've learned, has a special relationship with spring beauty, its biorhythm and habit intimately connected to the life cycle of the dainty woodland ephemeral.  Even as clusters of spring beauty open wide with midday sunshine and close by nightfall or with cloud cover, Andrena erigeniae nests in nearby leaf litter and forest debris, diligently collecting pink pollen from late morning to early afternoon to feed larvae, keenly aware of light conditions and local pollen supply. We wonder at both the bloom and the bee, so very small but beautifully connected and doing important work during the transition between winter and spring. — B.

Spring Beauty—

bowing
low in shadow,
then lifting to sunlight,
each blushing white, finely-veined bloom,
waking—
waiting—
each starry-shape pastel flower
on the hillside, watching
for wanderers
and bees.
 
Good Morning—

— B.

 

The last days of February and the first days of March are a time of transitional weather for the Mid-Atlantic United States— it is not unusual to wake up to a snowstorm one day and picnic-worthy sunshine the next. The spring beauty wildflower thrives in this transition.  The perennial herb, easily recognized by its star-shaped white-pink flowers, is often found in wooded areas of the central and eastern US mountains. As a first bloomer, it offers itself up as critical nourishment for hungry insects and animals who wake early from their winter hibernation. Indigenous peoples and early settlers also used the spring beauty as a source of food and medicine when little else was growing. Conservationists usually discourage harvesting the plant nowadays, but we can still appreciate it as a symbol of promise in the face of change. Spring beauty plays this role in the Ojibwe legend of Peboan and Seegwun. When Old man Peboan, the Spirit of Winter, is visited in his lodge by young man Seegwun, the Spirit of Spring, it slowly becomes clear that only one will carry on forward. As the two talk and share a pipe, Peboan grows weaker and Seegwun strengthens. With the dawn of a new day, Old Man Peboan finally melts into water, yielding to spring, and leaving behind only a beautiful cluster of miscodeed— the Ojibwe word for spring beauty flowers. — D.

 

Seasonal transitions bring changes in weather, temperature, landscape, and light that impact individuals in different ways. All transitions require us to let go of the familiar and adjust to something new. This takes energy— even if the change is something we consider positive. Reflect on the spring beauty as a symbol of promise through transition. How do you usually feel about the change from winter to spring? Consider the past winter: what were the major events of the season for you? What do you want to remember? Are there any unnecessary burdens that you might release? Looking ahead, what events are coming up for you in the spring? How do you hope to spend your precious time and energy? Consider the ideas of gratitude and contentment. Right now, as the season starts to turn, what is one thing you are grateful for in your life? What is something you are content with, just the way it is? — D.

from To the Miscodeed

Sweet pink of northern wood and glen,

E'er first to greet the eyes of men

In early spring,— a tender flower

Whilst still the wintry wind hath power....

—Jane Johnston Schoolcraft, 1800-1842, Native Ojibwe poet and writer