Dutchman's Breeches: A Fleet Moment

We are paused along the hillside trail at Shenk's Ferry Wildflower Preserve in southern Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. We've been walking here this spring, tracing a regular route above picturesque Grubb Run, through a sheltered ravine-garden not of our design but in some ineffable way under our protection. Barely a week ago, the slope was brimming with Dutchman's Breeches nodding and dancing in warming breeze, lacy foliage cradling graceful pink-clothesline stalks hung with whimsical, cream-and-butter pantaloon flowers, attractive to pollinators and endearing to us. This morning, we remind ourselves that Dutchman's Breeches are true spring ephemerals, completing their visible life cycle in a matter of weeks. Scanning the hillside, we know this intellectually, but it takes some pondering to process it viscerally: Dutchman's Breeches were here and now they're gone— here for a brief, bright moment in spring sunlight and then vanished in the gloaming of unfurling canopy. Here and then gone. 

Ephemeral: from the Greek ephēmeros, meaning lasting just one day. Perhaps there is a lesson left behind by spring ephemerals, a lingering message from Dutchman's Breeches: even as their short season elapses, we may remember them— just as we remember those we've loved and lost— remember them and keep them close in memory. When we attend to fleeting beauty, embrace the joy of a moment, give care as we pass by—  when we practice holding all of it to heart, walking across the hillsides of April and beyond, we might find something enduring and true in impermanence, something close to always— something like forever. — B

It seems

just yesterday:

we met Dutchman's breeches

dancing on breezy hillside.

And now

they've gone:

drawn to earth, lost to canopy,

and we're left holding light

of their fleeting

season—

ephēmeros.

— B.

The Dutchman’s Breeches plant (Dicentra cucullaria) is a study in impermanence. The native perennial is common throughout the eastern and middle United States, but you need to catch it at the right time to fully understand its unusual name and beauty. It is an ephemeral, with a flower that both blooms and fades quickly, usually only for a week or two in March or April. Look for it in shady woodland areas with rich, moist soil. It grows less than a foot high, and its lacy leaves initially make it look a little like a fern. Before it blooms, its deep green leaves can be spotted growing directly from stems lying close to the base of the plant. Each leaf is about 3-6 inches long and divided into three identical leaflets, which in turn are separated into lobes. When the plant is ready to bloom, a single pinkish stalk with buds rises in the middle of the plant. If you are lucky enough to find the plant in full bloom, you’re in for a treat. Its white flowers appear like baggy pantaloons hung out to dry on the single clothesline stalk. They reminded colonial settlers of the breeches worn by Dutch immigrant men— although now they might remind us more now of MC Hammer. 

Once the unusual flowers are in bloom, the plant has a lot of quick work to do. The flowers work in harmony with bees, sharing pollen and nectar with the select few that can access it at the place inside the bloom where pants meet clothesline. The Dutchman’s Breeches grows seed pods quickly too, packing each seed with a strategic dose of ant-attracting nutrients. The grateful ants take it from there, carrying the seeds back to their nests, dispersing the seeds in the process. All of this is done in short-order. As the leaves in the tree canopy start to bloom, the Dutchman’s Breeches’ flowers and leaves begin to wither away. In summer, return to the spot where you first found the plant and it will seem to have disappeared. Return next spring, and you may witness a new and different growth cycle, perhaps finding even more beauty in its impermanence. — D. 

There are times— like when we find Dutchman’s Breeches in full bloom— that we wish a moment could last forever. Of course, we always have some logical understanding that nothing in our known physical world is everlasting, but it still can be painful to face the reality of impermanence. The material things around us, all the elements of nature, the people we love, our own bodies – all are temporary. The Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh said: Impermanence does not necessarily lead to suffering. What makes us suffer is wanting things to be permanent when they are not.

One exercise to help appreciate and accept impermanence is to reflect on a sunset. Keep your eyes on the skies for the next few evenings to seek out a particularly beautiful sunset. When you are offered a sunset that stirs you, give yourself a few minutes to watch it. Try to sink into the moment, set aside your phone or camera, and just savor the experience. Let all your senses engage in the moment. Notice the changes as you watch. Recognize that this sunset will be here and then be gone. Value it even more because it is not going to last. Realize that you’ve been given the gift of being able to see this unique sunset in this unique moment. Let yourself sit with the sadness that this one sunset is ending at the same time you see the beautiful evening sky replacing it. What ideas about impermanence can you take with you from this experience? — D. 

But what is this, with such odd-looking flowers, ranged along a naked stalk, and shaped so much like a pair of old-fashioned unmentionables? The boys call it ‘Gentlemen and Ladies;’ the old women, 'Colic Weed,’ from its supposed virtues in that disease; and its shape has given it the very unpoetic name of ‘Dutchman’s breeches!’

— submission from "A Cincinnati Amateur," The Western Farmer and Gardener, May 1841

Cut-Leaf Toothwort: Look Closely to See

We are walking a rugged trail along and above the Susquehanna River in southern Lancaster County, ascending and descending sun-wakened ridges, crossing streams and runs in shadowed glens, tracing a story of time and place— of bluff and bottomland, rock and flow— through river hills that have become a refuge of sort for us in recent years. As we make our way on a cobbled, root-bound trail, there is temptation and often good reason to keep heads down, looking neither left nor right, to watch one foot fall in front of the other, ignoring peripheral distraction. Yet, when we pause to catch our breath or stop to appreciate just where we are— when we look closely to see— here, then here and there, we often find cut-leaf toothwort by the wayside. As we've become acquainted with cut-leaf toothwort, it seems the most unassuming of spring ephemerals: clusters of dainty, four-petaled, pearlescent cream-to-pink flowers held above a spray of serrated leaves. It's easily overlooked amidst the delightfully disordered early spring landscape, and yet— once truly seen— the graceful arch of cut-leaf toothwort nodding in the breeze distinguishes itself and speaks to the heart.

In many ways, cut-leaf toothwort is well-suited to our new way of walking— navigating a landscape irrevocably and profoundly tinged with grief and sorrow— nevertheless continuing the journey with purpose, looking carefully, embracing the present while holding fast to memory— moving forward through a complex world brimming with empty space. It has occurred to me that we twenty-first century humans have a tendency to travel quickly through the moment and to place a premium on moving on— often in happy times, and certainly in search of instant gratification. Perhaps we think to do the same in grief and sorrow: as if we can run away from grief, escape sorrow, or fill the empty space of loss with light and sound and diverting objects. Finding cut-leaf toothwort in the rugged river hills does not take away grief, dissolve sorrow, or disallow loss— but as we pause along the trail, it seems to fill a corner of the empty space with something beautiful, gentle, and true. We find them, and somehow in turn, they help us find ourselves. — B.

Looking

closely to see

cut-leaf toothwort waiting

on a hillside, in a hollow,

nodding

gently—

the graceful, unassuming bloom

filling an empty space

with something kind

and true.

— B.

The cut-leaf toothwort is an interesting little plant that can be easily overlooked on an early spring walk. Search for it throughout the Eastern and Central United States in moist, wooded areas near trees— although it is a perennial, it also is ephemeral and only blooms for about a month. If you are walking and find a cut-leaf toothwort, take the time to stop and study it closely. You’ll quickly see how it gets its unusual name— the plant’s leaves are its most noticeable feature. Although it might initially seem like it has five sharp, toothed leaves, look again— there are actually just three leaves with deeply cut lobes. These leaves are very important to certain white butterflies. The female lays her eggs on these leaves, and the larvae will feed upon them. If the butterfly makes a mistake, though, and lays her eggs on the similar-looking invasive garlic mustard plant, the larvae will not be able to digest the leaf, and they will not survive. White butterfly mamas must look very, very closely. 

Try not to disturb the toothwort as you continue looking. You may be able to see the root— technically a rhizome— where the ground meets the stem. The toothwort rhizome has a long history of use in folk medicine, including helping with the pain of toothaches. Look once more. If the plant is flowering, you can see a single stem leading to four white petals on flowers that might remind you of a cross or shield, depending on your point of view.  This bloom may be why toothwort flower essence has come to symbolize protection and determination. You can help protect this little cut-leaf toothwort by leaving it be for others to find, observe, and contemplate. — D.

Most artists and scientists would agree that seeing is not the same as observing. Observing involves not only taking in basic visual information about something but doing so with a conscious focus and sense of inquiry. Think about something we all have seen many times— a one cent coin, for example. Now consider how many of us could accurately recall the information that is on each side of the coin. We have seen a coin but have not had a reason to observe it. An artist would need to observe a coin with great attention and care in order to paint it, and a scientist would do the same in order to study it. Interestingly, research has noted a relationship between close observation and connection; as we study an object or person, we are more likely to develop an emotional attachment to it.

Practice your ability to look closely.  Set aside just five minutes where you can be free of interruption, indoors or out, and find a comfortable spot to settle yourself. Listen to your own breathing. Be patient with yourself. Now observe— really look closely at an object in your environment. Try to imagine you’ve never seen it before. Draw it with your eyes. Paint it with your mind. Photograph it with your imagination. See if you can maintain your focus by getting curious about it. Notice when your attention naturally drifts, and gently call it back. How challenging is this experience for you? What can be gained from this kind of close observation? — D.

from The Pageant of Nature

The toothwort, although never really common, is probably more abundant than is usually supposed. The retiring habits of the plant must often cause it to be overlooked. Anyone who discovers a toothwort for the first time will always experience a feeling of wonder.

— Sir Peter Chalmers Mitchell, 1864-1945, Scottish zoologist and author

Crocus: Blooming and Beginning Again

When we moved to our new garden, we planted crocuses. They had been reliable favorites in our old garden— easy-going, low-growing perennials with a cheerful, almost lyrical bloom palette— familiar friends and harbingers of early spring. That first autumn, we purchased a small mesh bag of corms at an unfamiliar garden center, tilled a small rectangular plot in an unfamiliar bed, placed the corms in unfamiliar soil, patted and firmed the ground, and wished the crocuses well through winter-to-come. One March morning, we found a happily familiar cluster in the bed, a few sprays on the lawn, a brave, random traveler in an adjacent bed. The new crocuses bloomed with simplicity of habit— opening wide with sunlight, closing at dusk and in overcast conditions— several weeks of flowering before slow retreat to quietude. Crocuses have innate understanding of mood and season and light.

Through the years, we've met the arrival of crocuses in both joy and sorrow, greeting them with a passing glance on carefree mornings— they're here, oh look, they're here— or during seasons of profound grief, unease, and confusion— with no words, just gazing— uncollected thoughts and scattered memory. In those gazing hours, we've invariably found light within each crocus bloom, a luminescence showing the way for other spring bloomers, attracting and reassuring emerging pollinators— somehow reaching us and reassuring us, too. We've learned that past intimate sorrow and past broader strife, beyond troubled times, the wise earth keeps turning, and it keeps sending up crocuses in early spring— reminding us that wrapped in each ending is some sort of beginning— that after darkness, there is dawn and an unfurling bloom. And then there are words: let's begin again. 

Now, sings the crocus. — B.

Crocus

without

flurry or fuss,

renewed from turning earth,

through tranquil moment, troubled time—

a light

within—

meeting us in joy, past sorrow—

 tender affirmation

of beginning

again.

— B.

There are around eighty species in the genus Crocus, and they all tend to be unfussy, resilient, happy little plants. The crocus is native to southwestern Asia and may have been domesticated by the ancient Egyptians or Greeks. One Greek myth tells the story of Krokós, a mortal youth who is turned into a flower by the Gods, either as punishment or as a reward— depending on the version of the tale. The Greek word krokós means golden yellow, the color of saffron— the long stamen threads of the Crocus sativus, carefully cultivated throughout history as a precious spice, dye, perfume, and medicine. Outside of this saffron producer, all other species of crocus can be toxic for humans, some highly— so best to follow the folk wisdom that says picking them is unlucky. Instead, take in their beauty and meaning. Since they are non-native to the United States, someone planted them with intention, possibly to spread their traditional message of happiness and joy. 

The agreeable plant naturalizes easily, so you may find them in areas of warmth or frost, shade or sun, rocks or lawns, mountains or gardens. Notice that the early spring bloomers have flowers with no visible above-ground stems— they grow directly from an underground stem called a corm. The flowers proclaim the coming of spring, coming in Easter egg shades of violet, lavender, yellow, and cream. Once planted, they come back year after year, bringing optimism and the promise of a fresh start. — D.

We’re all familiar with the wonderful feeling a fresh start can provide. Did you know that there’s a body of research behind the fresh start effect? Studies have shown that even the perception of a fresh start can decouple a person from past mistakes and renew motivation towards a goal. This may explain why temporal milestones like a new year, a birthday, a new season, even a new day, can provide an emotional lift and bounce out of a downslide. Take a cue from the crocus, which welcomes the spring season with cheerful flowers.  Give some gentle attention to the patterns of your life, considering places where you could use a fresh start. Get curious about behaviors you engage in again and again (even though they aren’t serving you). 

Mental health professionals tell us that even noticing these patterns offers a new beginning. Are there places in life where you could benefit from a reset?  Reflect on this with self-compassion— as you might with a dear friend— noticing, recognizing the learning opportunity, and giving yourself permission to try again.  Self-compassion is not the same as self-blame, self-pity, or letting yourself off the hook for past mistakes— it is acknowledging life patterns and considering the reasons for them so that you can make needed reparations— and a fresh start. — D.

from Crocus

Then from my heart will young petals diverge,

As rays of the sun from their focus:

I from the darkness of earth shall emerge,

A happy and beautiful Crocus!

— Hannah Flagg Gould, 1789-1865, American author and poet