Jack-in-the-Pulpit: The Way of Knowing

Across countless miles and many seasons, we searched the dampish forest and scoured the boggy thicket, but we did not find Jack-in-the-pulpit. We came close a few times, happening upon a lingering cluster of bright green-to-red berries in late summer; we were tardy to that forgotten corner of the woods, though, and the iconic bloom had passed. They're rare, we surmised. They're elusive, we told ourselves. But this spring, at unexpected turns of the trail— sometimes in sunlight and often in shadow— we've stumbled upon Jack-in-the-pulpit, and it stops us still in our hiking boots. Before we can say strangely beautiful sylvan perennial, we're bending, kneeling, squatting, contorting— positioning ourselves at ground level to get a better look. At first glance, Jack-in-the-pulpit is idiosyncratic in both appearance and habit, as if it's paying a visit from another time and place, with protective, prehistoric-looking leaves splayed on individual stems and an exotic, tropical-looking, almost-glowing bloom rising on unbending stalk. There's Jack, a peculiar little fleshy, green-to-red spike— and there's the pulpit, a curious, curling, green-to-purple-to-brown striped hood. And there's a question, followed by an exclamation: What's going on here? We don't know! 

Once we find one Jack-in-the-pulpit, we begin finding many Jack-in-the-pulpits: turns out, they're not so rare and not quite elusive, and it's almost as if we've trained our eyes and minds to a new way of knowing. Of course, after the initial knowing, there's always more to learn: each discovery opens the door to something new, and I'm confident that sister D. will share something new about Jack-in-the-pulpit below.

I just don't know... across those countless miles and many seasons, there have been times when I've desperately longed for certainty— or at least yearned for the pretense of certainty in a restless, ever-changing world. Yet as miles roll away and seasons slip by, it's become apparent that knowledge is not a destination, but a journey— a trek through dampish forest and boggy thicket, sometimes in sunlight and often in shadow, across landscapes of joy and in places of profound sorrow. There are numerous ways of knowing, and then there is the more nuanced art of not knowing— of accepting and embracing that there are things beyond our reckoning, our control, our ken. If we find comfort and peace in knowing, maybe, just maybe, something resembling comfort and peace can be found in not knowing. Zen-tinged musings aside, I do know this: it's something to see, an idiosyncratic Jack-in-the pulpit at an unexpected turn of the trail— and it's something to consider, something to meet with reverence— the wonder, the fluidity, and the immeasurable duality of that which we know— and all that we do not.  — B.

Sometimes

in sunlight, often in shadow,

near an unexpected 

turn in the trail,

in dampish wood

we find

Jack-in-the-pulpit—

we don't know,

we can't surmise.

Somehow

this strange, inscrutable beauty

enfolding like refuge

draping like reverence,

illuminates

the way:

the-finely-nuanced-art

of knowing—

and not knowing.

— B.

The Jack-in-the-pulpit (Arisaema triphyllum) offers a sermon in the dialectical— living proof that two things can be true at one time. The long-living perennial herb, native to Eastern North America, has been accurately described as both simple and complex, common and odd, straightforward and deceptive, medicinal and toxic. The artist Georgia O’Keefe famously represented the plant’s beauty, while others see it as a smelly weed. Jack-in-the-pulpit thrives in moist, wooded areas, rising 1-2’ tall at full growth. It features a distinctive spike of tiny flowers (the spadix) and a whorled leaf (the spathe) that protectively wraps around it, eventually curling over the top. The plant was named for its resemblance to a preacher (the spadix “Jack”) standing in his overhanging pulpit. Like many plants, Jack-in-the-pulpit develops in male or female versions. The tiny flowers on the spadix can identify the gender— they are either all male with pollen-loaded anthers, or all female with no anthers. Since the flowers are tiny and mostly hidden at the base of the spathe, it’s easier to tell the plant’s gender by looking at the surrounding leaves— males usually have only one additional three-part leaf; females usually have two three-part leaves.

Throughout the reproduction cycle, the female plant uses more energy than the male— something that is not unusual in the world of nature. What is unusual is that each Jack-in-the-pulpit gets to choose its gender each year— probably based on the amount of nutrients it was able to store from the previous year. All Jack-in-the-pulpit seedlings begin their lives as males; the next season, they may grow into a male or female plant— and so it goes from one season to the next. So, while we humans continue to struggle with the Either/Or of life, the Jack-in-the-pulpit seems to have grown comfortable living in the Both/And. — D.

Our fast-paced culture creates a lot of pressure to manage people, things, and opinions by organizing them into clear and hard categories. If the overriding goal is efficiency and productivity, this is practical. It gives us a sense of control to divide the world into neat boxes, and it may simplify our decision-making. But the world is full of ambiguity and complexity, and there are traps to dualistic thinking. Either/Or thought is divisive and competitive by nature-- pitting one stance directly against another, and closing off more creative, flexible, compassionate perspectives. It works against beneficial compromise and balance. There are other ways to look at the world. Zen Buddhists practice a tenet of not knowing— accepting that our own perspective is limited and fallible. 

If you’re looking for more peace in your life, you might try noticing when and where your thinking feels very rigid— when you find yourself marching hard into judgments about what is right or wrong, good or evil, smart or stupid, perfect or an abject failure. When you recognize this pattern in yourself, you can acknowledge it with kindness— after all, you are human. Then give yourself permission to slip into the gray area of not knowing.  Of course, there is a time and place for dualism in our lives— sometimes we are at a crossroads and really must take a stand on a single path forward. But there are many times where we could be inspired by Jack-in-the pulpit and test out the dialectical, the Both/And.  It can be a very enlightening experience to navigate the in-between. — D.

From Jack in the Pulpit

Come hear what the reverend rises to say
In his nice little pulpit this fine Sabbath day…
Green is his pulpit, green are his bands,
In his queer little pulpit the little priest stands…
We heard the wind organ, the bee and the bird,
But of Jack in the Pulpit, we heard not a word.

— John Greenleaf Whittier, 1807-1892, poet and abolitionist leader

Bleeding Hearts: The Keepsake Bouquet

I am sitting on a favorite bench— cast iron formed to resemble leaf and twining vine— contemplating the bleeding hearts that appear for a brief time each springtime in our garden. There are silver droplets on the finely divided foliage, crystalline beads clinging to the striking pendant flowers, a poetic recollection of overnight rain. Once upon a time, these bleeding hearts grew beneath a hemlock by a creaky wooden gate in our New Jersey garden, graceful arches of blooms in harmony with draping hemlock boughs, nodding in dappled sunlight and bearing silent witness to our family story unfolding in the cozy backyard: Ben diligently pushing a toy lawn mower, racing diecast cars down the Bilco door, catching a football and zig-zagging down the imaginary stadium field— a hibachi cookout, some digging and delving, sunset through the gnarled branches of the unfurling oak tree, listening for the owl at dusk. These bleeding hearts have travelled many miles: we dug them up, divided them, and drove them across the state line to plant in our new Lancaster County garden. And they bloom in the here and now, in the shelter of the magnolia and the maple, near the bench where I often sit with memory.

I remember bleeding hearts from long-ago spring times, bleeding hearts blooming on Sunday afternoons in a quiet corner of Grandma Wolfe's garden. They caught the eyes and captured the imaginations of sisters and cousins: bony-kneed and breathless, we would pause to gaze upon fanciful chains of fuchsia and white charm-hearts before continuing our play— performing musicals, solving mysteries, climbing welcoming trees, seeking hidden treasure— boundless childhood ramblings across a rolling expanse of Pennsylvania lawn. 

Here in the garden after the rain, sitting on the favorite bench and holding counterpoised measures of joy and sorrow collected across time, it seems that bleeding hearts are perfectly suited to reflection and bittersweet remembrance. Through their fleet yet perennial season, they are a keepsake bouquet pressed heart to heart, moment to moment to memory. — B.

Bleeding Hearts

to walk

through the garden

after a gentle rain,

pendant-flowers dressed in crystal

droplet,

to find

suspended charms

of childhood memory,

to sit

in colloquy

and wordless poetry,

to press

each tender bloom

between parchment pages

of remembrance, ephemeral

keepsakes,

bringing joy and bearing sorrow

in time.

— B.

The bleeding heart (Lamprocapnos spectabilis) is a plant that is both lovely and beloved. Native to Asia, it was introduced to western gardeners in the Victorian era and quickly became a popular favorite throughout Europe and North America. In full bloom, it is an attention-getter, with whimsical flowers dangling from its stems like heart-shaped pendants in shades of pink and white. The bleeding heart seems to reach out to the child in each of us— the flower has inspired a trove of stories shared from generation to generation. There are folk tales of the flower representing Cinderella dressing for the ball, a fairy princess in a bath, an old woman and an orphaned child, and a tragedy of unrequited love. 

Many of us have memories of playing amongst the bleeding hearts blooming in friends’ or family gardens when we were small, possibly picking the flowers— and likely being cautioned about the plant’s toxicity. Because the plant is perennial, hardy, and divides well, some are fortunate to have a bleeding heart growing now that came from a garden they walked through as a child. But whether a generational plant, a newly grown plant, or just a fond recollection of a plant, the bleeding heart carries a message of love that transcends time. — D.

Most adults have fond childhood memories set in and around neighborhood yards, gardens, parks, woods, or waterfronts. Collecting and playing with items found in nature is an almost-universal childhood activity.  Sticks, shells, pebbles, wildflowers, leaves, dirt, grass, sand, mud – all hold the potential for endless imaginative play. When experiences cross cultures and generations like this, it points to their power and significance. Can you recall a childhood experience of seeking treasures outdoors? What setting were you in? Who was with you? What were you hoping to find? What did you find? Can you remember what you did with the items you found? Is there any specific item that held special meaning for you? If you can, take a walk with someone you love and create a new memory. — D.

After your roses have been located, take some of the remaining space for some of the good, old-fashioned flowers our grandmothers loved— bleeding hearts, chimney pinks, four-o’clocks, sweet alyssum, and pansies.

— Pictorial Review, “Pocket Handkerchief Yards," Vol. 4 (5), May 1903

Virginia Bluebells: A Walk with Gratitude

I remember the day: we were walking a hillside trail tucked into a meander along the Conestoga River, at an out-of-the-way place called Windolph Landing. I remember that it was one of those days when the isolation of grief and sorrow felt especially near and always present— why, I don't exactly recall— perhaps it was a date on the calendar, an angle of light, a gesture, a word— a sound. Beyond birdsong, the trail was quiet and secluded, and yet as we descended to the river, to the verdant, soft-ground floodplain, there was a growing sense of connection, of community— scores of solitary Virginia bluebells joined to blanket the hillside— an uplifting swath of graceful, bell-shaped flowers in varying hues of blue, pink, and lavender nodding in unison in the early spring breeze.

Of course, walking across a hillside brimming with bluebells is neither remedy for grief nor panacea for sorrow—  but time and again, moving through these out-of-the-way places stirs something good and true, filling an aching hollow of the heart with moments-to-memories of joy— and there's a feeling of gratitude, traveling a trail lined with lovely, ephemeral blooms. — B.

Some say

donning a garland of bluebells

obliges the wearer

to speak only

the truth:

that day,

the broad hillside draped in bluebells,

the sway

of bluebells dancing, each and all,

like a carillon song

of gratitude

for breeze:

in the fleeting moment,

the way seemed bright

and true.

— B.

As spring weather takes hold, it is time for the bluebells to ring out. The Virginia bluebell (Mertensia virginica) is an herbaceous perennial that blooms with clusters of stunning, bell-shaped, purplish-blue flowers draping from the end of an arching stem. Also known as Virginia cowslip, the plant is native to the Eastern United States and is ephemeral— blooming when the soil gets warm, and then going dormant again in only about a month. 

Bluebells thrive in moist woodlands, particularly near streams and floodplains where they have access to both sunlight and water. They grow low and close to the ground and can spread into broad, dense clusters of thousands of plants, creating an enchanting, delicately fragrant violet carpet. It takes years for a large colony like this— sometimes called a bluebell wood— to establish, and it can take many more years to rebuild the colony if the habitat is damaged by foot traffic. In folklore, the bluebell is a favorite of faeries— the flowering bells are said to chime when woodland pixies are called to meetings. In the human world, the bluebell has come to symbolize both humility and gratitude. If you come across a bluebell wood, be grateful, be mindful of the faeries, keep to the path, take in the sweet smell— and consider yourself most fortunate to witness its humbling spring splendor. — D.

Studies show that a routine practice of gratitude leads to a stronger immune system, fewer physical complaints, kinder and more caring behavior towards others, and ultimately more resilience through adversity. Only two simple components are involved in achieving these great benefits. The first is in noticing the good that surrounds us every day. The second is in recognizing the larger context of that good, whether through belief in a higher power, the wisdom of the natural world, or the compassion of humanity. Let the bluebells inspire you to connect with your sense of gratitude. When you notice yourself being pulled into negativity, intentionally draw your attention to the positive. Commit to noticing and appreciating the good things in your life. Tap into your creativity and express your gratitude in different ways— make notes in a journal, take a photo, send a text to a loved one, share around the dinner table, reflect in meditation or prayer, give yourself an affirmation, or say a genuine thank you to something or someone. Train your brain to look for answers to the questions: What am I truly grateful for? How has life been good to me? What assets do I have on my side as I face the challenges that life brings? — D.

from The Bluebell

There is a silent eloquence

In every wild bluebell

That fills my softened heart with bliss

That words could never tell....

— Anne Bronte, 1820-1849, English novelist and poet