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