The power of a single flower

'The impression of his personality was so strong on those who knew him that all words seem cheap beside it. Those who never knew him can never, through any word of ours, be brought to realize what they have missed. He had a quaint, crisp way of talking, his literary style in fact, and none of the nature lovers--the men who know how to feel in the presence of great things and beautiful--have expressed their craft better than he.'

~David Starr Jordan, educator, naturalist, philosopher, and university administrator, on his friend and contemporary, John Muir

U.S. President Theodore Roosevelt (left) and naturalist, John Muir, founder of the Sierra Club, on Glacier Point in Yosemite National Park. In the background: Upper and lower Yosemite Falls.
By Underwood & Underwood [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Some people are larger than life. They face overwhelming odds, yet somehow manage to accomplish so much in their short lifetimes that it's almost hard to think of them as human beings. They inspire us to accomplish more.

Probably not surprising to my readers, John Muir is one of those people for me. How could a man--born to Scottish immigrants of modest means, and nearly broken by farm labor and very stern upbringing--go on to accomplish so much? He was a farmer, inventor, sheepherder, explorer, writer, and conservationist. To this day, many consider him America's most famous and prominent naturalist.

I decided at the beginning of this year to write at least one post a month reflecting on Muir's contributions. Now that the year is almost over, I feel like I've only scratched the surface in learning about Muir. He published more than 300 articles and ten major books. He wrote lovingly of his beginnings in Dunbar, Scotland and Central Wisconsin ... and of course, the Sierra Nevada mountains.

Fortunately, the complete text of all his books is available for free through the Sierra Club. People continually find inspiration in his words. And his influence on this country, and the world, will live on as long as people care about nature.

What would Muir think of our world today? I think he'd be both sad and impressed with the state of affairs today. Mostly sad, probably, that so many species are extinct or endangered. But perhaps with a touch of acknowledgement that many of us are aware of the problems and continuing the quest to save natural places. Proud of every single national park, of course--even though many face challenges in blending the needs of nature with the importance of allowing visitors.

I also think he'd encourage landowners and gardeners, in particular--in the cities, the suburbs, and the countryside--to preserve natural habitats, and to plant flowering plants and a healthy mix of native plants.

Yes, John Muir would probably be sad for reasons too numerous to list here. But he'd ask those of us who are custodians of natural places to preserve them and encourage biodiversity. He'd encourage us to garden to feed our fellow man and at the same time to encourage pollinators and wildlife. He'd probably applaud people like Ron Finley, who said, "Gardening is the most therapeutic and defiant act you can do, especially in the inner city. Plus, you get Strawberries."

There's so much work to do, but we have the tools--heirloom seeds, pesticide-free plants, tiny and large plots of land--to make a difference. Sometimes that means responsible horticulture, and sometimes it means letting nature be, untouched by human hands.

And as Muir, himself, said, "There is that in the glance of a flower, which may at times control the greatest of creation's braggart lords."

On dogs, butterflies, and bruises...

"When one tugs at a single thing in nature, he finds it attached to the 
rest of the world."    ~ John Muir

By KAAY. Click on photo for full citation.

Sometimes the answer to a problem seems black and white.

But it's important to consider the gray areas.

For example, dogs are man's best friends.

I don't have a dog, but if I had to choose one nonhuman animal to accompany me in a survival situation (and I couldn't have a horse), that animal most likely would be a dog.

By Michael McPhee. Click on photo for full citation.

Many of my friends, and most of my family members, have dogs. They're cherished members of their nuclear families as well as our larger extended families.

By 4028mdk09. Click on photo for full citation.

We don't want them to hurt or to suffer in any way. That's a black-and-white issue for most of us.

And then there's the issue of the disappearing monarch butterflies.

It's easy to put off thinking about them until next year or until they're endangered. Or worse, yet, to give up and think there's no hope for them, or to simply not care. There are so many factors stacked against them. And all they are, afterall, is ... butterflies.

It's not like they're man's best friend.

By Vindhyana. Click on photo for full citation.

This issue is a little more gray.

Consider the words of John Muir at the beginning of this post: "When one tugs at a single thing in nature, he finds it attached to the rest of the world." Are monarch butterflies "canaries in the coal mine"? What impact would their extinction have on the rest of the world? Put another way, are their disappearing numbers trying to tell us something?

So much has been published about dogs and butterflies, and most of us care deeply about both of them. Again, black and white.

Unfortunately, what helps one species harms the other:

• Monarchs need Milkweed--that's all the caterpillars can eat;
• But Milkweed is toxic to dogs.

I harvested seeds from two types of Milkweed this fall: Swamp Milkweed and Whorled Milkweed. I asked friends and family if they wanted seeds for their gardens to help the monarch butterflies. Several without dogs didn't hesitate to say "yes."

Of course, I mentioned to the dog owners that Milkweed is toxic to dogs, so they'd have to be careful where to plant it. Frankly, that brought the enthusiasm about planting Milkweed down to about a one or two, on a scale of one to 10.

My goodness, I can't blame them. A dog is a part of the family. Dogs chew ... on just about anything. Dogs that chew on Milkweed might get sick. Black and white, right?

I'm terrible at sales--especially in situations where I completely understand the "No, thanks." So when a dog owner says, "Oh, well, I can't grow that because my dog might eat it," I give up.

But this post is about the gray areas. If you have a dog (or a horse, or an outdoor cat, or any other mammalian pet), but you also care about monarch butterflies, consider the gray areas before you give up on the monarchs.

Here are just a few ideas on how pet owners can protect their pets and also help prevent monarch extinction:

• Plant Milkweed in fenced-in gardens that your pets can't reach;
• Support organizations and public gardens dedicated to supporting and protecting the monarch;
• Volunteer at a nature center to help maintain monarch habitat; or
• Consider rearing monarch caterpillars in a safe container or tent, away from predators (including pets). Click here for instructions on how to do it.

If you have other ideas on how to protect both pets and monarchs, please add them to your comments.

For more information about the status of the monarch butterfly (Danaus plexippus) and how you can help, visit the World Wildlife Fund or the Monarch Joint Venture.

Monarchs have been on our minds and featured on our blogs more than ever this year, because they're "near threatened," according to the World Wildlife Fund. Man's best friend is, arguably, the most important and cherished species for human survival. But there are gray areas--ways we can support both.

For months now, the song "All I know," written by Jimmy Webb and popularized by Art Garfunkel has been going through my mind. It's a simple song, really, and some might call it overly melancholy. But I find it powerful and wise in its simplicity. It applies to human interactions, but also to how all earth's creatures--including man and his best friend--interact and "bruise" each other. Here's to working on the gray areas, and making the bruises less severe.

I'm just a wandering homebody

I've just returned from a trip to London. If you follow Helene's blog at Graphicality-UK (and I highly recommend it, because it's an excellent blog and her garden is amazing!), you know that I had the pleasure of visiting Helene. More on that visit soon, but I want to do the post justice after I've had a chance to look through all the photos and reflect a bit.

I was thinking of  a way to tie the London trip to my monthly post about John Muir when I came across this interview with Muir about his world travels. If you take the time (five to 10 minutes) to read the inverview, I think you'll find it interesting and entertaining.

Are you like John Muir? Do you feel healthier at home or away from home? Indoors our outdoors?

I'm the opposite of Muir, and yet the same. While I love traveling and feel fortunate to have visited many fascinating places, it always takes me a couple of days to adjust after reaching my destination, and then again after returning home.

But I do agree with Muir that travel is well worth the time and investment. It opens one's eyes to new places and people (and plants), and instills a greater sense of tolerance. You realize that people in different cultures and locales really aren't that different, afterall. I also heartily agree that whether near home or far away, we all benefit from being outdoors!

We spent a lot of time outside in London, as the weather was mild and pleasant for most of the time. In addition to my visit with Helene, I plan to share several other trip highlights soon. I left home just before the first killing frost here in my garden. I figured I'd come back to brown, dead plants and flowers. So as I snapped photos of creative container plantings, unique plants, and artistic garden designs, I did so with a feeling of nostalgia and wistfulness for the growing season just passed.

But comicly (at least I thought it was humorous), when I stepped out of the terminal at O'Hare Airport ... there were more magnificent potted plants still blooming and very healthy.

Terrible photo taken at night with my iPhone, but you get the idea.

Better yet, when I got home I saw that the Begonias, Umbrella Grass, and Swiss Chard in my own planters were still alive--even though they weren't covered, watered, or cared for while I was gone. Ha!

It felt good to be home! Unlike John Muir, I feel very comfortable nestling into my comfy little home--at least until the next big adventure!

We had a great time in London seeing the sights, visiting a few gardens, and most of all--spending time together as a family in a very exciting city.

Living on the edge

Lately, I've been thinking about tension zones and ecotones.

If you're still with me, you might want to keep reading because these topics are fascinating--especially for gardeners and plant geeks.

We learned about tension zones in my master naturalist courses earlier this summer. An ecological tension zone, anywhere in the world, is where two broad ecological regions meet. Any tension zone is a diverse area--where representative plant and animal species from both zones on either side overlap.

For example, here's a map from the Biota of North America Program (BONAP), showing floristic tension zones throughout the U.S.:

Source: bonap.org

My state, Wisconsin, is split by a diagonal line running from the northwest through the southeast. Two major ecological zones fall on either side, and where they meet, the plant and animal species are more diverse. You can click here to see more information and maps explaining this concept, and to read about the floristic zones in other U.S. regions. (I couldn't find a simple, nonacademic online resource for worldwide tension zones, but if you research your specific country or region, hopefully a similar resource is available.)

I don't live along Wisconsin's tension zone--I'm firmly in the ecological region shared with most of Illinois and parts of Iowa, Minnesota, and Missouri. This region is known for its fertile soil, deciduous forests and Oak savannas.

And then, of course, there are edges on a much smaller scale--for example, where a sandy soil region meets a clay soil region.

Or even smaller areas that you can observe just standing in one spot. For example, ecotones are defined by the Encyclopedia of Earth as transitional areas between two different ecosystems, such as a forest and a grassland. Click here to read about this fascinating topic.

This also ties in with the concepts of permaculture. Appalachian Feet did an excellent post a while back titled, "How to Learn About Permaculture." If you missed the post, it's definitely worth reading.

All of these concepts have significance for gardeners, botanists, biologists, naturalists, and anyone else who studies or simply enjoys nature. Ecotones, for example, are thought to be important ecological indicators of global change. They're thought to be sensitive to changing climates, and many scientists advocate monitoring ecotones to detect patterns of global change.

My garden resides along a small ecotone. It's a space between an open suburban area and a small forest along a glacial drumlin. The biodiversity is especially evident when the seasons change--when the migrating birds travel into, out of, and through the area, and when the deciduous trees either leaf out or lose their leaves. Back in the days before large-scale agriculture and settlement, this plot of land was probably part of an Oak opening, with less than 50% tree canopy coverage and frequent fires. The part at the top of the drumlin might have had more trees (as it does now) because of its placement on higher ground.

These concepts of tension zones, ecotones, and Oak openings were becoming common parlance for plant specialists like John Muir at the turn of the 20th century. He describes the uniqueness of Oak openings in "The Story of My Boyhood and Youth":

"When an acorn or hickory-nut [grub] had sent up its first season's sprout, a few inches long, it was burned off in the autumn grass fires; but the root continued to hold on to life, formed a callus over the wound and sent up one or more shoots the next spring. Next autumn, these new shoots were burned off, but the root and calloused head, about level with the surface of the ground, continued to grow and send up more new shoots; and so on, almost every year until very old, probably far more than a century, while the tops, which would naturally have become tall broad-headed trees, were only mere sprouts seldom more than two years old. Thus the ground was kept open like a prairie, with only five or six trees to the acre, which had escaped the fire by having the good fortune to grow on a bare spot at the door of a fox or badger den, or between straggling grass-tufts wide apart on the poorest sandy soil.

The uniformly rich soil of the Illinois and Wisconsin prairies produced so close and tall a growth of grasses for fires that no tree could live on it. Had there been no fires, these fine prairies, so marked a feature of the country, would have been covered by the heaviest forests. As soon as the oak openings in our neighborhood were settled, and the farmers had prevented running grass-fires, the grubs grew up into trees and formed tall thickets so dense that it was difficult to walk through them, and every trace of the sunny 'openings' vanished."

While the "Oak opening" ecotone in my garden is now partially cultivated, it's a fascinating little place teaming with life. Understanding what it was, what it is, and what it can be is helpful to me, as its gardener and caretaker.

A break from the tangle and fray

A while back, I read a passage from John Muir's "A Thousand-Mile Walk to the Gulf," and though I was moved by his description of the sea, I didn't really "get it." Muir--the naturalist, botanist, and founder of the Sierra Club--describes reaching the Gulf of Mexico, after traveling largely by foot from Illinois:

"Today I reached the sea. While I was yet many miles back in the palmy woods, I caught the scent of the salt sea breeze which, although I had so many years lived far from sea breezes, suddenly conjured up Dunbar, its rocky coast, winds and waves; and my whole childhood, that seemed to have utterly vanished in the New World, was now restored amid the Florida woods by that one breath from the sea."

Frankly, my reaction to that passage when I first read it was that Muir was tired, worn out, and delirious. And maybe he was. He became very ill with typhoid shortly thereafter. But he was also making commentary on the fact that great bodies of water, and the spots where they meet the land, are very similar the world over.

"Forgotten were the Palms and Magnolias and the thousand flowers that enclosed me," he continues. "I could see only dulse and tangle, long-winged gulls, the Bass Rock in the Firth of Forth, and the old castle, schools, churches, and long country rambles in search of birds' nests. I do not wonder that the weary camels coming from the scorching African deserts should be able to scent the Nile."

To really fully understand what Muir was talking about, you have to visit a beach or fondly remember a visit from earlier in your life. Whether it's a sandy or a rocky beach, if it borders a large body of water (an ocean or a great lake), the experience that overtakes all the senses is like no other. It's a universal experience--largely the same, no matter what continent or hemisphere (with the exception of a beach in winter!).

Even the plants are similar--Grasses, Sedges, Willows. While the plants shown here were found along the Lake Michigan shoreline, they'd be similar on the U.S. East Coast, the West Coast, or even a coast on a different continent!

The Sea Pea (Lathyrus japonicus), for example, is a legume native to temperate coastal areas of Asia, Europe, and North and South America. Also commonly called Beach Pea, Circumpolar Pea, and Sea Vetchling, it ranges around the world on marine coasts and inland shores, according to the Michigan Department of Natural Resources.

Even gardeners and botanists need a break sometimes from the tangle and fray of abundant plant life. Nothing beats a day at the beach to appeal to our minimalist tendencies ...

The drag of the waves on the elements of the beach.

A child's creation--labored over for hours, and gone with the flash of a tall wave or the heavy foot of a wandering mammal.

Evidence of man and his companion; his best friend.

A solitary bird feather--sparkling in the sun, filtering the sand, and fluttering in the soft breeze.

Small rocks and shells unappreciated and ignored, unless we stop to take a closer look.

And the slowly setting sun, making long shadows on the sand and beckoning us back for another day ... as they did when we were small children, begging our parents to "please, please, please" let us stay at the beach just a little longer.

"How imperishable are all the impressions that ever vibrate one's life! We cannot forget anything. Memories may escape the action of will, may sleep a long time, but when stirred by the right influence, though that influence be light as a shadow, they flash into full stature and life with everything in place."

~ John Muir, "A Thousand-Mile Walk to the Gulf"