Are you paying enough attention to the bush in your life?
Doesn’t have to be a bush per se; a tree or perennial plant works, too
So it’s spring now and though so many of us are really bothered by the pollen of it all—no, I don’t want no shrubs, you’re probably singing if you’re here from the 90s—I’d like to make a case for the greenery.
I first got a bit interested in tree identification in high school AP Biology, when we did a Tree Walk around the neighborhood. I’ve loved it ever since. If you think I’m a dork for championing tree identification, just wait till you hear about my bird journal.
But humor me: think of a tree or a bush or even a plant that you see regularly, outside your window or in a park you frequent or in your yard. Can you name it? Not like Frank or Jodie—though feel free if that helps you—but do you know what it’s actually called? Like, if it’s a maple, what kind of maple? What kind of oak? What kind of elm? What kind of palm, if you’re fortunate enough to live in such a climate? What variety of stonecrop, or hellebore, or heuchera are you looking at?
It’s taken me years to confidently identify all the trees just in our backyard. Buckle up, because here comes a list: we have tulip poplar, red maple, black cherry, white oak, shortleaf pine, wahoo elm, sweetgum, pawpaw, and beech. We’ve also planted some apple, pear, cherry, and peach trees.
Once you identify your specimen, that’s when the REAL fun begins: observation! (Sorry, I realize this is a lot of excitement for a Monday.) Does your specimen flower before it leafs out? What do the buds look like? What color are the flowers? How do the new leaves look when they unfurl? When does new growth emerge? What do the seed pods look like? etc. And then, if you’re in an adventurous mood, reach out and touch the bush and see how it makes you feel.
You don’t have to be a gardener or a garden enthusiast to do this type of thing. In fact, I encourage this kind of behavior especially if you aren’t a gardener.
As a lifelong compulsive reader, I’ve found I spend a lot of time in my own head. With our internet and our smartphones and streaming services and social media, I’d venture to say many (most?) of us spend far too much time flapping about in our craniums. We live in a semi-rural suburb, and there’s a not-insignificant number of people I never see out in their yards. These magnificent, high-level brains of ours are easily hijacked to the point where we spend more time looking at memes than at the tree we park under every day.
I don’t wish to come across as a Luddite. I very much appreciate the incredible technologies we now have. I’m fully confident that without air conditioning I’d be a monster. What I am saying, though, is that feeling rooted to a particular place is a great way to improve my mental health. And knowing the habits and patterns of the wildlife around me does that better than just about anything. I’m part of this ecosystem, not an interloper or an imperial presence on top of it.
One of my favorite gardening writers, Carol Deppe, puts paid to the idea that humans are somehow unique in our ability to manipulate the environment in The Tao of Vegetable Gardening. The opening chapter’s first section is titled “Gardening in Nature’s Image—But Which Nature and Which Image?” She describes how leaf-cutter ants have been farming for 50 million years, for example.
What I’m saying is, the best way for a normal person to not be a douche about nature and the environment (in either political direction) is to remember we’re part of it, that some of our practices are terrible and should be changed, but also that nature is going to persist and we belong here, too.
Over the past ten or so years I’ve practiced the discipline of staying. When we bought our house, we assumed it would be a “starter home” and then a month later the housing market crashed. For various reasons of circumstance and eventually choice, we’re still here. I don’t want to leave my trees and my shrubs and my perennials. I don’t want to miss seeing the bluebird family come back next year, or the orangey-red daddy cardinal in the blueberry patch. This year’s chickadees are the grandchildren of the baby chickadees we saw fledge, who hopped around our feet and into our open palms.
When I’m feeling stressed or adrift, my trees and shrubs and perennials are still here, right where I left them. My grandfather died, but the elderflower returns nevertheless. My husband got a new job, but the hostas came up anyway. The plants and trees change, but they persist. They are dependable and equanimous. They spread and grow, but they stay. They’re wise friends.
So on this the second day of spring, I invite you to find a bush to love. It’ll make you feel better.
Can I be super duper on brand here?
As both a lifelong naturalist and an ardent techno-optimist, I have a recommendation. It's an app called Seek. Basically, it uses your camera to help you identify flora and fauna.
Is this as rewarding as doing the hard work of figuring it out yourself? No.
Will it allow you to start noticing the plethora of living things around you and encourage you to learn about them? Yes.
Highly recommended.
Such a lovely essay. In our neighborhood, the Viburnums are flowering. Next to hyacinth, lilac, and freesia, they have the loveliest scent of all the flowers--a mixture of honey and fresh soap. I bury my nose in them every single time I pass a bush and feel like I am taking revenge on my dog, making HER stand around, bored, while I sniff something for a change.
I love the idea of the discipline of staying. Having moved across the country three times, followed by two international moves, I always miss people and places. Staying put turns out not to have been my lot in life, but--to echo your botanical metaphor, putting down roots seems pretty appealing.