Plant Stems Quotes

In short, Europe’s colonization of Africa had nothing to do with differences between European and African peoples themselves, as white racists assume. Rather, it was due to accidents of geography and biogeography—in particular, to the continents’ different areas, axes, and suites of wild plant and animal species. That is, the different historical trajectories of Africa and Europe stem ultimately from differences in real estate.

Philosophers call this state of isolation and disconnection “species loneliness”—a deep, unnamed sadness stemming from estrangement from the rest of Creation, from the loss of relationship. As our human dominance of the world has grown, we have become more isolated, more lonely when we can no longer call out to our neighbors. It’s no wonder that naming was the first job the Creator gave Nanabozho.

Flower will not grow, if the stem doesn't allow

I wonder if much that ails our society stems from the fact that we have allowed ourselves to be cut off from that love of, and from, the land. It is medicine for broken land and empty hearts.

Secrets are like plants. They can stay buried deep in the earth for a long time, but eventually they'll send up shoots and give themselves away. They have to. It's their nature. Just a tiny green stem at first. Which slowly, insidiously grows taller, stronger, unfolding itself, until there it is. A big fat secret, right in front of your face; a fully bloomed flower perfumed with the scent of deception.

Truth is a rhizome – an underground plant stem with lateral shoots. You need to dig deep to reach it and, once unearthed, you have to treat it with respect.

People sometimes say that sorrow is mental but longing is physical. One is a wound, the other an amputated limb, a withered petal compared to a snapped stem. Anything that grows closely enough to what it loves will eventually share the same roots. We can talk about loss, we can treat it and give it time, but biology still forces us to live according to certain rules: plants that are split down the middle don’t heal, they die.

Say the planet is born at midnight and it runs for one day. First there is nothing. Two hours are lost to lava and meteors. Life doesn’t show up until three or four a.m. Even then, it’s just the barest self-copying bits and pieces. From dawn to late morning—a million million years of branching—nothing more exists than lean and simple cells. Then there is everything. Something wild happens, not long after noon. One kind of simple cell enslaves a couple of others. Nuclei get membranes. Cells evolve organelles. What was once a solo campsite grows into a town. The day is two-thirds done when animals and plants part ways. And still life is only single cells. Dusk falls before compound life takes hold. Every large living thing is a latecomer, showing up after dark. Nine p.m. brings jellyfish and worms. Later that hour comes the breakout—backbones, cartilage, an explosion of body forms. From one instant to the next, countless new stems and twigs in the spreading crown burst open and run. Plants make it up on land just before ten. Then insects, who instantly take to the air. Moments later, tetrapods crawl up from the tidal muck, carrying around on their skin and in their guts whole worlds of earlier creatures. By eleven, dinosaurs have shot their bolt, leaving the mammals and birds in charge for an hour. Somewhere in that last sixty minutes, high up in the phylogenetic canopy, life grows aware. Creatures start to speculate. Animals start teaching their children about the past and the future. Animals learn to hold rituals. Anatomically modern man shows up four seconds before midnight. The first cave paintings appear three seconds later. And in a thousandth of a click of the second hand, life solves the mystery of DNA and starts to map the tree of life itself. By midnight, most of the globe is converted to row crops for the care and feeding of one species. And that’s when the tree of life becomes something else again. That’s when the giant trunk starts to teeter.

Consider a single piece glowing in your family’s stove. See it, children? That chunk of coal was once a green plant, a fern or reed that lived one million years ago, or maybe two million, or maybe one hundred million. Can you imagine one hundred million years? Every summer for the whole life of that plant, its leaves caught what light they could and transformed the sun’s energy into itself. Into bark, twigs, stems. Because plants eat light, in much the way we eat food. But then the plant died and fell, probably into water, and decayed into peat, and the peat was folded inside the earth for years upon years—eons in which something like a month or a decade or even your whole life was just a puff of air, a snap of two fingers. And eventually the peat dried and became like stone, and someone dug it up, and the coal man brought it to your house, and maybe you yourself carried it to the stove, and now that sunlight—sunlight one hundred million years old—is heating your home tonight . . .

The majesty of nature is not restricted to canyons and mountains. It can be found in the wilds of perception--the sensory spaces that lie outside our Umwelt and within those of other animals. To perceive the world through other senses is to find splendor in familiarity and the sacred in the mundane. Wonders exist in a backyard garden, where bees take the measure of a flower’s electric fields, leafhoppers send vibrational melodies through the stems of plants, and birds behold the hidden palates of rurples and grurples...Wilderness is not distant. We are continually immersed in it. It is there for us to imagine, to savor and to protect.

The trees bathed their great heads in the waves of the morning, while their roots were planted deep in gloom; save where on the borders of the sunshine broke against their stems, or swept in long streams through their avenues, washing with brighter hue all the leaves over which it flowed; revealing the rich brown of the dacayed leaves and fallen pine-cones, and the delicate greens of the long grasses and tiny forests of moss that covered the channel over which it passed in the motionless rivers of light.

How does food work? Ultimately, it is a chain leading back to the sun. Plats photosynthesize energy and store it within themselves. Animals eat the plants. Omnivores like humans eat both. At each stage, it is about precious energy from the sun, locked up in different forms.”, FADE by Kailin Gow

All disease, disorder and addictions stem from the yearning to reunite with one’s soul.

It is a much wiser policy to plant acre after acre of orchids and lead one's life in solitude encompassed by their sheltering stems, than to surround oneself with the hoi-polloi and so court the same pointless misanthropic disgust as befell Timon of Athens.

Soon some of the plants were as big as fruit trees. There were fans of long emerald-green leaves, flowers resembling peacock tails with rainbow-colored eyes, pagodas consisting of sumperimposed unbrellas of violet silk. Thick stems were interwoven like braids. Since they were transparent, they looked like pink glass lit up from within. Some of the blooms looked like clusters of blue and yellow Japanese lanterns. And little by little, as the luminous night growths grew denser, they intertwined to form a tissue of soft light.

I don't even like regular plants. Except for corsages and long-stemmed roses...and those only hurt when they don't show up.

No one wants a dandelion. They crop up all over the place, ugly and unfortunate, an average blossom in a world desperatly seeking beauty. They're weeds, people say. They're uninteresting and offer no fragrance and there are too many of them, too much of them, we don't want them, destroy them. Dandelions are a nuisance, We desire the buttercups, the daffodils, the morning glories. We want the azalea, the poinsettia, the calla lily. We pluck them from our gradens and plant them in our homes and we don't seem to remember their toxic nature. We don't seem to care that if you get too close? if you take a small bite? The beauty is replaced wit pain and laced with a posion that laughs in your blood, destroys your organs, infevts your heart. But pick a dandelion. Pick a dandelion and make a salad, eat the leaves, the flower, the stem. Thread it in your hair, plant it in the ground and watch it thrive. Pick a dandelion and close your eyes make a wish blow it into the wind. Watch it change the world.

The shrub that half concealed her was a malignant plant, a Madagascan tanghin tree with wide, box-like leaves with whitish stems, whose smallest veins distilled a venomous fluid. At a moment when Louise and Maxime laughed more loudly in the reflected yellow light of the sunset in the little boudoir, Renée, her mind wandering, her mouth dry and parched, took between her lips a sprig of the tanghin tree that was level with her mouth, and sank her teeth into one of its bitter leaves.

Plants evolve like every other form of life, and they’ve come up with their own forms of aggression, defense, and so on. In the nineteenth century, most theories concerned animals—nature red in tooth and claw, all that. But now scientists are thinking about nature green in root and stem. We realize that plants, in their ceaseless struggle to survive, have evolved everything from complex symbiosis with other animals, to signaling mechanisms to warn other plants, to outright chemical warfare.

My birthday is in March, and that year it fell during an especially bright spring week, vivid and clear in the narrow residential streets where we lived just a handful of blocks south of Sunset. The night-blooming jasmine that crawled up our neighborhood's front gate released its heady scent at dusk, and to the north, the hills rolled charmingly over the horizon, houses tucked into the brown. Soon, daylight savings time would arrive, and even at early nine, I associated my birthday with the first hint of summer, with the feeling in classrooms of open windows and lighter clothing and in a few months no more homework. My hair got lighter in spring, from light brown to nearly blond, almost like my mother's ponytail tassel. In the neighborhood gardens, the agapanthus plants started to push out their long green robot stems to open up to soft purples and blues.

Love Letter" Not easy to state the change you made. If I'm alive now, then I was dead, Though, like a stone, unbothered by it, Staying put according to habit. You didn't just tow me an inch, no- Nor leave me to set my small bald eye Skyward again, without hope, of course, Of apprehending blueness, or stars. That wasn't it. I slept, say: a snake Masked among black rocks as a black rock In the white hiatus of winter- Like my neighbors, taking no pleasure In the million perfectly-chisled Cheeks alighting each moment to melt My cheeks of basalt. They turned to tears, Angels weeping over dull natures, But didn't convince me. Those tears froze. Each dead head had a visor of ice. And I slept on like a bent finger. The first thing I was was sheer air And the locked drops rising in dew Limpid as spirits. Many stones lay Dense and expressionless round about. I didn't know what to make of it. I shone, mice-scaled, and unfolded To pour myself out like a fluid Among bird feet and the stems of plants. I wasn't fooled. I knew you at once. Tree and stone glittered, without shadows. My finger-length grew lucent as glass. I started to bud like a March twig: An arm and a leg, and arm, a leg. From stone to cloud, so I ascended. Now I resemble a sort of god Floating through the air in my soul-shift Pure as a pane of ice. It's a gift.

It is a much wiser policy to plant acre after acre of orchids and lead one's life in solitude encompassed by their sheltering stems, than to surround oneself with the hoi polloi and so court the same pointless misanthropic disgust as befell Timon of Athens. Society is forever holding forth about fairness and justice. If it really believes these to be of such importance, it might do well to kill off a few dozen petty criminals per day, and use their carcasses to fertilize and give life to countless fields of flowers.

No storyteller is completely objective. But I have always tried to grasp every story through diverse angels, shifting perspectives, conflicting narratives. Truth is a rhizome — an underground plant stem with lateral shoots. You need to dig deep to reach it and, once unearthed, you have to treat it with respect.

I twirled it around in front of my eyes, going momentarily cross-eyed as I looked for any sign of roots. Of course it was much too soon, and I knew that there wouldn't be any, but I checked anyway, because I'm a checker by nature: lights, stoves, occasionally underneath beds, and, apparently, now plant stems. Life was getting complicated.

I'd watched my grandmother tend to her plants, pruning one stem at a time, and checking the soil's moisture with a finger. Like her plants, she bloomed with the sun and wouldn't even draw the curtains in her home. How could this dark hole be her path to heaven?

Miss Tox left her seat in a hurry, and returned to her plants; clipping among the stems and leaves, with as little favour as a barber working at so many pauper heads of hair.

I am a plant and I have a fragile green stem and my flower is still in the pod on the top of the stalk, unopened, when the dawn strolls in over the horizon. My blossom spreads out during the day and it goes into the pod at night and then it goes again the next day and all of the days.

the crunch too much too little too fat too thin or nobody. laughter or tears haters lovers strangers with faces like the backs of thumb tacks armies running through streets of blood waving winebottles bayoneting and fucking virgins. or an old guy in a cheap room with a photograph of M. Monroe. there is a loneliness in this world so great that you can see it in the slow movement of the hands of a clock. people so tired mutilated either by love or no love. people just are not good to each other one on one. the rich are not good to the rich the poor are not good to the poor. we are afraid. our educational system tells us that we can all be big-ass winners. it hasn’t told us about the gutters or the suicides. or the terror of one person aching in one place alone untouched unspoken to watering a plant. people are not good to each other. people are not good to each other. people are not good to each other. I suppose they never will be. I don’t ask them to be. but sometimes I think about it. the beads will swing the clouds will cloud and the killer will behead the child like taking a bite out of an ice cream cone. too much too little too fat too thin or nobody more haters than lovers. people are not good to each other. perhaps if they were our deaths would not be so sad. meanwhile I look at young girls stems flowers of chance. there must be a way. surely there must be a way we have not yet thought of. who put this brain inside of me? it cries it demands it says that there is a chance. it will not say “no.

Even animals of the same kind- two deer, two owls - will behave differently from each another. Even your daughter's pet hamsters, they all have their own ways. I have studies many plants. The leaves of one plant, on the same stem -none is exactly alike.On all the earth there is not one leaf exactly alike. The great spirit likes it that way. He only sketches out the path of life roughly for all the creatures on earth, shows them where to go ,where to arrive at , but leaves them to find their own way to get there.He wants them to act independently according to their nature , to the urge in each of them.

When Jim left the planet so suddenly, all of us who loved him, worked with him, were inspired by him, gathered in New York City. We were like dandelion seeds clinging to the stem and to each other. And on May 16th, [the day Jim died] the wind began to blow. There’s no stem any more. We’re all floating on the breeze. And it’s scary and exhilarating, and there’s nothing we can do about it. But gradually, we’ll all drift to the ground and plant ourselves. And no matter what we grow into, it’ll be influenced by Jim. We’re Jim’s seeds. And it’s not only those of us who knew him. Everyone who was touched by his work is a Jim-seed.

If you are exuberant by your own nature, if life has become exuberant, activity is just a consequence. But if your life is not exuberant, and you are trying to crank it up with activity, then activity is the means. This is the big difference. Either you dance and arrive at a certain state of exuberance, or because you are exuberant and you cannot contain it, you dance. Is it because there are flowers that the plant and the root came up like a support to the flower? Because there is a beautiful flower, this plant and its root grew, so that it can have a nice pedestal? Is that the way a flower happened? Because the exuberance in the stem could not be contained, it flowered, isn’t it? This is the way life should happen. If you try to live the other way, it is going to be a very hard life.

At first, he talked about the flowers in the garden behind his country house in Surrey. His voice still had its Midlands accent but was soft now and barely audible. He knew the plants by name and took a few minutes with each of them: ageratum, coreopsis, echinacea, rudbeckia. The yarrow, he said, had rose-red flowers on two-foot stems. Achillea millefolium, the plant Achilles used to heal wounds.

My heart has been broken a million times by the same hand, yet I would let it happen a million times again if it meant it was by you. I was weaker than I thought / my heart sagging like the stems of uncut, unkempt flowers because of the sunlight you held in your faraway heart / Maybe you weren't mine to love / I think I'm falling The wallpaper above her bed frame was glued in my brain the way it was glued against her walls / I got so close to running my fingers against it / I wish I felt the confidence to tell you the truth, as strongly as I felt stubborn to hide it Do you hear that? That's my heart knocking against my chest at the sight of you / I've never heard anything more terrifying / how could you provide me air and suffocate me at the same time? Blue hydrangeas, pink tulips, red bleeding hearts / it's all you ever loved, but never yourself / I never understood why anyone spoke poorly of the color brown, it was a dream on you And that kiss... I think about it all the time / was it wrong of me to think of you when you were never mine? / I feel lucky to have had you, but dismayed to know what life is like without you Don't worry if the flowers pass, I'll be right there to plant you more / and when the soil grows old, I'll comfort it in the chaos of the storm Am I a ghost in your story? / because you look at me with conviction when I don't even know the crime I committed Burden me with your secrets / so I can carry the weight you're so fearful of letting go To be close to you was to be haunted by what I couldn't have and to be reminded of how much I truly wanted you / and I'd be lying if I said I never thought about where my hands would take me across your body Midnights and daydreaming hours of retracing steps to how we possibly got here / how did I ever let time pass this long without seeing you? / my heart was so full of our memories that painted my body like a scrapbook I tried to stop loving you, but along the way, you found your way into the sound of my laugh, the style of my writing, and the threads of my clothes / I would've gone down on my knees just to hear you say yes Neck stiff, legs weak, eyes set on what we could've looked like if you hadn't left / 'moving on' was a broken record that I never had the strength to lift the needle off of / If hearts were meant to love then why did mine feel so empty? / and suddenly, I fell Glances, gazes, eyes following places they shouldn't have seen / intimacy was to be seen by you; free falling was to be touched by you / there was no such thing as a crowded room where you stood She lives in between the pinks and yellows of the world / where a beautiful color is unknown to others / and when she speaks, I become a bee enthralled in a field of daisies

Girls compete against each other, like the sunflowers my mom tried to plant in her garden, the ones that never grew. She planted them too close together and they all vied for the same sun, choked green stems and sulking yellow faces. Flora was wilting, and I was about to be in bloom.

People's relationships were like the growth cycle of a red spider lily, with new replacing the old. The stems of the plant couldn't bear the weight of the flowers, leaves, and fruit at the same time; just as the leaves died when the flowers bloomed, the flowers withered when the fruit came to bear.

She pulls on her heavy boots and carries the water bucket past the rose bushes, past the herb garden, and back to the barn behind the house. Her steps kick up the scents of herbs: thyme, mint, and lemon balm. The plants send up new stems each year from the roots that survived the winter and grew up again along the path. The perfumed walk is a mystical part of her world. Walking here is her favorite part of mornings. Sometimes, this is the highlight of her day.

Each spring for a period of weeks the imperial gardens were filled with prize tulips (Turkish, Dutch, Iranian), all of them shown to their best advantage. Tulips whose petals had flexed wide were held shut with fine threads hand-tied. Most of the bulbs had been grown in place, but these were supplemented by thousands of cut stems held in glass bottles; the scale of the display was further compounded by mirrors placed strategically around the garden. Each variety was marked with a label made from silver filigree. In place of every fourth flower a candle, its wick trimmed to tulip height, was set into the ground. Songbirds in gilded cages supplied the music, and hundreds of giant tortoises carrying candles on their backs lumbered through the gardens, further illuminating the display. All the guests were required to dress in colors that flattered those of the tulips. At the appointed moment a cannon sounded, the doors to the harem were flung open, and the sultan's mistresses stepped into the garden led by eunuchs bearing torches. The whole scene was repeated every night for as long as the tulips were in bloom, for as long as Sultan Ahmed managed to cling to his throne.

He had entered an endless subterranean cavern, where jeweled rocks loomed out of the spectral gloom like marine plants, the sprays of glass forming white fountains. Several times he crossed and recrossed the road. The spurs were almost waist-high, and he was forced to climb over the brittle stems. Once, as he rested against the trunk of a bifurcated oak, an immense multi-colored bird erupted from a bough over his head, and flew off with a wild screech, aureoles of light cascading from its red and yellow wings. At last the storm subsided, and a pale light filtered through the stained-glass canopy. Again, the forest was a place of rainbows, a deep, iridescent light glowing from within.

Of the plant of birth and death, the seed is Darkness, the sprout is the thought that body is Self, the shoot is rage, the sap is deeds, the body is the stem, the life-breaths are the branches, the tops are the bodily powers, sensuous things are the flowers, sorrow is the fruit, born of varied deeds and manifold; and the Life is the bird that eats the fruit.

Herbs? Herbs are from the leaves and stems of plants. Spices, on the other hand, are from the root, bark, and seeds.

Both outer and inner phenomena arise as a result of causes and conditions. Outer phenomena, the things of the physical world, arise in a series of seven steps. The texts use the example of a seed giving rise to a plant that gives rise to a fruit. The seven steps are: seed, sprout, leaflets, stemmed plant, bud, flower, fruit. Each stage succeeds the previous one in time and in order, each giving rise to the next.

In a rush, the world opened its mouth to her—and it was screaming. Everywhere—the air around her, the ground beneath her, the stars above—rippled with the soul-wrenching cries of hunger: the trees and bushes and plants all twisted and bent, their branches and stems clawing the sky in skeletal panic; the animals and insects, flying and crawling and burrowing, each frantic in its own way, searching incessantly to end the gnawing demand in its belly; the swarms of people, clotting the world, stuffing themselves only to beg for more, be it food or wealth or attention—all of them, desperate, insatiable. So very hungry. All of them, leeching on to her. Sucking her dry.

One morning she at last succeeded in helping him to the foot of the steps, trampling down the grass before him with her feet, and clearing a way for him through the briars, whose supple arms barred the last few yards. Then they slowly entered the wood of roses. It was indeed a very wood, with thickets of tall standard roses throwing out leafy clumps as big as trees, and enormous rose bushes impenetrable as copses of young oaks. Here, formerly, there had been a most marvellous collection of plants. But since the flower garden had been left in abandonment, everything had run wild, and a virgin forest had arisen, a forest of roses over-running the paths, crowded with wild offshoots, so mingled, so blended, that roses of every scent and hue seemed to blossom on the same stem. Creeping roses formed mossy carpets on the ground, while climbing roses clung to others like greedy ivy plants, and ascended in spindles of verdure, letting a shower of their loosened petals fall at the lightest breeze. Natural paths coursed through the wood — narrow footways, broad avenues, enchanting covered walks in which one strolled in the shade and scent. These led to glades and clearings, under bowers of small red roses, and between walls hung with tiny yellow ones. Some sunny nooks gleamed like green silken stuff embroidered with bright patterns; other shadier corners offered the seclusion of alcoves and an aroma of love, the balmy warmth, as it were, of a posy languishing on a woman’s bosom. The rose bushes had whispering voices too. And the rose bushes were full of songbirds’ nests. ‘We must take care not to lose ourselves,’ said Albine, as she entered the wood. ‘I did lose myself once, and the sun had set before I was able to free myself from the rose bushes which caught me by the skirt at every step.’ They had barely walked a few minutes, however, before Serge, worn out with fatigue, wished to sit down. He stretched himself upon the ground, and fell into deep slumber. Albine sat musing by his side. They were on the edge of a glade, near a narrow path which stretched away through the wood, streaked with flashes of sunlight, and, through a small round blue gap at its far end, revealed the sky. Other little paths led from the clearing into leafy recesses. The glade was formed of tall rose bushes rising one above the other with such a wealth of branches, such a tangle of thorny shoots, that big patches of foliage were caught aloft, and hung there tent-like, stretching out from bush to bush. Through the tiny apertures in the patches of leaves, which were suggestive of fine lace, the light

This afternoon, being on Fair Haven Hill, I heard the sound of a saw, and soon after from the Cliff saw two men sawing down a noble pine beneath, about forty rods off. I resolved to watch it till it fell, the last of a dozen or more which were left when the forest was cut and for fifteen years have waved in solitary majesty over the sprout-land. I saw them like beavers or insects gnawing at the trunk of this noble tree, the diminutive manikins with their cross-cut saw which could scarcely span it. It towered up a hundred feet as I afterward found by measurement, one of the tallest probably in the township and straight as an arrow, but slanting a little toward the hillside, its top seen against the frozen river and the hills of Conantum. I watch closely to see when it begins to move. Now the sawers stop, and with an axe open it a little on the side toward which it leans, that it may break the faster. And now their saw goes again. Now surely it is going; it is inclined one quarter of the quadrant, and, breathless, I expect its crashing fall. But no, I was mistaken; it has not moved an inch; it stands at the same angle as at first. It is fifteen minutes yet to its fall. Still its branches wave in the wind, as it were destined to stand for a century, and the wind soughs through its needles as of yore; it is still a forest tree, the most majestic tree that waves over Musketaquid. The silvery sheen of the sunlight is reflected from its needles; it still affords an inaccessible crotch for the squirrel’s nest; not a lichen has forsaken its mast-like stem, its raking mast,—the hill is the hulk. Now, now’s the moment! The manikins at its base are fleeing from their crime. They have dropped the guilty saw and axe. How slowly and majestic it starts! as it were only swayed by a summer breeze, and would return without a sigh to its location in the air. And now it fans the hillside with its fall, and it lies down to its bed in the valley, from which it is never to rise, as softly as a feather, folding its green mantle about it like a warrior, as if, tired of standing, it embraced the earth with silent joy, returning its elements to the dust again. But hark! there you only saw, but did not hear. There now comes up a deafening crash to these rocks , advertising you that even trees do not die without a groan. It rushes to embrace the earth, and mingle its elements with the dust. And now all is still once more and forever, both to eye and ear. I went down and measured it. It was about four feet in diameter where it was sawed, about one hundred feet long. Before I had reached it the axemen had already divested it of its branches. Its gracefully spreading top was a perfect wreck on the hillside as if it had been made of glass, and the tender cones of one year’s growth upon its summit appealed in vain and too late to the mercy of the chopper. Already he has measured it with his axe, and marked off the mill-logs it will make. And the space it occupied in upper air is vacant for the next two centuries. It is lumber. He has laid waste the air. When the fish hawk in the spring revisits the banks of the Musketaquid, he will circle in vain to find his accustomed perch, and the hen-hawk will mourn for the pines lofty enough to protect her brood. A plant which it has taken two centuries to perfect, rising by slow stages into the heavens, has this afternoon ceased to exist. Its sapling top had expanded to this January thaw as the forerunner of summers to come. Why does not the village bell sound a knell? I hear no knell tolled. I see no procession of mourners in the streets, or the woodland aisles. The squirrel has leaped to another tree; the hawk has circled further off, and has now settled upon a new eyrie, but the woodman is preparing [to] lay his axe at the root of that also.

If a girl were asked which part of a plant she would be, would any choose the root? Blindly clutching the dark earth, never seeing sun nor feeling wind? Toiling there to feed the stem and flower with never a thank-you from them? And who would choose to be the thorn? Thorns protect the plant from pluckers, but who gives honor to them? Nay, any girl would choose to be the bud, opening to the sun, fragrant and beautiful, tickled by bees and butterflies, and looked upon with love.

Her mother was peaceful. She was calm. The sight filled Alice with the kind of green hope she found at the bottom of rock pools at low tide but never managed to cup in her hands. The more time she spent with her mother in the garden, the more deeply Alice understood- from the tilt of Agnes's wrist when she inspected a new bud, to the light that reached her eyes when she lifted her chin, and the thin rings of dirt that encircled her fingers as she coaxed new fern fronds from the soil- the truest parts of her mother bloomed among her plants. Especially when she talked to the flowers. Her eyes glazed over and she mumbled in a secret language, a word here, a phrase there as she snapped flowers off their stems and tucked into her pockets. Sorrowful remembrance, she'd say as she plucked a bindweed flower from its vine. Love, returned. The citrusy scent of lemon myrtle would fill the air as she tore it from a branch. Pleasures of memory. Her mother pocketed a scarlet palm of kangaroo paw.

A man is enriched by the faith, and if you will by the hope and humility, with which he calls on the most sweet Name of Our Lord Jesus Christ; and he is enriched also by peace and love. For these are truly a three-stemmed life-giving tree planted by God.

The Yamato spirit is not a tame, tender plant, but a wild--in the sense of natural--growth; it is indigenous to the soil; its accidental qualities it may share with the flowers of other lands, but in its essence it remains the original, spontaneous outgrowth of our clime. But its nativity is not its sole claim to our affection. The refinement and grace of its beauty appeal to our æsthetic sense as no other flower can. We cannot share the admiration of the Europeans for their roses, which lack the simplicity of our flower. Then, too, the thorns that are hidden beneath the sweetness of the rose, the tenacity with which she clings to life, as though loth or afraid to die rather than drop untimely, preferring to rot on her stem; her showy colours and heavy odours--all these are traits so unlike our flower, which carries no dagger or poison under its beauty, which is ever ready to depart life at the call of nature, whose colours are never gorgeous, and whose light fragrance never palls. Beauty of colour and of form is limited in its showing; it is a fixed quality of existence, whereas fragrance is volatile, ethereal as the breathing of life. So in all religious ceremonies frankincense and myrrh play a prominent part. There is something spirituelle in redolence. When the delicious perfume of the sakura quickens the morning air, as the sun in its course rises to illumine first the isles of the Far East, few sensations are more serenely exhilarating than to inhale, as it were, the very breath of beauteous day.

But even more than by the filth of its organs, the flower is betrayed by the fragility of its corolla: thus, far from answering the demands of human ideas, it is the sign of their failure. In fact, after a very short period of glory the marvelous corolla rots indecently in the sun, thus becoming, for the plant, a garish withering. Risen from the stench of the manure pile---even though it seemed for a moment to have escaped it in a flight of angelic and lyrical purity---the flower seems to relapse abruptly into its original squalor: the most ideal is rapidly reduced to a wisp of aerial manure. For flowers do not age honestly like leaves, which lose nothing of their beauty, even after they have died; flowers wither like old and overly made-up dowagers, and they die ridiculously on stems that seemed to carry them to the clouds.

Flannel flower Meaning:What is lost is found Actinotus helianthi | New South Wales The stem, branches and leaves of the plant are a pale grey, covered in downy hair, and flannel-like in texture. Pretty, daisy-shaped flower heads bloom in spring, though flowering may be profuse after bushfires.

Names are the way we humans build relationship, not only with each other but with the living world. I’m trying to imagine what it would be like going through life not knowing the names of the plants and animals around you. Given who I am and what I do, I can’t know what that’s like, but I think it would be a little scary and disorienting—like being lost in a foreign city where you can’t read the street signs. Philosophers call this state of isolation and disconnection “species loneliness”—a deep, unnamed sadness stemming from estrangement from the rest of Creation, from the loss of relationship.

Alice thought the supposedly toxic plant seemed perfectly harmless. The flowers resembled bell-shaped slippers, grouped in satisfying lines that hung from the main stalk as though weighted from their centers. "This one? It's actually quite pretty." "Isn't it?" "The previous owner must have loved it. There's quite a lot." Alice noted aside from the bunch in front of her, it grew in two other spots in the garden. "It seems she did," Sally said. "The plant also has another name; maybe you've heard of it? Digitalis purpurea." "Doesn't sound familiar." "They use foxgloves to make digitalis, the heart medication." Sally put her glove back on. "But touching any part of the plant- leaves, flower, stem- with bare hands can cause a whole host of trouble.

Sometimes you’ll have a healthy plant where a stem or leaves have died. The plant’s instinct is to divert all of its energy to restoring the lost parts, which inhibits its growth. And so, as the gardener, you have to cut those pieces away so that there can be new leaves, new flowers, new life. Sometimes you have to brush away the parts of your life that no longer serve you so that you can move forward.

Many different kinds of sprouts lay torn. Green, purple and orange leaves lay scattered across the dark soil, and the thorn fence surrounding the bed had a fist-sized hole in it. Teacher eased himself into a squat, poked at the inside of the hole. Whatever made the hole had left blood on the thorns. The sprouts looked like wispy ghosts, pale and broken. Their delicate leaves and stems were riddled with bites. Life drained out of them like water dripping from a hanging cloth, and a breeze made them dance sadly. It felt like a funeral. Teacher picked up a gnawed berry and gently squeezed it until purple juice dripped down his thumb. He placed the berry by the plant’s roots. Chandi’s small face bunched up. “Are they dead?” “They’re dying, yes.” Yuvali took her hand. “But their bodies will help other plants grow.

He hopes the plant doesn't freeze to death before he can give it to her. He pictures her face when she opens the bag and sees it. A whole load of dark purple flowers stuck onto a tiny bendy stem like a bunch of butterflies about to fly off. Exposed roots like knobbly toes climbing over the rim of the plastic pot as if the whole thing is planning to get out and do a runner first chance it gets. It's a moth orchid.

He hopes the plants doesn't freeze to death before he can give it to her. He pictures her face when she opens the bag and sees it. A whole load of dark purple flowers stuck onto a tiny bendy stem like a bunch of butterflies about to fly off. Exposed roots like knobbly toes climbing over the rim of the plastic pot as if the whole thing is planning to get out and do a runner first chance it gets. It's a moth orchid.

Mosses are often described by what they lack, in comparison to the more familiar higher plants. They lack flowers, fruits, and seeds and have no roots. They have no vascular system, no xylem and phloem to conduct water internally. They are the most simple of plants, and in their simplicity, elegant. With just a few rudimentary components of stem and leaf, evolution has produced some 22,000 species of moss worldwide.

Once alone with Kestrel, Arin drew the plant out of his pocket: a handful of green with a wirelike stem and slender-tipped leaves. He set it on the table before her. Her eyes flashed, became jewels of joy. It was treasure, the way she looked at him. “Thank you,” she breathed. “I should have searched for it sooner,” he said. “You shouldn’t have had to ask.” He touched three fingers to the back of her hand, the Herrani gesture that could acknowledge thanks for a gift, but could also be used to ask forgiveness. Kestrel’s hand was smooth. Glistening, as if it had been oiled. She drew it back. She changed. Arin saw her change, saw the happiness bleed out of her. She said, “What do I owe you for this?” “Nothing,” he said quickly, confused. Didn’t he owe her? Hadn’t she fought for him once? Hadn’t he used her trust to upend her world?

On every trip to Kya's, Tate took school or library books, especially on marsh creatures and biology. Her progress was startling. She could read anything now, her said, and once you can read anything you can learn everything. It was up to her. "Nobody's come close to filling their brains," he said. "We're all like giraffes not using their necks to reach the higher leaves." Alone for hours, by the light of the lantern, Kya read how plants and animals change over time to adjust to the ever-shifting earth; how some cells divide and specialize into lungs or hearts, while others remain uncommitted as stem cells in case they're needed later. Birds sing mostly at dawn because the cool, moist air of morning carries their songs and their meanings much farther. All her life, she'd seen these marvels at eye level, so nature's ways came easily to her.

People sometimes say that sorrow is mental but longing is physical. One is a wound, the other an amputated limb, a withered petal compared to a snapped stem. Anything that grows closely enough to what it loves will eventually share the same roots. We can talk about loss, we can treat it and give it time, but biology still forces us to live according to certain rules: plants that are split down the middle don't heal, they die.

Dandelions were known as the elixir of life. Every part of them was edible—flower, stem, leaf, and root—and they were one of the most nutritional plants known to humans, containing fiber, protein, antioxidants, vitamins, and minerals. Although dandelion tea was good for nearly everything that ailed you, the most powerful benefit of dandelions was that if properly processed, their leaf and root extract fought the growth of cancer cells.

By Mendel’s time, plant breeding had progressed to a point where every region boasted dozens of local varieties of peas, not to mention beans, lettuce, strawberries, carrots, wheat, tomatoes, and scores of other crops. People may not have known about genetics, but everyone understood that plants (and animals) could be changed dramatically through selective breeding. A single species of weedy coastal mustard, for example, eventually gave rise to more than half a dozen familiar European vegetables. Farmers interested in tasty leaves turned it into cabbages, collard greens, and kale. Selecting plants with edible side buds and flower shoots produced Brussels sprouts, cauliflower, and broccoli, while nurturing a fattened stem produced kohlrabi. In some cases, improving a crop was as simple as saving the largest seeds, but other situations required real sophistication. Assyrians began meticulously hand-pollinating date palms more than 4,000 years ago, and as early as the Shang Dynasty (1766–1122 BC), Chinese winemakers had perfected a strain of millet that required protection from cross-pollination. Perhaps no culture better expresses the instinctive link between growing plants and studying them than the Mende people of Sierra Leone, whose verb for “experiment” comes from the phrase “trying out new rice.

What is man? and what difference is there between him and other plants, between him and all the other animals of the world? None, obviously. Fortuitously placed, like them, upon this globe, he is born like them; like them, he reproduces, rises, and falls; like them he arrives at old age and sinks like them into nothingness at the close of the life span Nature assigns each species of animal, in accordance with its organic construction. Since the parallels are so exact that the inquiring eye of philosophy is absolutely unable to perceive any grounds for discrimination, there is then just as much evil in killing animals as men, or just as little, and whatever be the distinctions we make, they will be found to stem from our pride's prejudices, than which, unhappily, nothing is more absurd. If all individuals were possessed of eternal life, would it not become impossible for Nature to create any new ones? If Nature denies eternity to beings, it follows that their destruction is one of her laws. Now, once we observe that destruction is so useful to her that she absolutely cannot dispense with it, and that she cannot achieve her creations without drawing from the store of destruction which death prepares for her, from this moment onward the idea of annihilation which we attach to death ceases to be real; there is no more veritable annihilation; what we call the end of the living animal is no longer a true finis, but a simple transformation, a transmutation of matter, what every modern philosopher acknowledges as one of Nature's fundamental laws. According to these irrefutable principles, death is hence no more than a change of form, an imperceptible passage from one existence into another, and that is what Pythagoras called metempsychosis

Trees stand at the heart of ecology, and they must come to stand at the heart of human politics. Tagore said, Trees are the earth’s endless effort to speak to the listening heaven. But people—oh, my word—people! People could be the heaven that the Earth is trying to speak to. “If we could see green, we’d see a thing that keeps getting more interesting the closer we get. If we could see what green was doing, we’d never be lonely or bored. If we could understand green, we’d learn how to grow all the food we need in layers three deep, on a third of the ground we need right now, with plants that protected one another from pests and stress. If we knew what green wanted, we wouldn’t have to choose between the Earth’s interests and ours. They’d be the same!” One more click takes her to the next slide, a giant fluted trunk covered in red bark that ripples like muscle. “To see green is to grasp the Earth’s intentions. So consider this one. This tree grows from Colombia to Costa Rica. As a sapling, it looks like a piece of braided hemp. But if it finds a hole in the canopy, the sapling shoots up into a giant stem with flaring buttresses.” She turns to regard the image over her shoulder. It’s the bell of an enormous angel’s trumpet, plunged into the Earth. So many miracles, so much awful beauty. How can she leave so perfect a place? “Did you know that every broadleaf tree on Earth has flowers? Many mature species flower at least once a year. But this tree, Tachigali versicolor, this one flowers only once. Now, suppose you could have sex only once in your entire life. . . .” The room laughs now. She can’t hear, but she can smell their nerves. Her switchback trail through the woods is twisting again. They can’t tell where their guide is going. “How can a creature survive, by putting everything into a one-night stand? Tachigali versicolor’s act is so quick and decisive that it boggles me. You see, within a year of its only flowering, it dies.” She lifts her eyes. The room fills with wary smiles for the weirdness of this thing, nature. But her listeners can’t yet tie her rambling keynote to anything resembling home repair. “It turns out that a tree can give away more than its food and medicines. The rain forest canopy is thick, and wind-borne seeds never land very far from their parent. Tachigali’s once-in-a-lifetime offspring germinate right away, in the shadow of giants who have the sun locked up. They’re doomed, unless an old tree falls. The dying mother opens a hole in the canopy, and its rotting trunk enriches the soil for new seedlings. Call it the ultimate parental sacrifice. The common name for Tachigali versicolor is the suicide tree.

If a fountain could jet bouquets of chrome yellow in dazzling arches of chrysanthemum fireworks, that would be Canada Goldenrod. Each three-foot stem is a geyser of tiny gold daisies, ladylike in miniature, exuberant en masse. Where the soil is damp enough, they stand side by side with their perfect counterpart, New England Asters. Not the pale domesticates of the perennial border, the weak sauce of lavender or sky blue, but full-on royal purple that would make a violet shrink. The daisylike fringe of purple petals surrounds a disc as bright as the sun at high noon, a golden-orange pool, just a tantalizing shade darker than the surrounding goldenrod. Alone, each is a botanical superlative. Together, the visual effect is stunning. Purple and gold, the heraldic colors of the king and queen of the meadow, a regal procession in complementary colors. I just wanted to know why. In composing a palette, putting them together makes each more vivid; just a touch of one will bring out the other. In an 1890 treatise on color perception, Goethe, who was both a scientist and a poet, wrote that “the colors diametrically opposed to each other . . . are those which reciprocally evoke each other in the eye.” Purple and yellow are a reciprocal pair. Growing together, both receive more pollinator visits than they would if they were growing alone. It’s a testable hypothesis; it’s a question of science, a question of art, and a question of beauty. Why are they beautiful together? It is a phenomenon simultaneously material and spiritual, for which we need all wavelengths, for which we need depth perception. When I stare too long at the world with science eyes, I see an afterimage of traditional knowledge. Might science and traditional knowledge be purple and yellow to one another, might they be goldenrod and asters? We see the world more fully when we use both. The question of goldenrod and asters was of course just emblematic of what I really wanted to know. It was an architecture of relationships, of connections that I yearned to understand. I wanted to see the shimmering threads that hold it all together. And I wanted to know why we love the world, why the most ordinary scrap of meadow can rock us back on our heels in awe.

a .22 shell is used to fire stainless-steel projectiles dipped in a DNA solution at a stem or leaf of the target plant. If all goes well, some of the DNA will pierce the wall of some of the cells’ nuclei and elbow its way into the double helix: a bully breaking into a line dance. If the new DNA happens to land in the right place—and no one yet knows what, or where, that place is—the plant grown from that cell will express the new gene. That’s it? That’s it.

What do you know of love? You've been watching too many Hindi movies. Love is something you grow into over the years. Love is like a plant. It needs time and effort to raise it. You need to let the roots grow deep and strong before the stem is thick enough to support the leaves and branches. Only when the plant is full grown do you get the flowers and fruit of love. Your love is just a seedling. Ignore it and it will die away. You're mistaking lust for love.

Suddenly I was struck by the heavy fragrance of flowers. On the other side there was a garden about the size of a small room, a plot of ground raised by fill to the height of our belts. And full of flowers. A special, luxuriant flora. Long stemmed, with horn-shaped flowers whose petals were like black velvet. In one corner, a bush like a lily, arrayed with giant white blossoms like goblets. And scattered through that garden, thin-stemmed plants with white flowers marked by a single pink petal. It seemed that these gave off an exotic sweetness that cloyed and choked. In the midst of it all a bunch of fat crimson flowers lay tumbled, their silky, fleshy blossoms dipping down among the long stems of furious green grasses. This small, magical plot seemed a kaleidoscope. Just in front of my eyes purple irises bloomed up. A myriad fragrances mingled in its dazzling scent, and every hue of the rainbow glowed from those flowers.

Fermentation and sprouting are crucial for one simple reason: Plants didn’t evolve with the idea that they should be good to eat. In fact, plants spend a great deal of energy thwarting overzealous grazers and other creatures that would gladly eat them into oblivion. Not as helpless as they may seem, plants protect their foliage, stems, seeds, roots, and to a lesser degree even their fruits, with natural insecticides and bitter toxins that make some plants unsafe for human consumption.

We walked among the different plants and by using The Book, we did our best to identify them and understand how to use them. Some were easy- spearmint, "for refreshment, strength, and healing," and rosemary, "for remembrance, and the prevention of nightmares." We also found a swathe of sage, which could be used "to cultivate wisdom and intelligence." When I came across a bunch of plants with dark green leaves and tiny white flowers, it took us quite a while to identify it by its drawing in The Book: gotu kola, an herb that could "restore the senses and clear confusion." "Oh, look at this one," I said. "Saffron, for success. I should probably bake with that." "If only it grew here," said Vik. Finally, on the bank of a small stream, we found gigantic thyme stems, almost two feet tall and topped with plump clusters of purple flowers. "What's thyme good for?" I asked Vik as I plucked a dozen stems and inhaled their herbaceous scent. "Thyme attracts affection, loyalty, and the goodwill of others," read Vik, "and can foster strength and courage when needed.

Years ago, when she'd studied the constructions of stem, blade, stamen, ovule, she loved the infinite possibilities of the plant kingdom- but she had been interested in color, scent, presentation: the beautiful names- cloth-of-gold crocus; ash-leaved trumpet, star-of-Bethlehem; meadow saffron- the loveliness of a blown field of asters or irises, a ring of roses to bed a wedding cake, the careful depiction of a peony in cross section on the page, a gentian constructed in icing. She knew all about beauty and almost nothing of utility.

Alone for hours, by the light of the lantern, Kya read how plants and animals change over time to adjust to the ever-shifting earth; how some cells divide and specialize into lungs or hearts, while others remain uncommitted as stem cells in case they’re needed later. Birds sing mostly at dawn because the cool, moist air of morning carries their songs and their meanings much farther. All her life, she’d seen these marvels at eye level, so nature’s ways came easily to her. Within all the worlds of biology, she searched for an explanation of why a mother would leave her offspring.

We cannot take leave of the aquatic plants without briefly mentioning the life of the most romantic of them all: the legendary Val­lisneria, an Hydrocharad whose nuptials form the most tragic episode in the love-history of the flowers. The Vallisneria is a rather insignificant herb, possess­ing none of the strange grace of the Water-lily or of certain submersed comas. But it seems as though nature had delighted in giving it a beautiful idea. The whole existence of the little plant is spent at the bottom of the water, in a sort of half-slumber, until the moment of the wedding-hour in which it aspires to a new life. Then the female flower slowly uncoils the long spiral of its peduncle, rises, emerges and floats and blossoms on the sur­face of the pond. From a neighbouring stem, the male flowers, which see it through the sunlit water, soar in their turn, full of hope, towards the one that rocks, that awaits them, that calls them to a magic world. But, when they have come half-way, they feel themselves suddenly held back: their stalk, the very source of their life, is too short; they will never reach the abode of light, the only spot in which the union of the stamens and the pistil can be achieved! .

Agnes has a patch of land at Hewlands, leased from her brother, stretching from the house where she was born to the forest. She keeps bees here, in hemp-woven skeps, which hum with industrious and absorbed life; there are rows of herbs, flowers, plants, stems that wind up supporting twigs. Agnes’s witch garden, her stepmother calls it, with a roll of her eyes. Agnes can be seen, most weeks, moving up and down the rows of these plants, pulling up weeds, laying her hand to the coils of her hives, pruning stems here and there, secreting certain blooms, leaves, pods, petals, seeds in a leather bag at her hip.

On this bald hill the new year hones its edge. Faceless and pale as china The round sky goes on minding its business. Your absence is inconspicuous; Nobody can tell what I lack. Gulls have threaded the river’s mud bed back To this crest of grass. Inland, they argue, Settling and stirring like blown paper Or the hands of an invalid. The wan Sun manages to strike such tin glints From the linked ponds that my eyes wince And brim; the city melts like sugar. A crocodile of small girls Knotting and stopping, ill-assorted, in blue uniforms, Opens to swallow me. I’m a stone, a stick, One child drops a carrette of pink plastic; None of them seem to notice. Their shrill, gravelly gossip’s funneled off. Now silence after silence offers itself. The wind stops my breath like a bandage. Southward, over Kentish Town, an ashen smudge Swaddles roof and tree. It could be a snowfield or a cloudbank. I suppose it’s pointless to think of you at all. Already your doll grip lets go. The tumulus, even at noon, guargs its black shadow: You know me less constant, Ghost of a leaf, ghost of a bird. I circle the writhen trees. I am too happy. These faithful dark-boughed cypresses Brood, rooted in their heaped losses. Your cry fades like the cry of a gnat. I lose sight of you on your blind journey, While the heath grass glitters and the spindling rivulets Unpool and spend themselves. My mind runs with them, Pooling in heel-prints, fumbling pebble and stem. The day empties its images Like a cup of a room. The moon’s crook whitens, Thin as the skin seaming a scar. Now, on the nursery wall, The blue night plants, the little pale blue hill In your sister’s birthday picture start to glow. The orange pompons, the Egyptian papyrus Light up. Each rabbit-eared Blue shrub behind the glass Exhales an indigo nimbus, A sort of cellophane balloon. The old dregs, the old difficulties take me to wife. Gulls stiffen to their chill vigil in the drafty half-light; I enter the lit house.

From an innovative trio of Dutch, Finnish, and German designers comes a unique concept: a typeface with not one, but three italics. First, the roman: a sprightly, monolinear Humanist. Where Cronos feels like careful calligraphy, Auto is quick writing — the clear but energetic marks of a lively pen. The italics — labeled as Auto 1, 2, and 3 — offer increasingly expressive forms. The progression is like the growth of a plant, starting with basic stems that grow from buds into long vines that visibly overlap where they change direction, and that then extend to long swashes. The three options let users choose the level of embellishment while retaining the type’s basic weight and constitution. This is the same character playing

The Little Peach" A little peach in the orchard grew,— A little peach of emerald hue; Warmed by the sun and wet by the dew, It grew. One day, passing that orchard through, That little peach dawned on the view Of Johnny Jones and his sister Sue— Them two. Up at that peach a club they threw— Down from the stem on which it grew Fell that peach of emerald hue. Mon Dieu! John took a bite and Sue a chew, And then the trouble began to brew,— Trouble the doctor couldn't subdue. Too true! Under the turf where the daisies grew They planted John and his sister Sue, And their little souls to the angels flew,— Boo hoo! What of that peach of the emerald hue, Warmed by the sun, and wet by the dew? Ah, well, its mission on earth is through. Adieu!

Can you imagine one hundred million years? Every summer for the whole life of that plant, its leaves caught what light they could and transformed the sun’s energy into itself. Into bark, twigs, stems. Because plants eat light, in much the way we eat food. But then the plant died and fell, probably into water, and decayed into peat, and the peat was folded inside the earth for years upon years—eons in which something like a month or a decade or even your whole life was just a puff of air, a snap of two fingers. And eventually the peat dried and became like stone, and someone dug it up, and the coal man brought it to your house, and maybe you yourself carried it to the stove, and now that sunlight—sunlight one hundred million years old—is heating your home tonight …

So what is the solution for those who are struggling with the process of maintaining a positive mental attitude? Keep at it! If you plant a seed in the ground and water it every day, it starts to grow towards the surface. If you don’t know and trust that this seed is growing, you will doubt whether anything at all is happening underneath the surface. You may start to say: “I don’t believe in this! I water this piece of ground every day but I never see any results for all my hard work!” Part of life is trusting that if you put in the effort, the outcome is already happening with your very intention and then your action. Eventually, one day, that little plant breaks through the soil with its green, new stem. And from there, you watch it grow stronger and more vital every day (as long as you keep looking after it and watering it!).

John scrambled up and down the terraces and banks, hunting out the secret breaks in the thickets or crawling through hollows woven from sharp-spined stems. Blackberries lured him into sun-pricked chambers. Old byways closed and new ones opened, drifts of nettles surging forward then dying back. The sun beat down until the grass on the green parched. But on the high slopes the rank stems sprang up as lush as ever. Springs ran beneath the turf, his mother told him. Enough water to fill a river. Together they pulled peppery watercress from the edges of marshy puddles and grubbed up tiny sweet carrots, dark purple under the dusty earth. Clover petals yielded honey-beads and jellylike mallow seeds savored of nuts. Tiny strawberries sheltered under ragged leaves and sweet blackberries swelled behind palisades of finger-pricking thorns.

However, there is one fundamental feature of the sexes which can be used to label males as males, and females as females, throughout animals and plants. This is that the sex cells or ‘gametes’ of males are much smaller and more numerous than the gametes of females. This is true whether we are dealing with animals or plants. One group of individuals has large sex cells, and it is convenient to use the word female for them. The other group, which it is convenient to call male, has small sex cells. The difference is especially pronounced in reptiles and in birds, where a single egg cell is big enough and nutritious enough to feed a developing baby for several weeks. Even in humans, where the egg is microscopic, it is still many times larger than the sperm. As we shall see, it is possible to interpret all the other differences between the sexes as stemming from this one basic difference.

Freddy and his brother Tesoro have not seen each other in five years, and they sit at the kitchen table in Freddy's house and have a jalapeno contest. A large bowl of big green and orange jalapeno peppers sit between the two brothers. A saltshaker and two small glasses of beer accompany this feast. When Tesoro nods his head, the two men begin to eat the raw jalapenos. The contest is to see which man can eat more peppers. It is a ritual from their father, but the two brothers tried it only once, years ago. Both quit after two peppers and laughed it off. This time, things are different. They are older and have to prove a point. Freddy eats his first one more slowly than Tesoro, who takes to bites to finish his and is now on his second. Neither says anything, though a close study of each man's face would tell you the sudden burst of jalapeno energy does not waste time in changing the eater's perception of reality. Freddy works on his second as Tesoro rips into his fourth. Freddy is already sweating from his head and is surprised to see that Tesoro's fat face has not shanged its steady, consuming look. Tesoro's long, black hair is neatly combed, and not one bead of sweat has popped out. He is the first to sip from the beer before hitting his fifth jalapeno. Freddy leans back as the table begins to sway in his damp vision. He coughs, and a sharp pain rips through his chest. Tesoro attempts to laugh at his brother, but Freddy sees it is something else. As Freddy finishes his third jalapeno, Tesoro begins to breathe faster upon swallowing his sixth. The contest momentarily stops as both brothers shift in their seats and the sweat pours down their faces. Freddy clutches his stomach as he reaches for his fourth delight. Tesor has not taken his seventh, and it is clear to Freddy that his brother is suffering big-time. There is a bright blue bird sitting on Tesoro's head, and Tesoro is struggling to laugh because Freddy has a huge red spider crawling on top of his head. Freddy wipes the sweat from his eyes and finishes his fourth pepper. Tesoro sips more beer, sprinkles salt on the tip of his jalapeno, and bites it down to the stem. Freddy, who has not touched his beer, stares in amazement as two Tesoros sit in front of him. They both rise hastily, their beer guts pushing the table against Freddy, who leans back as the two Tesoros waver in the kitchen light. Freddy hears a tremendous fart erupt from his brother, who sits down again. Freddy holds his fifth jalapeno and can't breathe. Tesoro's face is purple, but the blue bird has been replaced by a burning flame of light that weaves over Tesoro's shiny head. Freddy is convinced that he is having a heart attack as he watches his brother fight for breath. Freddy bites into his fifth as Tesoro flips his eighth jalapeno into his mouth, stem and all. This is it. Freddy goes into convulsions and drops to the floor as he tries to reach for his glass of beer. He shakes on the dirty floor as the huge animal that is Tesoro pitches forward and throws up millions of jalapeno seeds all over the table. The last thing Freddy sees before he passes out is his brother's body levitating above the table as an angel, dressed in green jalapeno robes, floats into the room, extends a hand to Tesoro, and floats away with him. When Freddy wakes up minutes later, he gets up and makes it to the bathroom before his body lets go through his pants. As he reaches the bathroom door, he turns and gazes upon the jalapeno plants growing healthy and large on the kitchen table, thick peppers hanging under their leaves, their branches immersed in the largest pile of jalapeno seeds Freddy has ever seen.

The problem was that I have never been able to do harm to a book. Even books I don’t want, or books that are so worn out and busted that they can’t be read any longer, cling to me like thistles. I pile them up with the intention of throwing them away, and then, every time, when the time comes, I can’t. I am happy if I can give them away or donate them. But I can’t throw a book in the trash, no matter how hard I try. At the last minute, something glues my hands to my sides, and a sensation close to revulsion rises up in me. Many times, I have stood over a trash can, holding a book with a torn cover and a broken binding, and I have hovered there, dangling the book, and finally, I have let the trash can lid snap shut and I have walked away with the goddamn book—a battered, dog-eared, wounded soldier that has been spared to live another day. The only thing that comes close to this feeling is what I experience when I try to throw out a plant, even if it is the baldest, most aphid-ridden, crooked-stemmed plant in the world. The sensation of dropping a living thing into the trash is what makes me queasy. To have that same feeling about a book might seem strange, but this is why I have come to believe that books have souls—why else would I be so reluctant to throw one away? It doesn’t matter that I know I’m throwing away a bound, printed block of paper that is easily reproduced. It doesn’t feel like that. A book feels like a thing alive in this moment, and also alive on a continuum, from the moment the thoughts about it first percolated in the writer’s mind to the moment it sprang off the printing press—a lifeline that continues as someone sits with it and marvels over it, and it continues on, time after time after time. Once words and thoughts are poured into them, books are no longer just paper and ink and glue: They take on a kind of human vitality.

To me, the forest is simply green and vast, but Huia knows exactly what she's looking for and points things out from a distance. But slowly I learn. I distinguish devil's club and stinging nettles and salmonberry. I spot the hummingbirds that dart and quiver around pink flowers. I spy a patch of fiddleheads and start plucking before Huia warns me to take only a few so the plant can keep growing for next season. I am the student. The fiddleheads are aptly named, shaped just like the top of a violin, and soon Huia declares her basket "full enough" of them. We dawdle through the forest, aimlessly it seems to me, though she appears to know exactly where she is, pausing every now and then to watch birds and pick flowers. We sit on a log that's sprouting soft, hopeful ferns, a "nurse log," Huia calls it, and I show her how to make a crown of daisies. She gets me to make the slits in the stems with my nails and then weaves one for me too.

That all plants immediately and substantially stem from the element water alone I have learnt from the following experiment. I took an earthern vessel in which I placed two hundred pounds of earth dried in an oven, and watered with rain water. I planted in it a willow tree weighing five pounds. Five years later it had developed a tree weighing one hundred and sixty-nine pounds and about three ounces. Nothing but rain (or distilled water) had been added. The large vessel was placed in earth and covered by an iron lid with a tin-surface that was pierced with many holes. I have not weighed the leaves that came off in the four autumn seasons. Finally I dried the earth in the vessel again and found the same two hundred pounds of it diminished by about two ounces. Hence one hundred and sixty-four pounds of wood, bark and roots had come up from water alone. (1648) [A diligent experiment that was quantitatively correct only as far as it goes. He overlooked the essential role of air and photosynthesis in the growth process]

He opened his hand, and inside was a tiny lavender-colored flower with a small stem. "Well, well, well. Look what we have here. Mr. Exley left us a present. Cichorium intybus. Chicory. The plant of freedom and one of the nine plants. He used it to get out of the basement, and then he left us a cutting as a courtesy. Your Mr. Exley has a good sense of humor." "He's not my Mr. Exley." "Unimportant. This little petal tells us how he got out of here." "He broke a deadbolt with a flower petal?" "In a sense, yes. Cichorium intybus is a perennial related to the dandelion. It's cultivated in England and Ireland and from Nova Scotia to Florida and west to the plains. It is not cultivated here, in South America. He brought it with him!" "For what?" "For its magical properties. The plant has a long, thick taproot filled with a bitter milky-white juice. The ancient Egyptians believed that if the juice is rubbed on the body it promotes invisibility, and removal of obstacles. The Mayans called it the plant of freedom, for the same reason.

different plants became selected for quite different or even opposite features. Some plants (like sunflowers) were selected for much bigger seeds, while others (like bananas) were selected for tiny or even nonexistent seeds. Lettuce was selected for luxuriant leaves at the expense of seeds or fruit; wheat and sunflowers, for seeds at the expense of leaves; and squash, for fruit at the expense of leaves. Especially instructive are cases in which a single wild plant species was variously selected for different purposes and thereby gave rise to quite different-looking crops. Beets, grown already in Babylonian times for their leaves (like the modern beet varieties called chards), were then developed for their edible roots and finally (in the 18th century) for their sugar content (sugar beets). Ancestral cabbage plants, possibly grown originally for their oily seeds, underwent even greater diversification as they became variously selected for leaves (modern cabbage and kale), stems (kohlrabi), buds (brussels sprouts), or flower shoots (cauliflower and broccoli).

Ahead, a house sits close to the road: a small, single-story place painted mint green. Ivy grows up one corner and onto the roof, the green tendrils swaying like a girl's hair let loose from a braid. In front there's a full and busy vegetable garden, with plants jostling for real estate and bees making a steady, low, collective hum. It reminds me of the aunties' gardens, and my nonna's when I was a kid. Tomato plants twist gently skywards, their lazy stems tied to stakes. Leafy heads of herbs- dark parsley, fine-fuzzed purple sage, bright basil that the caterpillars love to punch holes in. Rows and rows of asparagus. Whoever lives here must work in the garden a lot. It's wild but abundant, and I know it takes a special vigilance to maintain a garden of this size. The light wind lifts the hair from my neck and brings the smell of tomato stalks. The scent, green and full of promise, brings to mind a childhood memory- playing in Aunty Rosa's yard as Papa speaks with a cousin, someone from Italy. I am imagining families of fairies living in the berry bushes: making their clothes from spiderweb silk, flitting with wings that glimmer pink and green like dragonflies'.

For electric vehicles, the power plant generators alimenting the electrical grind will then produce the GHGs, not the car engine itself. Concerns for GHG emissions would then shift to the source of electric power generation and away from car manufacturers. Currently, there is a wide difference in GHGs emissions in various electrical grids, depending on the source of energy fueling the generators. The low emissions from Swedish and French grids are explained by a combination of nuclear and hydroelectric generation, while the high emissions of the Polish and US grids stem from the use of coal as a fuel in some generators. However, the emissions from the Californian grid are nearly half those of the IS average! The regional differences in emissions in the US grid are also explained by the differences in fuels used for electricity generation: California has a high proportion of hydroelectricity and nuclear plants, while in Michigan generation plants the dominant production fuels are coal and crude oil. Anybody concerned with GHG emissions should certainly switch to electric cars in Sweden, France, and California, but should use gasoline when driving in Michigan or Poland!

Of course plants don’t have neurons or brains. But research was suggesting they might have analogous structures, or at least some physiology that could do similar things, and a cognitive capacity that deserved to be taken seriously. Plants produce electrical impulses, and seem to have nodes at the tips of their roots that serve as local command centers. Glutamate and glycine, two of the most common neurotransmitters in animal brains, are present in plants also, and seem to be crucial to how they pass information through their stems and leaves. They have been found to form, store, and access memories, sense incredibly subtle changes in their environment, and send highly sophisticated chemicals aloft on the air in response. They send signals to different body parts to coordinate defenses. Plant neurobiology “aims to study plants in their full sensory and communicative complexity,” they wrote. And what is a brain, really, other than a hunk of specialized, excitable cells, coursing with electrical impulses? “Plant neurobiology” was nonliteral, sure, but it wasn’t a stretch, its proponents said. We don’t need new words for things that are functionally similar—just new prefixes. Plant brains, plant synapses, plant thought. See, they said: Darwin was doing it a century ago.

Benjamin Munro was his name. She mouthed the syllables silently, Benjamin James Munro, twenty-six years old, late of London. He had no dependents, was a hard worker, a man not given to baseless talk. He'd been born in Sussex and grown up in the Far East, the son of archaeologists. He liked green tea, the scent of jasmine, and hot days that built towards rain. He hadn't told her all of that. He wasn't one of those pompous men who bassooned on about himself and his achievements as if a girl were just a pretty-enough face between a pair of willing ears. Instead, she'd listened and observed and gleaned, and, when the opportunity presented, crept inside the storehouse to check the head gardener's employment book. Alice had always fancied herself a sleuth, and sure enough, pinned behind a page of Mr. Harris's careful planting notes, she'd found Benjamin Munro's application. The letter itself had been brief, written in a hand Mother would have deplored, and Alice had scanned the whole, memorizing the bits, thrilling at the way the words gave depth and color to the image she'd created and been keeping for herself, like a flower pressed between pages. Like the flower he'd given her just last month. "Look, Alice"- the stem had been green and fragile in his broad, strong hand- "the first gardenia of the season.

I want to state very clearly that in that period when human beings had not yet become ashamed of their cruelty, life on earth was happier than it is today, now that we have our pessimists. The darkening of heaven over men’s heads has always increased alarmingly in proportion to the growth of human beings’ shame before human beings. The tired, pessimistic look, the mistrust of the riddle of life, the icy denial stemming from disgust with life — these are not the signs of the wickedest eras of human beings. It’s much more the case that they first come to light as the swamp plants they are when the swamp to which they belong is there — I mean the sickly mollycoddling and moralizing, thanks to which the animal “man” finally learns to feel shame about all his instincts. On his way to becoming an “angel” (not to use a harsher word here), man cultivated for himself that upset stomach and that furry tongue which not only made the joy and innocence of the animal repulsive but also made life itself distasteful: — so that now and then he stands there before himself, holds his nose, and with Pope Innocent III disapproves and makes a catalogue of his nastiness (“conceived in filth, disgustingly nourished in his mother’s body, developed out of evil material stuff, stinking horribly, a secretion of spit, urine, and excrement”).

Esse" I looked at that face, dumbfounded. The lights of métro stations flew by; I didn’t notice them. What can be done, if our sight lacks absolute power to devour objects ecstatically, in an instant, leaving nothing more than the void of an ideal form, a sign like a hieroglyph simplified from the drawing of an animal or bird? A slightly snub nose, a high brow with sleekly brushed-back hair, the line of the chin – but why isn’t the power of sight absolute? – and in a whiteness tinged with pink two sculpted holes, containing a dark, lustrous lava. To absorb that face but to have it simultaneously against the background of all spring boughs, walls, waves, in its weeping, its laughter, moving it back fifteen years, or ahead thirty. To have. It is not even a desire. Like a butterfly, a fish, the stem of a plant, only more mysterious. And so it befell me that after so many attempts at naming the world, I am able only to repeat, harping on one string, the highest, the unique avowal beyond which no power can attain: I am, she is. Shout, blow the trumpets, make thousands-strong marches, leap, rend your clothing, repeating only: is! She got out at Raspail. I was left behind with the immensity of existing things. A sponge, suffering because it cannot saturate itself; a river, suffering because reflections of clouds and trees are not clouds and trees.

Say the planet is born at midnight and it runs for one day. First there is nothing. Two hours are lost to lava and meteors. Life doesn’t show up until three or four a.m. Even then, it’s just the barest self-copying bits and pieces. From dawn to late morning—a million million years of branching—nothing more exists than lean and simple cells. Then there is everything. Something wild happens, not long after noon. One kind of simple cell enslaves a couple of others. Nuclei get membranes. Cells evolve organelles. What was once a solo campsite grows into a town. The day is two-thirds done when animals and plants part ways. And still life is only single cells. Dusk falls before compound life takes hold. Every large living thing is a latecomer, showing up after dark. Nine p.m. brings jellyfish and worms. Later that hour comes the breakout—backbones, cartilage, an explosion of body forms. From one instant to the next, countless new stems and twigs in the spreading crown burst open and run. Plants make it up on land just before ten. Then insects, who instantly take to the air. Moments later, tetrapods crawl up from the tidal muck, carrying around on their skin and in their guts whole worlds of earlier creatures. By eleven, dinosaurs have shot their bolt, leaving the mammals and birds in charge for an hour. Somewhere in that last sixty minutes, high up in the phylogenetic canopy, life grows aware. Creatures start to speculate. Animals

These nuts, as far as they went, were a good substitute for bread. Many other substitutes might, perhaps, be found. Digging one day for fishworms, I discovered the ground-nut (Apios tuberosa) on its string, the potato of the aborigines, a sort of fabulous fruit, which I had begun to doubt if I had ever dug and eaten in childhood, as I had told, and had not dreamed it. I had often since seen its crumpled red velvety blossom supported by the stems of other plants without knowing it to be the same. Cultivation has well-nigh exterminated it. It has a sweetish taste, much like that of a frost-bitten potato, and I found it better boiled than roasted. This tuber seemed like a faint promise of Nature to rear her own children and feed them simply here at some future period. In these days of fatted cattle and waving grain-fields this humble root, which was once the totem of an Indian tribe, is quite forgotten, or known only by its flowering vine; but let wild Nature reign here once more, and the tender and luxurious English grains will probably disappear before a myriad of foes, and without the care of man the crow may carry back even the last seed of corn to the great cornfield of the Indian› s God in the southwest, whence he is said to have brought it; but the now almost exterminated ground-nut will perhaps revive and flourish in spite of frosts and wildness, prove itself indigenous, and resume its ancient importance and dignity as the diet of the hunter tribe.

For instance, emotional memories are stored in the amygdala, but words are recorded in the temporal lobe. Meanwhile, colors and other visual information are collected in the occipital lobe, and the sense of touch and movement reside in the parietal lobe. So far, scientists have identified more than twenty categories of memories that are stored in different parts of the brain, including fruits and vegetables, plants, animals, body parts, colors, numbers, letters, nouns, verbs, proper names, faces, facial expressions, and various emotions and sounds. Figure 11. This shows the path taken to create memories. Impulses from the senses pass through the brain stem, to the thalamus, out to the various cortices, and then to the prefrontal cortex. They then pass to the hippocampus to form long-term memories. (illustration credit 5.1) A single memory—for instance, a walk in the park—involves information that is broken down and stored in various regions of the brain, but reliving just one aspect of the memory (e.g., the smell of freshly cut grass) can suddenly send the brain racing to pull the fragments together to form a cohesive recollection. The ultimate goal of memory research is, then, to figure out how these scattered fragments are somehow reassembled when we recall an experience. This is called the “binding problem,” and a solution could potentially explain many puzzling aspects of memory. For instance, Dr. Antonio Damasio has analyzed stroke patients who are incapable of identifying a single category, even though they are able to recall everything else. This is because the stroke has affected just one particular area of the brain, where that certain category was stored. The binding problem is further complicated because all our memories and experiences are highly personal. Memories might be customized for the individual, so that the categories of memories for one person may not correlate with the categories of memories for another. Wine tasters, for example, may have many categories for labeling subtle variations in taste, while physicists may have other categories for certain equations. Categories, after all, are by-products of experience, and different people may therefore have different categories. One novel solution to the binding problem uses the fact that there are electromagnetic vibrations oscillating across the entire brain at roughly forty cycles per second, which can be picked up by EEG scans. One fragment of memory might vibrate at a very precise frequency and stimulate another fragment of memory stored in a distant part of the brain. Previously it was thought that memories might be stored physically close to one another, but this new theory says that memories are not linked spatially but rather temporally, by vibrating in unison. If this theory holds up, it means that there are electromagnetic vibrations constantly flowing through the entire brain, linking up different regions and thereby re-creating entire memories. Hence the constant flow of information between the hippocampus, the prefrontal cortex, the thalamus, and the different cortices might not be entirely neural after all. Some of this flow may be in the form of resonance across different brain structures.

Here are the indications I look for in Sweet Leaf. The stems should be somewhat flexible and soft, as Gilmore remarks. One should be able to feel the volatile oils on the stalk, leaves, and flowers. The taste should be sweet, pungent, peppery, hot, and (most important) “buttery.” There need to be enough volatile oils to cause this “buttery” sensation in the mouth.

Eating chickweed in its fresh form helps remove congestion and infection that may be stored in the body. The fresh juice and the tea from the upper leaves and stems assist with eliminating gas and indigestion.

a deep, unnamed sadness stemming from estrangement from the rest of Creation, from the loss of relationship.

The medicinal properties are resident in the resin which are concentrated on the underside of the flower heads, less so on the petals, leaves, and stems.

We’re talking about cellulose plant fiber, especially the parts of raw vegetables and fruits that your body can’t easily digest. This stuff—also known as prebiotics—is gold for your microbiome. It’s the material that serves as food for good gut bacteria. It’s pretty simple to get plenty of prebiotics: Eat the parts of vegetables you normally toss out: the end of carrots, the stump of the lettuce head, the stemmed tips of green beans. This is cellulose fiber (aka insoluble fiber). It gets down to the large intestine undigested, where the good bacteria is waiting to feast.

The first time I visited dad after leaving, I had run out back to pick some sage, to roll it in my palms and smell its strong medicine. What had greeted me was a circle of wilted stems. Plants shriveled and bent, untended broken things.

There’s no stem any more. We’re all floating on the breeze. And it’s scary and exhilarating, and there’s nothing we can do about it. But gradually, we’ll all drift to the ground and plant ourselves. And no matter what we grow into, it’ll be influenced by Jim. We’re Jim’s seeds. And it’s not only those of us who knew him. Everyone who was touched by his work is a Jim-seed.

Soy Fear of eating soy, especially with hormone-positive breast cancers, stems from the idea that phytoestrogen compounds in soybeans have estrogen-like properties. However, plant-based estrogens are chemically different from human. In fact, research on consumption of soy foods and cancer (though limited), suggests that eating whole soybean products like tofu, tempeh, edamame, soy milk, or similar may actually have a positive impact on overall mortality and prevention of breast cancer.

The suction of transpirational pull places water under tension in the xylem of an actively transpiring plant. Thus, when stems are cut, air is drawn into the exposed vessels and blocks the flow of water. In the garden, flower stems should always be cut longer than desired, and recut to the correct length while holding the stems under water. If the stems are then quickly transferred to a vase, the transpiration stream continues uninterrupted, without the blossoms wilting. Scissor-type pruning shears or a sharp knife should be used to make clean cuts so the ends of the xylem vessels remain open.

While Roosevelt ultimately lost the 1912 election, his party’s progressive ideals planted a seed that accessible and affordable medical care might be viewed as a right more than a privilege. It wasn’t long, however, before doctors and southern politicians vocally opposed any type of government involvement in healthcare, branding it as a form of bolshevism. After FDR imposed a nationwide wage freeze meant to stem inflation during World War II, many companies began offering private health insurance and pension benefits as a way to compete for the limited number of workers not deployed overseas. Once the war ended, this employer-based system continued, in no small part because labor unions liked the arrangement, since it enabled them to use the more generous benefit packages negotiated under collective bargaining agreements as a selling point to recruit new members. The downside was that it left those unions unmotivated to push for government-sponsored health programs that might help everybody else.

Dagny saw her walking off down the hall toward the elevator, saw the slump of her shoulders, then the effort that lifted them, saw the slender figure that seemed to sway then marshal all of its strength to remain erect. She looked like a plant with a broken stem, still held together by a single fiber, struggling to heal the breach, which one more gust of wind would finish.

strawberry sunrise Though its name is somewhat evocative of a sweet elderly couple holding hands as they watch the sunrise, this drink is rather bold in its combination of prosecco, white wine, and tequila. In other words, this beautiful farm-to-table beverage has a bit of a sneaky bite. It’s best enjoyed, I’d say, with a lover, though it goes down just as easily with friends over brunch, during an at-home happy hour, or when alone on a Saturday afternoon with your cat/dog/pig/opossum. TIME: 5 MINUTES SERVES: 1 2 strawberries Ground pink peppercorns 1 ounce tequila 2 ounces sauvignon blanc 1 ounce Strawberry Syrup 1½ ounces Strawberry Mint Lemonade 1 ounce prosecco Splash of fresh orange juice Cut the stem out of each strawberry with a “V” cut, then slice each strawberry from top to bottom into ¼-inch-thick slices so that each slice resembles a heart. Take the prettiest slice and cut a small notch in its narrow end. Spread the pink peppercorns on a small plate. Dip one edge of the strawberry slice in the pink pepper until the edge is coated. Set aside, reserving the pink pepper. Fill a wineglass with ice and add the remaining strawberry slices. Add the tequila, sauvignon blanc, strawberry syrup, lemonade, prosecco, and orange juice to the glass. Sprinkle a pinch of pink pepper on top of the drink. Stir with a barspoon. Secure the notched strawberry garnish to the rim of the glass. Serve and enjoy.

Many great trees grew there, planted long ago, falling into untended age amid a riot of careless descendants; and groves and thickets there were of tamarisk and pungent terebinth, of olive and of bay; and there were junipers and myrtles; and thymes that grew in bushes, or with their woody creeping stems mantled in deep tapestries the hidden stones; sages of many kinds putting forth blue flowers, or red, or pale green; and marjorams and new-sprouting parsleys, and many herbs of forms and scents beyond the garden-lore of Sam.

They had left the buckets of stemmed flowers and now found themselves in the center of the indoor succulent section, an array of miniature plants with whimsical names such as burro's tail and flaming katy. Olive slowed her pace, taking her time perusing metal racks of each variety. She stooped down and plucked a container of a sweet, blossom-shaped plant. "What's that one?" Julia asked. She liked the look of its pink-edged tips, whose color reminded her of a radish. "This guy here is called roseum. It likes the sun, so I'd have to think of a spot near a window. But it's a nice touch of color among all the green. At different times of year, it develops clusters of light-pink star-shaped flowers. I like it because it adds texture next to something like, say, that jade plant, which is more like a stocky little tree. If I place them together, it adds interest." "Wow. That sounds great." Olive brightened. "Thanks. And then, see these here?" She pointed to a miniature plant with chubby, rosette-style leaves. "Yes?" Julia leaned closer and squinted to read the sign. "The one that says 'Sedum Golden Glow'?" "Yes. That one. I'm thinking of getting a few of those guys and placing them on the dining table in these cool little glass-and-gold terrariums I found online. They have delicate little panes of glass set against metal frames that catch your eye, and they're fancy enough for Mom's taste. She's okay if I do rustic, but she always wants a touch of something expensive mixed in. The terrariums do the trick, I think.

What are you trying to tell me?" she repeated, picking up the little clover stem from the edge of her plate and twirling it between her fingers. She thought of what Star had told her about her gift, that she brought clarity to people with her cooking. Would it work for her? Could she bring clarity to her own heart? On impulse, she pulled off the four leaves of the clover and sprinkled them over the omelet. Why not give it a try? Clover was edible, with a slightly lemony flavor. Not a terribly appealing plant to eat, but tolerable in small quantities. "Today I ask for faith, hope, love, and luck," she whispered, not at all sure this was going to work. "Please show me what I need to see." As she spoke the words, she realized she was not petitioning Julia but speaking to the island, to the Stevens women--- Star and Emma and Helen--- and to her own heart. She didn't know who or what was sending her these signs in the form of four-leaf clovers. Perhaps it was the island as Star suspected, or the universe, or Emma and Helen. The origin was a mystery, and in a way, the source didn't really matter. She just wanted to know what it all meant. What were the four-leaf clovers trying to reveal to her?

from Boggo that reminded him. I could actually imagine living here, Dave thought to himself. I could have a nice house made from crimson stem, with plant pots with warped fungus all around the house, to keep away the hoglins. If I had a nether portal next to my house, I could go back and visit the Overworld whenever I liked.

molecules assume a little V shape. A central oxygen atom links to two hydrogen atoms arranged like Mickey Mouse’s ears. The hydrogen side of the molecule carries a positive electrical charge, while the oxygen side is negatively charged, yielding a “polar” molecule. Many of water’s most distinctive properties—its ability to dissolve table salt and numerous other chemicals, the ease of forming raindrops, the hardness of ice, capillary action in the stems of plants, and much more—arise from this polarity. The dielectric constant is a measure of the strength of that positive-negative charge separation, which dictates water’s behavior.

The paradigm of thorns and flowers shows their growth similituded in its similarities, but there is no proportionality in their natural state; one tolerates slander, and the other presents fragrance and purity by collecting praise. Both homogeneity associated with branches and twigs and exordiality from the root and stem of a tree or plant, but flower separation from all of them by stupefaction and persistence, whereas thorns can never be isolated nor switch in obtuseness and numbness. It is their accuracy and heaviness with sting. It means that if you are in tune with your nature, then you are rapt in the dence and uncrassitude of life. You can never fall into doltishness, hebetude, inertness, or asynesia. It is a summoned introductory, protoplastic, and unprelusive vigour of life in which you have to stay up to the living energy on the parallelism of analogy or parity viewpoints without any stupor state.

To this day, mycorrhizal fungi help plants cope with drought, heat, and the many other stresses life on land has presented from the very beginning, as do the symbiotic fungi that crowd into plant leaves and stems.

From above—though it would be decades, yet, before satellites and space travel would show the world this way—the Colorado River’s watershed looks like a ragged, many-veined leaf, its stem planted firmly in the Gulf of California. In a wetter climate it might be invisible, hidden by the canopies of trees and overhanging banks of flowers and ferns. But here, in the American Southwest, the river carves and folds the landscape around it as if water holds a weight not measured in ounces. Its headwaters begin in the Wind River Range of Wyoming, a jumbled stretch of the Rocky Mountains, where cold rivulets of snowmelt wake beneath ice each spring to surge into a thunderous rush and pour into the Green River. Jotter and her companions had floated a placid stretch of the Green, 120 miles through the red rock of Utah, where the river loops and doubles back like a dawdling tourist in no hurry to reach the next vista. Earlier that day, they had reached the confluence where the Green joined another tributary known, until not long before, as the Grand. It, too, draws its headwaters from Rocky Mountains west of the Continental Divide. The Grand was shorter than the Green, but it had won the affections of a Colorado congressman named Edward Taylor. In 1921 he successfully lobbied to rename the smaller tributary after its main channel: the Colorado River. “The Grand is the father and the Green the mother, and Colorado wants the name to follow the father,” Taylor said in his persuasive speech to the U.S. House of Representatives, adding as further evidence that the Grand was a much more treacherous river than the Green, killing anyone who tried to raft it.

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Thoughts are like blossoms on a flower—there’s a stem and then a whole root system beneath them. Thought substitution alone is like plucking off a dandelion bloom, glue-gunning a daffodil blossom on the stem, and expecting daffodils to keep blooming. In this case, lasting change requires digging up the roots of one flower and planting a new bulb to grow the other. These new bulbs are embodied experiences; the soil is the context that supports our blooming.

In its normal state, a mimosa will close its fanlike leaves at the slightest touch, folding them neatly like venetian blinds. Keep touching it, and the whole leaf will go abruptly limp where it meets the stem, like a wrist. This has a purpose: if you are a caterpillar eating a leaf that suddenly droops, you might fall off. But when mimosa is etherized, the plant won’t close its leaves, no matter how much it is touched.

Scientists have long observed that virtually all plants are highly sensitive to touch of any kind, and will change their growth accordingly. They even have a word for this phenomenon: thigmomorphogenesis. Darwin described touch sensitivity in plants in the late 1800s, but the phenomenon has been known to farmers for much longer. In traditional agricultural practices from many regions, whipping, prodding, or otherwise flagellating certain crop plants was thought to induce heartier growth, or help prevent a plague of pests. In the 1970s and ’80s, a plant physiologist in Ohio more or less confirmed this folk knowledge by stroking the stems of plants in a greenhouse each day. Mordecai Jaffe, or “Mark” to most people, found that repeatedly pestering plants made them tougher. He began his investigation by fastidiously stroking several varieties of rather ordinary plants: barley, cucumber, common bean, castor bean, and English mandrake. If he stroked a plant once, it wouldn’t change. But if he stroked them over and over, for about ten seconds once or twice a day, they would change quite a lot. The response was fast: within three minutes of his beginning to rub its stem, the plant would slow or even cease elongating, which it was otherwise doing all the time. When Jaffe stopped stroking the plant, it would begin to elongate rapidly, even faster than its normal growth rate, as if making up for lost time. In Cherokee wax bean plants, the stroked stems would grow girthier, and harden. It becomes impossible not to make jokes about this, but it was also serious business: Jaffe coined the word “thigmomorphogenesis,” and a whole new field of plant touch studies was born.

In the eastern Atlantic forest of Bahia, Brazil, on the sandy, mossy ground beside the off-grid house of a single amateur botanist, grows an inch-tall plant with reddish stems ending in tiny dart-shaped flowers. The flowers are white with bright pink tips, like a fountain pen dipped in ink. The whole plant emerges only during the rainy season, springing up within weeks of the persistent wetness that begins in March and dying back entirely by its end in November. Within a month the little dart-flowers open, get pollinated, and disappear, having done their part. Capsules of fruit appear in their place, holding the seeds of the next generation. The usual course of events. But then something unusual happens: the fruit-tipped stems begin to bend toward the earth, genuflecting, craning like slender necks bent in deference. The fruits and the earth connect. The stems keep bending. They push down until the capsule is buried in the soft moss. The plant, Spigelia genuflexa, has planted its own seeds.

Classification of Vegetables The classification of vegetables is by a specific part of the plant, as follows:Δ Classification Example Roots Carrots, radishes, beets Bulbs Onion, garlic Tubers Sweet and white potatoes Leafy Lettuce, spinach, and most greens Stems Celery Flowers Broccoli Fruit Squash, cucumbers Seeds Peas, beans

I love the story about the old farmer, ragged and barefooted, who sat on the steps of his tumbledown shack, chewing on a stem of grass. A passerby stopped and asked if he might have a drink of water. Wishing to be sociable, the stranger engaged the farmer in some conversation. “How is your cotton crop this year?” “Ain’t got none,” replied the farmer. “Didn’t you plant any cotton?” asked the passerby. “Nope,” said the farmer, “’fraid of boll weevils.” “Well,” asked the newcomer, “how’s your corn doing?” “Didn’t plant none,” replied the farmer, “’fraid there wasn’t going to be enough rain.” “Well,” asked the inquisitive stranger, “what did you plant?” “Nothing,” said the farmer, “I just played it safe.” A lot of well-intentioned people live by the philosophy of this farmer, and never risk upsetting the apple cart. They would prefer to “play it safe.” These people will never know the thrill of victory, because to win a victory one must risk a failure. C.

It's best to take a potted plant or flowers already arranged in a vase. Avoid arriving with an unarranged bouquet of flowers, as the host will have to find a vase, trim the stems, and arrange the flowers. This unexpected chore, coupled with answering the door and checking on dinner, can be stressful for even the most seasoned host.

Building In Galicia's Palas de Rei, Palas crops and gardens the passing years, in building gaps groom and blooms stemming drear, to landed owner's songs of gloom, the ghosts of rooms between plants of pardon, people harden, passing near. Through the sap and gap of days weeds and fungi hold fast the locks, abandoned smock and broken chair to carpet night, darkness times the fevered lovers entwined as vines, to plants of pardon, plants of garden, tender near. Another clock, another block, another fear, twisted roads, leering lanes known by ear, builder turns the soil with spades and hearts, planting seeds for next the diamond days, to plants of pardon, plants of garden, lime and lemon harvest near. Conceding folly, town so jolly when pilgrims here, bodies, packs and lasting shells sincere, to alberge heating, rise and fall the mugs of beer, to children playing 'Tomorrow' riding near plants of pardon, plants of garden, building here.

The Dead left, once more accompanied with the certain formality that numbed the senses. That of him which answered to a name and number in the society of laws was lowered into his first real estate. (…) And earth to Paul became flesh of dirt, and burial deep was cold rank to his heart. He carried his father's life, and every granule of earth that planted his father tighter beneath the footsteps of the living , he felt upon himself… earth on his body, earth suffocating his mouth and earth crushing his soul. Earth was a terrible thing, a solid dead-live sea of clay and stems, a brown foundation vastness hysterically firm. And now a still man, dignified by death, was oppressed into its womb of soil. The damp rose from the mud and up Paul's straight thin limbs.

Through the years I experimented with all different types of materials and frames. Finally, I settled upon one that was so simple, easy, and inexpensive to use that it was almost ridiculous. Then I began growing all different types of plants vertically. I originally thought I would need to design some special way to hold up and accommodate heavier fruits such as winter squash and pumpkins, but as it turned out, these plant vines seemed to understand the situation; the stem supporting the heavy fruit grows thicker and heavier as the fruit becomes larger. If you have a framework and support that will hold the plant, the plant will hold the fruit; it is as simple as that! Mother Nature always seems to know best.

Through the years I experimented with all different types of materials and frames. Finally, I settled upon one that was so simple, easy, and inexpensive to use that it was almost ridiculous. Then I began growing all different types of plants vertically. I originally thought I would need to design some special way to hold up and accommodate heavier fruits such as winter squash and pumpkins, but as it turned out, these plant vines seemed to understand the situation; the stem supporting the heavy fruit grows thicker and heavier as the fruit becomes larger. If you have a framework and support that will hold the plant, the plant will hold the fruit; it is as simple as that! Mother Nature always seems to know best. Pea and bean netting can be stretched taut across a box frame and held in place by four metal posts. Plants will then grow up through the netting and be supported. Best Material I use the strongest material I can find, which is steel. Fortunately, steel comes in tubular pipe used for electrical conduit. It is very strong and turns out to be very inexpensive. Couplings are also available so you can connect two pieces together. I designed an attractive frame that fits right onto the 4 × 4 box, and it can be attached to the wooden box with clamps that can be bought at any store. Or, steel reinforcing rods driven into the existing ground outside your box provide a very steady and strong base; then the electrical conduit slips snugly over the bars. It’s very simple and inexpensive to assemble. Anyone can do it—even you! To prevent vertically grown plants from shading other parts of the garden, I recommend that tall, vertical frames be constructed on the north side of the garden. To fit it into a 4 × 4 box, I designed a frame that measured 4 feet wide and almost 6 feet tall. Tie It Tight Vertically growing plants need to be tied to their supports. Nylon netting won’t rot in the sun and weather, and I use it exclusively now for both vertical frames and horizontal plant supports. It is very strong—almost unbreakable—and guaranteed for twenty years. It is a wonderful material available at garden stores and in catalogs. The nylon netting is also durable enough to grow the heavier vine crops on vertical frames, including watermelons, pumpkins, cantaloupes, winter and summer squashes, and tomatoes. You will see in Chapter 8 how easy it is to train plants to grow vertically. To hold the plants to the frame, I have found that nylon netting with 7-inch square openings made especially for tomato growing works well because you can reach your hand through. Make sure it is this type so it won’t cut the stem of the plant when it blows against it in the wind. This comes in 4-foot widths and can easily be tied to the metal frame. It’s sometimes hard to find, so call around.

A leaf grows by enlarging the string of cells located along a central vein; single cells on the perimeter eventually decide independently when to stop dividing. From this tip, smaller veins develop, eventually completing the network at the stem; thus the overall maturation proceeds from tip to base. Once the most daring portion of the leaf is complete, the plant puts horse before cart and begins to slide sugar back down and in, down to where it will be used to make more root, which will be used to bring up more water, which will be used to expand new leaves, which will pull back more sugar, and in this manner four hundred million years have passed.

There is, however, one natural feature of this country, the interest and grandeur of which may be fully appreciated in a single walk: it is the ‘virgin forest’. Here no one who has any feeling of the magnificent and the sublime can be disappointed; the sombre shade, scarce illumined by a single direct ray even of the tropical sun, the enormous size and height of the trees, most of which rise like huge columns a hundred feet or more without throwing out a single branch, the strange buttresses around the base of some, the spiny or furrowed stems of others, the curious and even extraordinary creepers and climbers which wind around them, hanging in long festoons from branch to branch, sometimes curling and twisting on the ground like great serpents, then mounting to the very tops of the trees, thence throwing down roots and fibres which hang waving in the air, or twisting round each other form ropes and cables of every variety of size and often of the most perfect regularity. These, and many other novel features – the parasitic plants growing on the trunks and branches, the wonderful variety of the foliage, the strange fruits and seeds that lie rotting on the ground – taken altogether surpass description, and produce feelings in the beholder of admiration and awe. It is here, too, that the rarest birds, the most lovely insects, and the most interesting mammals and reptiles are to be found. Here lurk the jaguar and the boa-constrictor, and here amid the densest shade the bell-bird tolls his peal.

She looked like a plant with a broken stem, still held together by a single fiber, struggling to heal the breach, which one more gust of wind would finish.

I looked up at the moon and stars through the glass roof above and gasped at the stunning sight, like a mural painted by a great artist. No wonder Lady Anna had loved this place. I walked to the orchids and plucked a weed from a small terra-cotta pot that held a speckled pink and white flower. "There you are, beautiful," I whispered, releasing a patch of clover roots from the bark near the orchid's stem. "Is that better?" In the quiet of the night, I could almost hear the flower sigh. I walked to the water spigot and filled a green watering can to the brim, then sprinkled the flower and her comrades. I marveled at how the droplets sparkled in the moonlight.

Plant transplants outside according to the spacing the fully grown plants will need. Pay attention to the depth of the hole, and ensure that you don’t bury the stem in the soil (except in special cases—see Growing Tip on the following page). Take the temperature of the soil to make sure it is warm enough. (The soil should be at least 60 to 65 degrees F for planting warm-weather vegetables such as tomatoes or peppers.) Before planting any transplants outside, prepare them by hardening them off. GROWING TIP Tomato plants should be planted deep. Strip off all but the top four sets of leaves. Plant the entire rest of the plant below the soil line. Tomato plants will grow roots from the stem, making them stronger and healthier. Hardening off before Planting out Vegetable transplants grown inside a greenhouse (or your house) need to be hardened off (acclimated to the change in temperature and light) before they’re planted outside. Even if you buy plants that were sitting outside at a garden center, it’s a good idea to harden them off before planting. For all you know, the plants were taken from the greenhouse, loaded on a truck, and brought to the garden center on the same day you saw them sitting outside. How to Harden Off Transplants 1. Place plants in a sheltered location such as a porch or patio for the day, and bring them in at night. Do this for three or four days. 2. Next, leave them outside all day in the protected location. Do this for about a week. Don’t forget to water while you’re doing this! 3. Finally, move the plants from the sheltered location (the porch or patio) to a more exposed location (the front sidewalk or driveway). Leave them there for three or four days. 4. Wait for a cloudy day (if possible) and plant your plants in the garden. Planting out on a cloudy day will lower the stress that the plants experience.

Mulching the vegetable garden will save you a lot of time watering and weeding. It is amazing the difference that a thick, 3-inch layer of mulch will make. If you mow your own lawn and don’t use chemicals on it, save the grass clippings—they make great mulch, and they add nutrients to the soil. Just remember to let them age for a few weeks before spreading and make sure they don’t have seed heads. Other good materials for vegetable garden mulch include: Shredded newspaper Shredded bark mulch Aged manure Compost Wheat straw Shredded leaves There’s a misconception that you shouldn’t use wood mulch in a vegetable garden. Now, you wouldn’t want to use treated wood mulch or sawdust, but shredded hardwood mulch is more beneficial than detrimental. If you can buy shredded hardwood mulch with compost in it, even better! When mulching around your plants, avoid mounding the mulch up around the stems of the plants, which can cause the plants to rot.

Sage. The sage in the pot had the same name as the wild plant that grew prolifically in New Mexico, on the Navajo Nation and throughout the Southwest. She knew the culinary sage in the kitchen was cousin to peppermint, catnip, and oregano—all characterized by square stems and aromatic leaves. The sagebrush outside had daisies, asters, and ragweed in its close family ties. Same name, but different genetics. Then she thought of the new FBI person, Sage Johnson. Were her parents thinking of sagebrush or cooking when they named her? Or did they expect that she’d be a wise woman, a different sort of sage. The name made her curious.

When the women turned and looked, they saw a plant growing so fast it almost covered the trail behind them as they watched. In a little while, far less time than it should have taken, the plants started blooming. Beautiful white roses, each with five petals and with a golden center that the Creator said represented the white man’s greed. The stems had seven green leaves, one for each of the Cherokee clans, and were covered with sharp thorns to protect the beautiful flower and keep anyone from trying to pull it up or move it.

Even single cells have astonishing regenerative abilities. Acetabularia, the mermaid’s wineglass, is a single-celled green alga about five centimeters long, with three main parts: root-like structures called rhizoids that attach it to a rock, a stem and a cap about a centimeter wide (Figure 5.2). This very large cell has a single nucleus in one of the rhizoids. As the plant grows, its stem lengthens, it forms a series of whorls of hairs that later drop off, and finally forms the cap. If the cap is cut off by snipping the stem in two, after the cut has healed, a new tip grows and the stem forms a series of whorls of hairs and then a new cap, in a similar way to the normal pattern of growth. This can happen over and over again if the cap is cut off repeatedly.2 As discussed in the following chapter, the usual assumption is that genes somehow control or “program” the development of form, as if the nucleus, containing the genes, is a kind of brain controlling the cell. But Acetabularia shows that morphogenesis can take place without genes. If the rhizoid containing the nucleus is cut off, the alga can stay alive for months, and if the cap is cut off, it can regenerate a new one. Even more remarkable, if a piece is cut out of the stem, after the cuts have healed, a new tip grows from the end where the cap used to be and makes a new cap (Figure 5.2).3 Morphogenesis is goal-directed, and moves toward a morphic attractor even in the absence of genes. FIGURE 5.2. Regeneration of the alga Acetabularia mediterranea, an unusually large single-celled organism, up to 5cm tall, containing a green cap at the top of a long stalk, anchored at the base by root-like rhizoids. There is a large nucleus (shown as a black oval) in the basal part of the cell. When the stalk is cut off near the bottom, the basal part of the cell regenerates a new stalk and cap (shown on the right). When a part of the upper stalk is cut out, it grows a new cap and more stalk, even though it contains no nucleus.

For example, during auditory processing, sound inputs flow through the ear, then the brain stem reticular formation, then the medial septum (these two being called the lemniscal pathway), then the hippocampal region (which also includes the amygdala), then the thalamus, then the auditory cortex, then finally the cerebral cortex. These latter three being called the nonsensical, I mean the nonlemniscal, pathway The central clearing center, as it were, for all sensory inputs is the hippocampus. It is here that all pathways converge. It is this organ that is concerned with orienting us—in both physical space and the rich field of meanings through which we move every day of our lives It is the part of us that works most deeply with meanings, with the meanings that are embedded within every sensory input we receive

Tomatoes: contain atropine which can cause dilated pupils, tremors and irregular heartbeat. The highest concentration of atropine is found in the leaves and stems of tomato plants, next is the unripe (green) tomatoes, followed by the ripe tomato.

matured satisfactorily in that climate. Some green foods were available in the summer and some vegetables were grown and stored for winter. This diet, which included a liberal supply of fish, included also the use of livers of fish. One important fish dish was baked cod's head that had been stuffed with oat meal and chopped cods' livers. This was an important inclusion in the diets of the growing children. The oats and fish, including livers, provided minerals and vitamins adequate for an excellent racial stock with high immunity to tooth decay. For the Eskimos of Alaska the native diet consisted of a liberal use of organs and other special tissues of the large animal life of the sea, as well as of fish. The latter were dried in large quantities in the summer and stored for winter use. The fish were also eaten frozen. Seal oil was used freely as an adjunct to this diet and seal meat was specially prized and was usually available. Caribou meat was sometimes available. The organs were used. Their fruits were limited largely to a few berries including cranberries, available in the summer and stored for winter use. Several plant foods were gathered in the summer and stored in fat or frozen for winter use. A ground nut that was gathered by the Tundra mice and stored in caches was used by the Eskimos as a vegetable. Stems of certain water grasses, water plants and bulbs were occasionally used. The bulk of their diet, however, was fish and large animal life of the sea from which they selected certain organs and tissues with great care and wisdom. These included the inner layer of skin of one of the whale species, which has recently been shown to be very rich in vitamin C. Fish eggs were dried in season. They were used liberally as food for the growing children and were recognized as important for growth and reproduction. This successful nutrition provided ample amounts of fat-soluble activators and minerals from sea animal

2 cups apple juice 2 cups filtered water 2 leaves curly kale, stripped from stalks Handful raw pepitas (about 2 tablespoons) 1½ cups frozen blueberries 1 banana ½" piece fresh ginger with skin ½" slice raw beet with skin 8 basil leaves, stems removed ½ lemon, peeled

Prefer to use a penny? Copper is also a natural fungicide and can prevent bacterial growth on the stems, thus prolonging plant life.

There a re more than 500,000 types of plant in the world. And each species possesses its own special planning within itself and features particular to that species. Together with the same perfect basic systems found in all of them, there is also an unparalleled diversity in terms of re p ro d u c t i v e systems, defence mechanisms, colour, and design. The only unchanging thing in all this is the reality that the parts of the plants (leaves, ro o t s , stems) and many other mechanisms, must exist at once and with no defects so that the general system, the body, can function.

Josefina had grown up hearing tales of treasures hidden by thieves, gold mines with secret entrances, jars of coins buried by old men afraid of being robbed. She’d always enjoyed these legends, shared by good storytellers when shadows were long and imaginations ran high. She’d never heard of anyone actually finding lost treasure. But she’d never seen a map marked with landmarks and strange sketches, either. Josefina tried to push the image of the map from her mind so that she could go to sleep, but it was no use. Finally, afraid she might wake her sisters, she got up. Wrapping her rebozo around her shoulders against the cool night breeze, she tiptoed out of the sala. She lit a candle and crept to the storeroom where she and Teresita kept their remedios and dyes. Josefina loved the musty-spicy smells of the plant bundles hanging from poles overhead. She loved seeing bins and gourds and baskets filled with supplies that might help ward off illness or cure disease. Sitting on a banco, she savored the peaceful stillness. She could feel her muscles relaxing. Soon she would be ready for sleep. Then an unexpected sound jerked Josefina upright. The candle fell to the hard earthen floor and snuffed out. In the sudden darkness, Josefina strained to hear the sound that had disturbed her. There it was again! A faint crying sound. Was one of her sisters awake? Was Francisca in the courtyard, weeping for Ramón? Josefina cocked her head, but when she heard the sound again, she was sure it came from outside the house. Josefina stepped closer to the window, carefully avoiding a basket of pumpkin stems. Pressing a palm against the wall, she held her breath. And the sound came again, drifting through the open window above her head—a woman’s sob, low and full of anguish. Josefina’s bones turned to ice. Only one woman roamed at night, weeping and wailing: the ghost, La Llorona!

Through a specific method of dividing forty - nine yarrow stalks (stems of the milfoil plant), we can receive answers to our questions, obtain direction, anticipate changes, avoid dangers, and take the correct action to bring about the most beneficial results.

Impressive stands of flowers, bigger than anything she had ever seen, lined the track. Red as blood and clustered around a stem taller than even the captain astride his fine horse. "What are they?" "The flame lily. Doryanthes excelsa. It derives from two Greek words- dory, meaning spear, and anthos, meaning flower." He pored over the notebook again. "A truly iconic plant, indigenous to the Sydney area. The botanic name, Doryanthes, refers to the beacon-like flower heads that stand out in the bush.

I asked, “What do you suppose would happen if people believed this crazy notion that the earth loved them back?” The floodgates opened. They all wanted to talk at once. We were suddenly off the deep end, heading for world peace and perfect harmony. Knowing that you love the earth changes you, activates you to defend and protect and celebrate. But when you feel that the earth loves you in return, that feeling transforms the relationship from a one-way street into a sacred bond. I wonder if much that ails our society stems from the fact that we have allowed ourselves to be cut off from that love of, and from, the land. It is medicine for broken land and empty hearts.

A KITE FOR AIBHÍN AFTER “L’AQUILONE” BY GIOVANNI PASCOLI (1855-1912) Air from another life and time and place, Pale blue heavenly air is supporting A white wing beating high against the breeze, And yes, it is a kite! As when one afternoon All of us there trooped out Among the briar hedges and stripped thorn, I take my stand again, halt opposite Anahorish Hill to scan the blue, Back in that field to launch our long-tailed comet. And now it hovers, tugs, veers, dives askew, Lifts itself, goes with the wind until It rises to loud cheers from us below. Rises, and my hand is like a spindle Unspooling, the kite a thin-stemmed flower Climbing and carrying, carrying farther, higher The longing in the breast and planted feet And gazing face and heart of the kite flier Until string breaks and—separate, elate— The kite takes off, itself alone, a windfall.

Tens to hundreds of species can exist in the leaves and stems of a single plant. These fungi weave themselves through the gaps between plant cells in an intimate brocade and help to defend plants against disease. No plant grown under natural conditions has been found without these fungi; they are as much a part of planthood as leaves or roots.

The word “moss” is commonly applied to plants which are not actually mosses. Reindeer “moss” is a lichen, Spanish “moss” is a flowering plant, sea “moss” is an alga, and club “moss” is a lycophyte. So what is a moss? A true moss or bryophyte is the most primitive of land plants. Mosses are often described by what they lack, in comparison to the more familiar higher plants. They lack flowers, fruits, and seeds and have no roots. They have no vascular system, no xylem and phloem to conduct water internally. They are the most simple of plants, and in their simplicity, elegant. With just a few rudimentary components of stem and leaf, evolution has produced some 22,000 species of moss worldwide. Each one is a variation on a theme, a unique creation designed for success in tiny niches in virtually every ecosystem.

Philosophers call this state of isolation and disconnection “species loneliness”—a deep, unnamed sadness stemming from estrangement from the rest of Creation, from the loss of relationship

The ovipositor of tree and bush crickets is needlelike and is used to insert eggs into the stems of plants like goldenrod and blackberries. These eggs stay in the stems all winter and hatch in the spring. This is one reason it is important not to mow field vegetation in the fall: fall mowing destroys the following year’s population of crickets and their role in the food web.

Where does the word cocktail come from? There are many answers to that question, and none is really satisfactory. One particular favorite story of mine, though, comes from The Booze Reader: A Soggy Saga of a Man in His Cups, by George Bishop: “The word itself stems from the English cock-tail which, in the middle 1800s, referred to a woman of easy virtue who was considered desirable but impure. The word was imported by expatriate Englishmen and applied derogatorily to the newly acquired American habit of bastardizing good British Gin with foreign matter, including ice. The disappearance of the hyphen coincided with the general acceptance of the word and its re-exportation back to England in its present meaning.” Of course, this can’t be true since the word was applied to a drink before the middle 1800s, but it’s entertaining nonetheless, and the definition of “desirable but impure” fits cocktails to a tee. A delightful story, published in 1936 in the Bartender, a British publication, details how English sailors of “many years ago” were served mixed drinks in a Mexican tavern. The drinks were stirred with “the fine, slender and smooth root of a plant which owing to its shape was called Cola de Gallo, which in English means ‘Cock’s tail.’ ” The story goes on to say that the sailors made the name popular in England, and from there the word made its way to America. Another Mexican tale about the etymology of cocktail—again, dated “many years ago”—concerns Xoc-tl (transliterated as Xochitl and Coctel in different accounts), the daughter of a Mexican king, who served drinks to visiting American officers. The Americans honored her by calling the drinks cocktails—the closest they could come to pronouncing her name. And one more south-of-the-border explanation for the word can be found in Made in America, by Bill Bryson, who explains that in the Krio language, spoken in Sierra Leone, a scorpion is called a kaktel. Could it be that the sting in the cocktail is related to the sting in the scorpion’s tail? It’s doubtful at best. One of the most popular tales told about the first drinks known as cocktails concerns a tavernkeeper by the name of Betsy Flanagan, who in 1779 served French soldiers drinks garnished with feathers she had plucked from a neighbor’s roosters. The soldiers toasted her by shouting, “Vive le cocktail!” William Grimes, however, points out in his book Straight Up or On the Rocks: A Cultural History of American Drink that Flanagan was a fictional character who appeared in The Spy, by James Fenimore Cooper. He also notes that the book “relied on oral testimony of Revolutionary War veterans,” so although it’s possible that the tale has some merit, it’s a very unsatisfactory explanation. A fairly plausible narrative on this subject can be found in Famous New Orleans Drinks & How to Mix ’em, by Stanley Clisby Arthur, first published in 1937. Arthur tells the story of Antoine Amedie Peychaud, a French refugee from San Domingo who settled in New Orleans in 1793. Peychaud was an apothecary who opened his own business, where, among other things, he made his own bitters, Peychaud’s, a concoction still available today. He created a stomach remedy by mixing his bitters with brandy in an eggcup—a vessel known to him in his native tongue as a coquetier. Presumably not all Peychaud’s customers spoke French, and it’s quite possible that the word, pronounced coh-KET-yay, could have been corrupted into cocktail. However, according to the Sazerac Company, the present-day producers of Peychaud’s bitters, the apothecary didn’t open until 1838, so there’s yet another explanation that doesn’t work.

Decisions are like plants – they are only as good as the soil that they stem from.

Why can’t we be like that frail stem, laden with roses and rose-buds?” the philosopher said, pointing at a beautiful rosebush. “The wind blows, it shakes, and it bends, as if it were trying to protect its precious charge. If the stem were to remain upright, it would break, the wind would scatter the flowers, and the buds would rot. The wind passes by and the stem straightens anew, proud of its treasures. Who would accuse it of folding in the face of such need? Look over there, at that giant kupang,170 whose high leaves sway majestically, up where the eagle makes his nest. I brought it from the forest when it was still a fragile cutting, with thin bamboo poles supporting its trunk for months. Had I brought it here when it was large and full of life, it would certainly not have survived. The wind would have shaken it before its roots could sink into the earth, before it could establish itself in its surroundings and develop the nourishment it needed for its size and stature. That’s how you’ll end up, a plant transplanted from Europe to this rocky soil, if you don’t find support and develop humility. You are alone, highborn, in terrible conditions. The ground shakes, the sky portends a storm, and the tree canopy of your family attracts lightning. To fight against everything that exists today is not

Ik klom vanuit Seuna omhoog naar de hoofdweg. Tijdens dat soort wandelingen schrijf ik altijd. Schrijven zoals ik het bedoel. Ik strijk mijn geest glad als een leeg vel papier waarop allerlei gedachten en beelden zich omzetten in tekens en maten. Een stem die altijd met me meegaat leest ze aan me voor: ze is streng , ze neemt geen genoegen met goedkope oplossingen. Ze herhaalt voor me wat ik al heb geschreven en ze praat me na, gekscherend, wanneer ik niet de juiste woorden vind, wanneer een geur, een smaak, een plant, een ochtendhemel, zich niet wil omzetten in beeldenmuziek. Sommigen zouden wellicht zeggen dat het mijn innerlijke stem is. Ik zeg alleen dat ze er is, en dat ze misschien wel de enige persoon is die me nooit in de steek heeft gelaten. De vloek van dichters: ze houden nooit op met schrijven. En het laatste wat ze nodig hebben is wel pen en papier…

Poke root (Phytolacca americana) is a flowering shrub with red-pink stems and black-purple berries. It’s native to the southwest and eastern regions of the United States, but it grows throughout the country. You can also find it in Afghanistan, Kashmir, Europe, and China.

papyrus n. (pl. papyri or papyruses) 1 [mass noun] a material prepared in ancient Egypt from the pithy stem of a water plant, used in sheets throughout the ancient Mediterranean world for writing or painting on and also for making articles such as rope. [count noun] a document written on papyrus. 2 the tall aquatic sedge from which papyrus is obtained, native to central Africa and the Nile valley. Cyperus papyrus, family Cyperaceae. late Middle English (in sense 2): via Latin from Greek papuros. Sense 1 dates from the early 18th cent.

Herbs and spices come from different parts of a useful plant. Herb refers to the leaves, flowers, or stems. Spice refers to the seed, fruit, root, or bark. Vanilla extract is made from the fruit of the vanilla orchid—its pod, or bean—so we call vanilla a spice.

It's just past eleven o'clock at night, so finally fully dark out, which means it's the perfect time to see the light installations in St. Andrew Square. As they cross the tram tracks and enter the square, Susan gasps, "Will you look at that?" The entire square is softly aglow from hundreds of spherical bulbs planted on stiff stems, like luminescent poppy seed heads. They cover every last inch of grass in the square, and the lights slowly change from white to blue, to green, and back to white, the change staggered by section, so the square seems alive with rippling bands of light, like a tiny aurora borealis come down to earth.

Your father has a fondness for orchids." Could she know my father's affinity for orchids is in direct correlation with his affinity for my mother? "Much too finicky for me. I prefer azaleas. When I was a little girl, I used to drink the nectar from the flowers." I brighten a little. "I did that, too." Mom had azalea plants all over our property. She taught me how to pull the blossom from the stem and slurp from the tip of the flower like her mother had shown her. I always thought it was something unique to us, to our family. But maybe it was more. A connection to Japan, an invisible tether. "Is there a variety you prefer? I quite enjoy the omurasaki." I've caught her attention. "It is a lovely bloom," she says.

Atoms, elements and molecules are three important knowledge in Physics, chemistry and Biology. mathematics comes where counting starts, when counting and measurement started, integers were required. Stephen hawking says integers were created by god and everything else is work of man. Man sees pattern in everything and they are searched and applied to other sciences for engineering, management and application problems. Physics, it is required understand the physical nature or meaning of why it happens, chemistry is for chemical nature, Biology is for that why it happened. Biology touch medicine, plants and animals. In medicine how these atoms, elements and molecules interplay with each other by bondage is being explained. Human emotions and responses are because of biochemistry, hormones i e anatomy and physiology. This physiology deals with each and every organs and their functions. When this atom in elements are disturbed whatever they made i e macromolecules DNA, RNA and Protein and other micro and macro nutrients and which affects the physiology of different organs on different scales and then diseases are born because of this imbalance/ disturb in homeostasis. There many technical words are there which are hard to explain in single para. But let me get into short, these atoms in elements and molecules made interplay because of ecological stimulus i e so called god. and when opposite sex meets it triggers various responses on body of each. It is also harmone and they are acting because of atoms inside elements and continuous generation or degenerations of cell cycle. There is a god cell called totipotent stem cell, less gods are pluripotent, multi potent and noni potent stem cells. So finally each and every organ system including brain cells are affected because of interplay of atoms inside elements and their bondages in making complex molecules, which are ruled by ecological stimulus i e god. So everything is basically biology and medicine even for animals, plants and microbes and other life forms. process differs in each living organisms. The biggest mystery is Brain and DNA. Brain has lots of unexplained phenomenon and even dreams are not completely understood by science that is where spiritualism/ soul touches. DNA is long molecule which has many applications as genetic engineering. genomics, personal medicine, DNA as tool for data storage, DNA in panspermia theory and many more. So everything happens to women and men and other sexes are because of Biology, Medicine and ecology. In ecology every organisms are inter connected and inter dependent. Now physics - it touch all technical aspects but it needs mathematics and statistics to lay foundation for why and how it happened and later chemistry, biology also included inside physics. Mathematics gave raise to computers and which is for fast calculation on any applications in any sciences. As physiological imbalances lead to diseases and disorders, genetic mutations, again old concept evolution was retaken to understand how new biology evolves. For evolution and disease mechanisms, epidemiology and statistics was required and statistics was as a data tool considered in all sciences now a days. Ultimate science is to break the atoms to see what is inside- CERN, but it creates lots of mysterious unanswerable questions. laws in physics were discovered and invented with mathematics to understand the universe from atoms. Theory of everything is a long search and have no answers. While searching inside atoms, so many hypothesis like worm holes and time travel born but not yet invented as far as my knowledge. atom is universe, and humans are universe they have everything that universe has. ecology is god that affects humans and climate. In business these computerized AI applications are trying to figure out human emotions by their mechanism of writing, reading, texting, posting on social media and bla bla. Arts is trying to figure out human emotions in art way.

One night of the year, as delicate and fleeting as a life in the universe. Even though we struggle and howl against the brief flash of our lives, might we find something majestic in that brevity? Could there be a preciousness and value to existence stemming from the very fact of its temporary duration? And I think of the night-blooming cereus, a plant that looks like a leathery weed most of the year. But for one night each summer its flower opens to reveal silky white petals, which encircle yellow lacelike threads, and another whole flower like a tiny sea anemone within the outer flower. By morning, the flower has shriveled. One night of the year, as delicate and fleeting as a life in the universe.

While I was home last summer, I attended a celebration of historic Old Rugby in Morgan County, Tennessee. For a while that afternoon I sat in a yard listening to some musicians and speakers. Two flatland women were sitting on chairs in front of me, and one of them was being bothered by a long stem growing out of a plant behind her. There was nothing pretty about this stem. It was sort of ugly. It bore neither flowers nor leaves. But on the upper end it held two immature seedpods, and to me it represented life. The one woman complained to her friend about the nuisance of the stem, whereupon her friend leaned over and with some effort broke the stem. That action seemed to me a typical response of technological society. If a flower bothers you, break it. If the environment restricts you, change it. If people get in your way, manipulate them. I believe that the more typical mountain response in this situation would have been to move your chair—to adapt yourself rather than to manipulate your environment. It is a practice we all need to learn—to move our chairs before we use up the world and bury ourselves in our own waste.74

The soft click of my trunk opening has both mine and Maddoc’s heads snapping that way. Royce comes into view first, a wide grin in place, but then Victoria whips past him, her arm at her side as she makes her way around the silver Audi. Amber follows my line of sight, spotting Vee coming from the other side. What— Suddenly she lifts a bat, bringing it down across the windshield in one hard, full swing. “Oh my god!” Amber jumps back, her hands in the air.The glass shatters but doesn’t fall in, so Victoria hops up on the hood and stomps through it, kicking it in completely until the glass covers the inside of the car. And I just fucking stand there staring. She jumps down, both feet planting at once, one of them an inch from Amber’s. Without looking, Victoria bends her elbow, tosses the bat up, and catches the barrel. She casually drapes it over the back of her neck, her free hand coming up to grip the stem. She cocks her head but says not a damn word. And she doesn’t have to, because there it fucking was. My girl’s public claim. Amber gets the message, her eyes falling to the ground as she rushes through the crowd that’s gathered a few feet back and disappears who the hell knows where. ‘Bout damn time, Beauty.

On the desk, surrounded by books and papers, was a blue bowl filled with ridiculous, long-stemmed plants grown all out of proportion and fourteen or fifteen inches tall. The old age of flowers (these were violets, mostly) is as strange and as pathetic as the old age of people.

She takes the biggest, brightest flower, digs her fingernails in and pulls the stem off from where it joins the main plant below. She pulls a petal off: one more husband. She pulls another: or stop right now.

The tomato crop growth variables were measured manually in eight plants randomly located in the greenhouse [339]. The following measurements were taken at a frequency of 8 days: Number of nodes, number of nodes of the first bunch, flower birth, curdle of fruits, number of nodes within the first fruit, number of nodes with the curdle of the first fruit, and its growth dynamics. On the other hand, six different plants were selected every 23 days to measure the leaf area, dry weight, and biomass of the different plant elements (roots, stems, leaves, flowers, and fruits), where destructive methods were used to estimate their values.

Beyond One-Way ANOVA The approach described in the preceding section is called one-way ANOVA. This scenario is easily generalized to accommodate more than one independent variable. These independent variables are either discrete (called factors) or continuous (called covariates). These approaches are called n-way ANOVA or ANCOVA (the “C” indicates the presence of covariates). Two way ANOVA, for example, allows for testing of the effect of two different independent variables on the dependent variable, as well as the interaction of these two independent variables. An interaction effect between two variables describes the way that variables “work together” to have an effect on the dependent variable. This is perhaps best illustrated by an example. Suppose that an analyst wants to know whether the number of health care information workshops attended, as well as a person’s education, are associated with healthy lifestyle behaviors. Although we can surely theorize how attending health care information workshops and a person’s education can each affect an individual’s healthy lifestyle behaviors, it is also easy to see that the level of education can affect a person’s propensity for attending health care information workshops, as well. Hence, an interaction effect could also exist between these two independent variables (factors). The effects of each independent variable on the dependent variable are called main effects (as distinct from interaction effects). To continue the earlier example, suppose that in addition to population, an analyst also wants to consider a measure of the watershed’s preexisting condition, such as the number of plant and animal species at risk in the watershed. Two-way ANOVA produces the results shown in Table 13.4, using the transformed variable mentioned earlier. The first row, labeled “model,” refers to the combined effects of all main and interaction effects in the model on the dependent variable. This is the global F-test. The “model” row shows that the two main effects and the single interaction effect, when considered together, are significantly associated with changes in the dependent variable (p < .000). However, the results also show a reduced significance level of “population” (now, p = .064), which seems related to the interaction effect (p = .076). Although neither effect is significant at conventional levels, the results do suggest that an interaction effect is present between population and watershed condition (of which the number of at-risk species is an indicator) on watershed wetland loss. Post-hoc tests are only provided separately for each of the independent variables (factors), and the results show the same homogeneous grouping for both of the independent variables. Table 13.4 Two-Way ANOVA Results As we noted earlier, ANOVA is a family of statistical techniques that allow for a broad range of rather complex experimental designs. Complete coverage of these techniques is well beyond the scope of this book, but in general, many of these techniques aim to discern the effect of variables in the presence of other (control) variables. ANOVA is but one approach for addressing control variables. A far more common approach in public policy, economics, political science, and public administration (as well as in many others fields) is multiple regression (see Chapter 15). Many analysts feel that ANOVA and regression are largely equivalent. Historically, the preference for ANOVA stems from its uses in medical and agricultural research, with applications in education and psychology. Finally, the ANOVA approach can be generalized to allow for testing on two or more dependent variables. This approach is called multiple analysis of variance, or MANOVA. Regression-based analysis can also be used for dealing with multiple dependent variables, as mentioned in Chapter 17.

Even in purely economic terms, the opportunity costs of extinction are going to prove enormous. Research on jus small numbers of wild species has yielded major advances in the quality of human life -- an abundance of pharmaceuticals, new biotechnology, and advances in agriculture. If there were no fungi of the right kind, there would be no antibiotics. Without wild plants with edible stems, frukit and seeds available for selective breeding, there would be no cities, and no civilization. No wolves, no dogs. No wild fowl, no chickens. No horses and camelids, no overland journeys except by hand-pulled vehicles and backpacks. No forests to purify water and pay it out gradually, no agriculture except with less productive dryland crops. No wild vegetation and phytoplankton, not enough air to breathe. Without nature, finally, no people.

There are absolutely no high-maintenance items in my house of any kind. Plants, pets or husbands.

What would six dollars and fifty cents buy? Not a tape deck for Marla. Maybe a Christmas flower arrangement special for Mom. But she loved roses. He’d buy her one long-stemmed rose and get Dad a cactus plant. Something with prickers that you better not touch should suit him.

I've ordered ice-cold ficoide in truffle vinaigrette. Ficoide is a rare kind of salad with thick fleshy leaves prettily arranged round a delicious pulpy stem. I don't know where you buy the stuff. At Chez moi I have ordinary lettuce and romaine lettuce, and also rocket which I toss into gravy because I've got an idea rocket is a meat-like plant: I'm keen to reconcile it with its animal tendencies. It's a waste because most people leave it on the side of the plate, shriveled and pathetic as if it were a failed garnish. Still, I press on with my attempted trans-categorization: I feel it's what the various foodstuffs expect of me, what I'm supposed to give to the world. Rocket with meat. Avocados with fruit. White wine with cheese. I realign friendships, cheat at Happy Families.

Silhouettes A crow perches inside me. Actually, it is a whale. It is hard to tell by touch alone. Nothing I own ever looks me properly in the eye. Sometimes a loud caw at dusk feels like the largest mammal on Earth. A deep breath out the blowhole into my stomach. One second it swims and the next it is a small extension of a tree. This is a kind of beginning— a finger puppet show. The light dancing around my hands. Me dancing alone on a stem. A persimmon blooms. A boy learns a song and plants it in an orchard. Inside of me the large creatures change their shapes to fit. A blackbird. An organ. Animals with no names. I send them off into the world daily. Little sadness takes flight. Love is a brave child. These things take the shape of their containers. I don’t have to do anything to hold them.

there is a branch of science called geobotany. It is a way of looking for minerals by knowing that certain plants will only grow in their presence or absence, and sometimes by knowing that the plants themselves concentrate particular minerals in their leaves and stems.

In November, after the harvest, Borlaug would take his four surviving varieties to Sonora, where he would breed them with each other and many other cultivars in an effort to produce new cultivars that both resisted stem rust (as the four survivors did) and produced a lot of grain (as the other strains would if they didn’t succumb to rust). In April he would harvest the seed from the best plants and take it to the Bajío, where he would perform a second round of crossbreeding. Because summer in the Bajío was wet, the area was like an incubator for plant diseases. Borlaug could use the second generation as a screen to check susceptibility to diseases other than P. graminis: viruses, bacteria, different types of fungi.

The elastic powers of plantain extended beyond first aid, though. It was also a divination herb, stretching sight into the future, and was used especially at that time when the membrane between the human and supernatural worlds was at its thinnest. On Midsummer Eve in Berwickshire the flowering stems were employed by young women in a charm which would predict whether they would fall in love.

I knew, of course, that trees and plants had roots, stems, bark, branches and foliage that reached up toward the light. But I was coming to realize that the real magician was light itself.

If a man who wants to create greatness uses the past, then he will empower himself through monumental history. On the other hand, the man who wishes to emphasise the customary and traditionally valued cultivates the past as an antiquarian historian. Only the man whose breast is oppressed by a present need and who wants to cast off his load at any price has a need for critical history, that is, history which sits in judgement and passes judgement. From the thoughtless transplanting of plants stem many ills: the critical man without need, the antiquarian without reverence, and the student of greatness without the ability for greatness are the sort who are receptive to weeds estranged from their natural mother earth and therefore degenerate growths. History belongs secondly to the man who preserves and honours, to the person who with faith and love looks back in the direction from which he has come, where he has been. Through this reverence he, as it were, gives thanks for his existence. While he nurtures with a gentle hand what has stood from time immemorial, he want to preserve the conditions under which he came into existence for those who are to come after him. And so he serves life. His possession of his ancestors' goods changes the ideas in such a soul, for those goods are far more likely to take possession of his soul. The small, limited, crumbling, and archaic keep their own worth and integrity, because the conserving and honouring soul of the antiquarian man settles on these things and there prepares for itself a secret nest.

I began scampering across the lawn against the direction the wind was blowing. The lure of it was irresistible. As I walked, it grew stronger. Soon I crossed the grass and found myself at a flower bed. I came face-to-face with a cluster of plants with heart-shaped leaves and white flowers. Their abundant, mesmerizing, heady perfume filled the air. I began chewing their green stalks. Dear reader, I had no choice. I was compelled! Reaching into the bed, I licked the stems and shook my head. I found myself so overcome with desire for this strange fragrance that I began to quiver. I rubbed my face against the plants. Then I launched myself completely into the bed, crushing stalks and bringing flowers down upon me. Oh bliss! I stretched and rolled and curled my whole body into the redolent foliage. I couldn’t get enough! Never had I abandoned myself so completely to such sensual indulgence—not even during my ill-fated romance with the mackerel tabby. Could this be the legendary catnip? The plant whose potent, almost magical effect is one for which we cats are born with such an unfettered craving? At some point the effect started to wear off. The pleasure became less vivid. The scent less beguiling. Curled like a furry croissant in the flower bed, I closed my eyes and felt the warm afternoon sun on my face.

Roses have thorns. Most gardeners use gloves to prune because they want to protect their hands. But I find that if I use gloves, I don’t get to know the roses intimately. I can tell if my plants are diseased because I feel it in the blooms, leaves, and stems. My hands bear many scars from thorns. But they are worth the pain, for from pain comes beauty.

Cavalcade was a show with a dual purpose. On the surface its job was to sell America by dramatizing the positive aspects of the nation’s history. But its real purpose was to stem the tide of criticism directed at its longtime sponsor, the Du Pont Company, in the years after World War I. The du Ponts had been branded “merchants of death” because of the huge profits the company had made with gunpowders in the war. The company had a long tradition in America; its first plant was established near Wilmington, Del. in 1802. It was still family-controlled, and its directors were sensitive to charges of profiteering in wartime.

world. I had vowed that I would acquire not even a single orchid on any of my trips down here, but I thought I might die if I couldn’t have this one. The background of the petals was the beigey yellow of a legal pad, and over the yellow background was a spray of hot-pink pinpoint dots, and the flower was attached to the plant by a stem that was twisted like a stick of licorice. The petals were plump and supple and pleasant to touch. The center of the flower looked like the face of a piglet. I felt as if the plant was looking at me as much as I was looking at it.

sunflower Sunflowers (Helianthus annuus) are a garden classic that produce tasty, nutritious seeds for you and your flock. With many varieties to choose from, this annual plant is easy to grow in just about any garden. Be sure to plant them in an area with full sun and well-drained soil. And remember that many varieties will grow very tall, creating shade to the north of them, so plant them in the northernmost part of your garden or where you need to create shade. Chickens love to eat sunflowers straight from the heads. If you want to save them for your family, when the leaves turn brown simply cut the head with a few inches of stem so you can hang them in a dry place like the garage, much like you would for garlic or onions. You can leave them on the stem in the garden, but you may need to put netting around the heads as protection since wild birds and squirrels also love sunflower seeds. Oil can also be rendered from the seeds, and the stalks and leaves can be used as chicken bedding or composted into mulch.

The reluctance of southern planters to grow food stemmed from more than simply greed and economic self-interest. A major concern involved what to do with their slaves, who would have more time on their hands if not out tending cotton. Planting corn exacted much time during the planting and cultivation stages, but came nowhere near matching the long cotton-picking season, which typically lasted four and often five full months. As one Georgia newspaper put it, 'No grain crop in this climate needs cultivation more than four months of the year, the remainder of the working season is unemployed. Can the farmer afford to keep his negroes, horses, and other capital idle and 'eating their heads off' for the balance of the season?

Where the downed trees were removed from the monument, biological diversity is relatively impoverished. But where the trees were left to rot and revert to soil, seeds could take root and plants and animals could flourish. Many of the species that occupied these devastated areas were new to the region—western meadowlarks, spiders found previously in the deserts of eastern Washington, knapweed, stem-boring beetles. Today the area surrounding Mount St. Helens has much more biological diversity than it did before the eruption. For that reason, ecologists prefer to call the reestablishment of life around the volcano a renewal rather than a recovery.

Once established, jasmine grows well in this garden, and there are three, no, four varieties now. A soft yellow, like clotted cream, that hangs loosely from the window boxes, shifting in the breeze. A pink variety, Jasminum stephanense, clambers up the brittle, naked stems of a much older plant, using its relative as a trellis. White stars of Jasminum grandiflorum cover the tendrils that have woven a canopy over the courtyard, a fragrant white parasol whose petals fall like snowflakes each autumn.

I set the plant into a slightly larger pot. Not too large; we must not overwhelm but encourage. So, too, I must not take on the world but simply each task before me. Now I add rich potting soil. Water. Slowly I take the plant to a shady spot for a day so that it can adjust to its new environment. But even at this moment, the stem seems straighter, the leaves uplifted.

As soon as I moved into the house, I planted a Discovery apple tree at the foot of the garden, by the yew hedge. A gift to the Norse gods for eternal youth, but in truth a nod to the apple tree of my childhood, whose canopy shaded the patch of phlox growing underneath, whose long stems and flowers the colors of sugared almonds hid a treasure trove of fallen fruit. Discovery is a scented apple, with bright, acid flesh that does not keep well. The small, slightly flattened fruit are best eaten straight from the tree. The flesh is white as frost, flashed lightly with strawberry pink. A child's apple. It is aptly named. Brought up as I was in a world of Dairylea, Ritz Crackers and Wonderloaf, the flavor and scent of these pale fruits were my first hint that there was something more interesting out there to eat. My tree, twenty years old now, awaits the lacework of soft-green lichen that covered the branches of my parents' and, infuriatingly, phlox has so far refused to grow beneath its boughs. It is the earliest apple, ripening in August. A fruit I think of not only as the herald of the apple season, with its Michaelmas Reds and Blenheim Oranges, its Cornish Honeypins and Ribston Pippins, but as the beginning of everything.

Although Harriet found fulfillment in the vegetable patch and the food it provided them, she discovered that she was most drawn to the small mounds of untended earth that sat around the grounds. Nearer to the house and along the rock wall, Harriet could feel traces of flowers too--- more intentionally planted at some point in this home's history. Whenever she placed her palms on the earth, she was both reading its vibrations and giving something of herself to it. It was an exchange that she was beginning to understand more, certain now that it started with her. She had a unique touch that somehow awakened an urgent attentiveness in flowers and other plants, and then, once they blossomed, they became whatever she needed them to be. A sort of call-and-response. Here, she could be her full self, and the plants responded beautifully to that. She supposed she'd never been her full self anywhere before, which was why she hadn't understood the depth of her own abilities. This morning, she could feel the presence of once-grown peonies and lily of the valley in the earth beneath her. Her heart leapt as she watched the peony stems grow to life and then the layers of pink peel open before her eyes--- an offering, a blessing, a study in delicate beauty. It was more like a dream than her reality, especially as it was still not yet spring. With another touch, she prepared the way for the wispy, hanging flower bells, but she did not stop there. She moved her way around the stone wall, sensing which flowers wanted to grow here, and she gave them life. Growing these flowers gave Harriet something tangible to focus on, and she hoped the fragrances and colors cheered Eunice and Lewis as much as they cheered her.

Kirlian photographs of potato plants which have had the leaves removed from the stem reveal plasma fields showing the whole plant as if the leaves are still there. The light retains the physical formation of the leaves, as if it knows or “remembers” the shape and structure of the plant—possibly due to the presence of a persisting static torsion field (which originally may have served as a sort of holographic growth template). This came to be known as the Phantom Leaf Effect.

The baby plant root has forty-eight hours after it decides to emerge to locate water and nutrients, and then push out a leaf or two and begin photosynthesizing, before it runs out of resources and dies. The first green parts of any plant are folded preassembled and waiting inside the seed. This preassembled plantlet bears little resemblance to the plant itself; it consists of one or two cartoonish green lobes on a short green stem, the manifestation of the plant emoji, and it is entirely temporary.

IRCC Announces Eligible Programs for PGWPs Immigration, Refugees and Citizenship Canada (IRCC) has updated its guidelines regarding the programs eligible for a Post-Graduation Work Permit (PGWP). As of November 1, international graduates applying for a PGWP must meet additional field of study requirements to qualify for this essential work permit. Eligible Fields of Study for PGWPs The eligible fields of study for the PGWP correspond to the occupation-based Express Entry categories introduced by IRCC in 2023. These categories are aligned with national labor market demands and include the following: • Agriculture and Agri-Food • Healthcare • Science, Technology, Engineering, and Mathematics (STEM) • Trade • Transport Eligible programs in these fields are classified using the Classification of Instructional Programs (CIP), a systematic approach to describing and categorizing educational programs in Canada, akin to the National Occupation Classification (NOC) system used for job classification. Below is a summary of selected instructional programs eligible for the PGWP, along with their respective CIP codes: CIP 2021 Title CIP 2021 Code Field of Study Category Agricultural business and management, general 01.0101 Agriculture and agri-food Animal/livestock husbandry and production 01.0302 Agriculture and agri-food Plant nursery operations and management 01.0606 Agriculture and agri-food Animal health 01.0903 Agriculture and agri-food Agronomy and crop science 01.1102 Agriculture and agri-food Special education and teaching, general 13.1001 Healthcare Exercise physiology 26.0908 Healthcare Physical therapy assistant 51.0806 Healthcare Polysomnography 51.0917 Healthcare Cytotechnology/cytotechnologist 51.1002 Healthcare Computer programming/programmer, general 11.0201 STEM Chemical engineering 14.0701 STEM Engineering mechanics 14.1101 STEM Water, wetlands and marine resources management 03.0205 STEM Computer graphics 11.0803 STEM Electrician 46.0302 Trade Heating, air conditioning, ventilation and refrigeration maintenance technology/technician 47.0201 Trade Machine tool technology/machinist 48.0501 Trade Insulator 46.0414 Trade Plumbing technology/plumber 46.0503 Trade Heavy equipment maintenance technology/technician 47.0302 Transport Air traffic controller 49.0105 Transport Truck and bus driver/commercial vehicle operator and instructor 49.0205 Transport Flight instructor 49.0108 Transport Transportation and materials moving, other 49.9999 Transport

When we stop utilizing carbs as our primary fuel, even for a few hours, we go into ketosis. This allows the body to recycle waste and repair itself. It triggers the production of stem cells in the brain and every organ in the body. It also awakens the higher order neural networks where we can have a spiritual experience, even when we are not looking for one.

By the time he planted his first seed and watched it bloom into a bright white daisy, Hart began to feel what he suspected his mom felt every time she was out in the gardens. The joy sprouted on the stem, and in his soul. While other boys were becoming interested in video games, or sports, or breaking rules, Hart got really into flowers. There were some areas in the garden where the flowers grew so high and bountiful that you could walk through them and get lost in tiny worlds. Whole colorful planets at his fingertips. To Hart, there was nothing like it. Cupping a sorbet-colored ball of dahlia in the palm of his hand, breathing in the musky-sweet notes of jasmine, watching the pollen-dressed bees buzzing in the fluff. The flowers made something in Hart's soul stir. Or settle. Or float. He wasn't sure what, but it felt like he'd discovered a secret that no one else knew about. That all you needed to feel perfectly in balance with the world were flowers.

The web of enslaved labor was vastly interdependent, and each ingredient stemmed from another person's forced labor. Wheat was grown, harvested, and milled by enslaved farmers to provide flour to the cook to use in the kitchen. Brandy was made from fruit gown and harvested by slaves then fermented by the enslaved cook. Rum came from the Caribbean, starting as sugarcane planted, grown, cut, and distilled by enslaved hands. Feasting in Virginia meant consuming the labor of slaves, literally eating the fruits of their labor. To dine at an elite plantation during the antebellum and late colonial periods meant that one was, without question, intimately involved with slavery.

We came all the way from Oregon,” Sunny told me. “I know,” I said without thinking. Before they could ask me how I knew, I added, “Do you need some help?” “That would be wonderful,” Mrs. Winslow said. “Could you carry this spider plant inside?” “Spider plant?” I repeated in horror. Sunny laughed. “It doesn’t have spiders on it,” she said. “It just looks like spiders.” She held out the teapot planter her mother had handed her. I backed away just in case, but I could see what she meant. The leaves were grouped around the stem in a way that looked exactly like spider’s legs. The spider plants were just the first of

The square stem of the mints, or the ridged stem of other plants (such as Cleavers), are a signature pointing to the nerves, both in American Indian and European herbal tradition.

South and west it looked towards the warm lower vales of Anduin, shielded from the east by the Ephel Dúath and yet not under the mountain-shadow, protected from the north by the Emyn Muil, open to the southern airs and the moist winds from the Sea far away. Many great trees grew there, planted long ago, falling into untended age amid a riot of careless descendants; and groves and thickets there were of tamarisk and pungent terebinth, of olive and of bay; and there were junipers and myrtles; and thymes that grew in bushes, or with their woody creeping stems mantled in deep tapestries the hidden stones; sages of many kinds putting forth blue flowers, or red, or pale green; and marjorams and new-sprouting parsleys, and many herbs of forms and scents beyond the garden-lore of Sam. The grots and rocky walls were already starred with saxifrages and stonecrops. Primeroles and anemones were awake in the filbert-brakes; and asphodel and many lily-flowers nodded their half-opened heads in the grass: deep green grass beside the pools, where falling streams halted in cool hollows on their journey down to Anduin.

We stepped down a path well-worn by many feet through many seasons. It was soft, smooth under our bare feet and on either side the branches were heavy with blossom—almond trees planted by tender hands, long dead, lost dust but never forgotten, their stories told around the feasting table. Music too—a zither, a flute, the heartbeat of a drum. “Our feet knew this path well. As children, we followed our mothers, our arms filled with loaves and sweet-smelling flowers or we held the hands of our grand-dams. From this old road, we entered into a clearing at the crest of the hill. The grove of our Oldest Mother waited for the women each month at the crescent Moon. Our Mother stood in a circle of almond trees, an image carved from a cedar tree. She stood straight and tall, carved by women’s hands long ago and smeared with sacred milk and honey, and with holy blood. Her face was strange with large staring eyes that looked into the future and into the past. She was taller than the tallest village woman and stout, firmly set in the earth. Her arms were folded above her belly and they held new babies, wild tears, offerings of small stones and beads. She was strong and beautiful, our perfect Mother. Sweet herbs and flowers were always strewn at the base of the wooden plinth and there were gifts among the stems—bowls of goat milk, shiny rocks, handfuls of dates. We would touch her with reverent fingertips, dusting the old wood with our kisses. The love that flowed through this grove sustained the women from moon to moon as the world changed around us. We drew comfort from ancient familiarity and unquestioning adoration. A place of wisdom, a place where our grief had a container but our joy was unbound. We danced, alone or in a tight circle, our hands around our sisters’ waists, our heads resting on soft shoulders, our floating hair scented with rose and frankincense.“ -H. Byron Ballard, excerpt from “The Grove of Earthly Delights” - Asherah: Roots of the Mother Tree.