Encounters start, mostly, with small talk. Hello, how are you, what did you do today, cool shirt, you’re so pretty! that’s too bad, I’m sorry that happened, well that’s good, I’m glad to hear it. Weather. If you’re lucky, that grows into anecdotes. If you’re lucky again, the anecdotes grow into stories. The stories are what stick with you, and what connects you to each other in a more permanent way. The same, I think, is true in our relationship with the natural world. 

If you share only small talk with the things that grow around you— wow, that’s a cool colour, this is a nice grassy patch, that’s a pretty flower, I’m sorry that happened, weather— you’ll never connect with the natural world in a deeper way. You’ll never become friends with each other. 

I make it my business to know what plants have to say about themselves. I know that St John’s Wort likes to help with muscle aches, and can make a vibrant red dye out of its pale yellow flowers. I know Plantain leaves, generously, draw out toxins from bug bites. I know to consult with Valerian for sleep, and California Poppy for a longer, more dangerous sleep, if you need it. These are skills that I’d like to think the plants are proud of, and get increasingly few opportunities to share. 

What I wish I knew is how they acquired these skills. I have a profound longing to understand them on a personal level—to assign them humanity. How did you get here? What made you the way that you are? This is probably impossible to know. Luckily, we have just enough desire to know, and just enough ego, to create the next best thing—folklore. 

The creation of folklore surrounding plants is a testament to the companionship they’ve offered us for generations. Human storytellers have been unable to see them as extraneous, and unable to let them go unspoken for. They have been our friends and our equals, and we have used story to prove it. 

Late May and early June in Southern Ontario is an explosive time for floral life. There are dozens of beautiful things to admire, and hundreds of stories to choose from. Here are three such beautiful things blooming now, and three such stories. 

Bleeding Heart

The Bleeding Heart, or Lamprocapnos spectabilis, is a flowering plant native to Northeast China and the Korean Peninsula. It has been cultivated as an ornamental species in several parts of the world, and thrives in moderate, shady climates. Its blossoms grow in a perfect heart shape with a red droplet underneath— the reason for its name. Its novel and melancholic appearance matches its story, which has several slightly different versions originating from different cultures, but adheres largely to the same plot. In all cases, as you peel the flower apart, the individual parts of its makeup resemble various characters within the story. The plot follows a handsome Prince with a single true love, attempting to win the princess’ hand in marriage. The setup begins when you first pick the flower from the stem, and gently peel the pink outer layer down such that the flower resembles a figure in a ball gown. This is the princess, our protagonist. Then, you peel the petals further down and reveal the prince, sporting elegant and large pants. Our story begins here. The prince tries to win the princess’ heart by gifting her two beautiful rabbits for her garden (these are the two petals—formerly the prince’s pants—when pulled entirely off the flower). The princess is delighted by the gift, but not enough to marry him. The prince then gives her a pair of ruby earrings (these are the two white inner petals with red dots at their lower ends). The princess is delighted, but not enough to marry him. The prince then gives her a pair of silk slippers (the white stamina of the flower). Here, you are left only with the central pistil. Depending on the version of the story, this either represents a magic wand used to marry the prince and princess or a sword the prince thrusts through his own heart, spurred by his unrequited love. In either case, the blossoms that grow on the Bleeding Heart plant represent a deep love. Whether it is love lost or love won, is up to the teller. 

Yarrow

Achillea millefolium, or Common Yarrow, is a flowering plant with small white or pink blossoms, bipinnate leaves, and a strong, honey-like smell. This plant is medicinally powerful, and has historically been associated with soldiers, at one time being known as “soldier’s woundwort”, or “nosebleed”. It has been used to treat cuts and abrasions, as it is naturally astringent. The most famous mention of this plant in western mythology is in Homer’s The Iliad, where it is used by Achilles to heal his soldiers in battle–thus lending the plant its genus name, Achillea. 

In Sussex and Devonshire in the mid-to-late 1800’s, Yarrow was associated with finding one’s true love, the superstition being that plucking yarrow from a young man’s grave while reciting the following poem will  reveal your soulmate to you: 

“Yarrow, sweet yarrow, the first that I have found,

in the name of Jesus Christ, I pluck it from the ground;

As Joseph loved sweet Mary, and took her for his dear,

so in a dream this night, I hope, my true love will appear.”

A similar superstition was practiced in Wicklow, when on Halloween young girls would recite: “Thou pretty herb of Venus’ tree,

Thy true name is yarrow;

Now who my bosom friend may be,

Pray tell thou me to-morrow”, as a means to the same end—seeking a true love.”

Hyacinth

Hyacinth, a small flowering perennial native to the eastern Mediterranean region, is among the best examples of creating humanness in plants by providing them with a backstory. In the Greek myth, recorded most notably by Ovid, Hyacinthus was a spartan man— beloved by the God Apollo. Hyacinthus was young, beautiful, and classically Spartan in his love of athletics. He and Apollo, one day, decided to practice throwing the discus. Apollo threw first, and threw directly and powerfully upwards, in an attempt to “scatter the clouds.” Hyacinthus, carefree and youthful, followed the discus joyfully, attempting to catch it. Tragically, (and in some versions, murderously on behalf of the west wind-god Zephyrus), the discus came down upon Hyacinthus’ head, killing him. Ovid wrote the following, an expression of Apollo’s grief: 

“Deadly pale
the God’s face went — as pallid as the boy’s.
With care he lifted the sad huddled form.The kind god tries to warm you back to life,
and next endeavors to attend your wound,
and stay your parting soul with healing herbs.
His skill is no advantage, for the wound
is past all art of cure. As if someone,
when in a garden, breaks off violets,
poppies, or lilies hung from golden stems,
then drooping they must hang their withered heads,
and gaze down towards the earth beneath them; so,
the dying boy’s face droops, and his bent neck,
a burden to itself, falls back upon
his shoulder: ‘You are fallen in your prime
defrauded of your youth, O Hyacinthus!’
Moaned Apollo. ‘I can see in your sad wound
my own guilt, and you are my cause of grief
and self-reproach. My own hand gave you death
unmerited — I only can be charged
with your destruction.—What have I done wrong?
Can it be called a fault to play with you?
Should loving you be called a fault? And oh,
that I might now give up my life for you!
Or die with you! But since our destinies
prevent us you shall always be with me,
and you shall dwell upon my care-filled lips.
The lyre struck by my hand, and my true songs
will always celebrate you. A new flower
you shall arise, with markings on your petals,
close imitation of my constant moans:
and there shall come another to be linked
with this new flower, a valiant hero shall
be known by the same marks upon its petals.’”

Hyacinth, in this way, is a beautiful memorial, and carries the impossibly ancient and youthful energy of an untimely ending, preserved in beauty. 

To me, these stories offer a small glimpse into our companionship with the natural world, and our desire to see our own histories in all things. Each of these tales projects the concept of love onto non-human entities. I believe this is an expression of that same feeling. A longing for conversation beyond duty, and connection beyond acquaintance. Like the bleeding heart prince—a gift, in an attempt to earn reciprocity. 

Sections from Ovid’s Metamorphoses translated by Brookes More