An Orchid of Two Hearts

by Jake Krauss

Orchid in Tomalla, New South Wales, Australia

Dear Orchidaceae,

Why are there so many of you?

How can I see your true colors when they shift and change depending on the mountaintop upon which I find your beautiful petals?

I thought I found you, my spirit orchid, the one that reminded me so much of the ones I gave to my mother as an early Mother's Day present. The bright yellow colours, ever so reminiscent of a wasp, entice my eyes as I bend down to examine your visage.

Even I, a fool in love, could tell the difference between your sexually deceptive petals and the ones meant to attract the attention of some pollinator from across the forest.

After I take photos of you from every angle, I continue field work hoping to find another just like you. But, since that fateful day, I have not seen one quite like you. I have seen a copycat, one that reminds me of your ways, but never one of identical patterns and proportions.

Are you an example of variation within a species, or are you something else entirely?

Yours truly,

Field Biologist

Jake Krauss is a 24-year-old biologist and wildlife conservationist currently working in reintroduction biology. Based in Washington D.C., he is usually overseas conducting field research on endangered animal species and figuring out ways to bring them back to their historic ranges. To follow Jake's adventures check out Krauss-ing the World, or follow him on instagram (@jake.krauss) or twitter (@JakeKrauss1),

We're in Wildflower magazine!

Butterfly milkweed (Asclepias tuberosa, photo by Becky Barak)

Team PLS is thrilled that Plant Love Stories was featured in Wildflower Magazine in a piece by Amy McCullough. The piece includes the Plant Love Stories Origin story, and features some of the submitted stories about native plants. Here's the intro to the piece:

“Plants unify people from all walks of life,” says Dr. Mallika Nocco, a conservation biologist and co-founder of Plant Love Stories. “You can love plants and have any sort of political identity. You can love plants … from anywhere in the world.” It’s true: Plants — and plant love — are universal and inclusive. And Plant Love Stories is on a mission to cultivate that love online, at science conferences and live storytelling events, and via social media.

The brainchild of eight David H. Smith Conservation Fellows — postdoctoral researchers who specialize in topics from tallgrass prairie restoration to community fishery programs — Plant Love Stories grew out of a conversation in a hotel conference room when the founders “were maybe a little bit burnt out from discussing how to impact policy,” according to Dr. Caitlin McDonough MacKenzie.

As the PLS team recalls, ecologist Dr. Rebecca Barak said, “Can’t we just do something fun?” That something took the shape of an online forum devoted to recognizing that plants are, intrinsically, part of each of our personal histories.

“We do get to have fun,” says Barak of the resulting project, “but we’re also connecting with people on an emotional level. We’re really thankful that people are willing to share those stories with us.” The founders of PLS believe everyone has a plant love story, even if they don’t think they do. And their submissions so far reveal a wide variety of voices, endless reasons for loving plants, and a hodgepodge of beloved subjects. Let’s read a few that highlight native plants. After all, it’s not every day that you get to sneak a peek at someone else’s love letters.*

Read the whole piece here.

The modest mayapple

by Alison Singer

Mayapple as closed umbrella (photo by Joshua Mayer, from Wikimedia)

What first caught my eye was the tightly wound green bundle atop the stem. They looked like closed umbrellas. “What are those?” I asked, pointing.

“It’s Jack-in-the-Pulpit,” my friend told me, and I let the name slide over my tongue. I pictured a preacher clasping his hands in front of his congregation, his head bowed.

“It’s bloodroot,” my father said, and I imagined piercing the thick stem with a needle and watching red liquid ooze out of it.

The plant I was so enthralled with was neither Jack-in-the-Pulpit nor bloodroot, but Podophyllum peltatum, commonly known as the mayapple. Within a matter of days, the leaves had unfurled, spanning several inches, looking even more umbrella-like.

Mayapple flower (photo by Heiditoronto, from Wikimedia)

They took over the ground, preventing me from seeing anything beneath their foliage. My favorite part of these plants is the flower peeping out from beneath the leaves.

I am used to color bursting forth from atop stems, brightening the ground as I lord above it.

Mayapples are different. Each May, all over the Eastern United States and Canada, their flowers bloom. The plants are either one or two-leaved, and only the two-leaved plants produce flowers. If you look beneath the unfurled leaves (Peltatum is Latin for “shield-like,” an apt term for the broad leaves that shield the flowers from view), a delicate bloom emerges from the crotched stem.

The petals are milky white, and about two inches across, with a yellow center, making the blossom look something like an egg. While the flower blooms in May, the fruit, which gives the plant its common name, does not appear until later in the summer, around September. The “apple” is a yellowish fruit, 1-2” long, and is the only part of the plant that is not poisonous. The apple is described as tasting anywhere from completely tasteless to lemony; the one I tried was bland with a hint of lemon. And though the plant is very poisonous, and classified by the FDA as “unsafe,” there are many medicinal uses, most of which I fortunately have no need for.

Mayapple has been used as medication by indigenous people, by gathering and drying the rhizome (the underground stem which can grow up to six feet in length), and grinding it into a powder. The powder - brewed like a tea, has been used as a laxative and cure for intestinal worms. Extracts from the mayapple plant are also being used to treat genital warts and skin cancer.

While not one to blithely disregard cancer treatments, my fascination with the mayapple stems primarily from its physically dramatic entrance. The initial sight: an aerodynamic structure, like a missile aimed towards the sky. Then the leaf, or leaves, slowly unwinds from the stem and fans out, arching over the ground. Were I tiny, I would happily grab the nearest mayapple leaf to cover myself with in a sudden rain squall. Not being Lilliputian and thankfully not suffering from skin cancer or warts, the only use mayapple has for me is its beauty and uniqueness, which is enough.

When I returned to the first spot I found them, I was amazed to see how the small, bundled plants had grown into giant (relatively – the stems average 15-20” tall, and the leaves span 10-15”) umbrellas. Because of their long rhizomes, mayapples tend to grow in clusters, and they can be seen throughout the region, blanketing forest floors. The flower that bows its head beneath the great leaves reminds me of a supplicant, which in turn reminds me of my own relationship with nature.

While most flowers struggle to attract pollinators with their bright colors open to the sky, the bashful mayapple seems to hide. In the same way, I am hidden as I walk beneath the canopy of trees. I find peace and solitude in the woods, away from “pollinators,” from people wanting my attention, needing me for something. In the mayapple’s unusual flower, I have found a metaphor for myself. And more than just a metaphor. A reminder of how I want to approach the mayapple’s forested world – humble, shy, non-intrusive. Nothing more than a supplicant bowing my head as I search for peace beneath the dappled greenery.

Alison Singer a PhD candidate in the Department of Community Sustainability at Michigan State University, where she studies narrative and science communication. Read more from Alison at On Love and Nature.