Mystery No More

This is the mystery bud on my mystery plant: which has now unfurled into this cheerful sunny flower:And the mystery is solved! With flower as key clue, I again perused the list of ingredients in my "beneficial insect mix" seed packet, from whence the mystery plant came. With a little help from an online image search, I soon zeroed in on this: golden marguerite.

But what's in a name? Does it really matter that I know what to call it? Sure, now I can tell you that it's a perennial in the aster family, can be divided in spring or fall, blooms throughout the summer, and has a tendency to spread. Knowledge is power. And names are a particularly powerful form of knowledge. You could ask Rumpelstiltskin, except that he imploded with rage after his plans were foiled - all because his name was discovered.

But in the age of Google, with endless instant information at our fingertips, I also think there's value in NOT knowing. Or in delayed gratification. There was something delicious about this mystery, in the fact that neither I nor Google could come up with a quick answer, and especially in the reality that I had to wait for it to grow and bloom in its own good time.

It's easy to reduce things to single, simple characteristics, and I think that's one of the dangers of names. Because I had no name for this plant, I watched it grow all the more carefully, studied the shape of its foliage, crushed a leaf between my fingers and sniffed it, and checked the progress of the flower buds each time I passed by. Would I have done that if I already knew what it was? Probably not. Am I doing that with the daisies and black-eyed susans and other familiar things growing right next to my mystery plant? Nope. In fact, I'm a little sad that I can no longer call it my mystery plant.

Two falls ago I started paying far more attention to mushrooms thanks to a fall fungi class in Petoskey. In that case, having names for things (and the attendant information) meant I looked closer and noticed many more of the colorful, strange, oddly fascinating mushrooms poking up out of moist soil and rotting wood. I saw them everywhere. In fact, many things - birds, wildflowers, trees, rocks - have jumped into sharper focus as I've learned to see and name the species and types. But it's also true that knowing the name of any individual specimen - and whether it's edible or not, native or not, common or rare - reduces it to a mere category.

"To see a wren in a bush, call it "wren," and go on walking is to have (self-importantly) seen nothing. To see a bird and stop, watch, feel, forget yourself for a moment, be in the bushy shadows, maybe then feel "wren" - that is to have joined in a larger moment with the world."
- Gary Snyder, Language Goes Two Ways

I like knowing what to call the other living things with which I share my space. I like the little labels in the garden that tell me a given patch of seeded soil will soon bring forth "Red Russian Kale" or "White Satin Carrots" or "French Breakfast Radishes," and the fact that my tomato plants have names such as "Stupice" and "Sungold" and "Green Zebra."

I am pleased that I can now introduce my new friend Golden Marguerite to garden visitors when they ask about her identity. But I hope that when I look at her, she'll remind me to inhale the scents of rosemary and cilantro and anise hyssop as if I'd never smelled them before and to examine the newly emerged leaves of beans and zucchini for clues about the purpose of their existence, just as I did early this spring when Marguerite first appeared in my life. And if future springs bring me new mystery plants to contemplate, I will count myself lucky!