Mycoheterotroph Magic

Day 242: You're going to scoff. I know that, and I know you're going to ridicule me for being about as unscientific as a person who calls themselves a scientist can get, but sometimes even the most anchored among us have to raise an eyebrow when things come together as if by magic.

During my friend Michael's pursuit of his degree in ecopsychology, he asked questions of me as a naturalist, as an animist and as a shaman. To me, the three terms form a well-balanced Venn diagram with me smack in the convergence zone. One question he posed was that, given my profound love of Nature, did I feel that Nature ever demonstrated love in return? I replied in the affirmative, but qualified my response by saying that naturally (if you will forgive the pun), this return would take a different form than human love, and might in fact manifest as something we would fail to recognize. That said, I cited at least one circumstance where it approached what we humans consider a demonstration of love, when Nature had seemingly expressed a sentiment toward me which, for want of a better phrase, I would express as gratitude. Love takes many forms among humans. Who can define it for anyone other than themselves?

My readers are aware of my passion for mycoheterotrophs, that group of plants which grow only in certain narrow ecologies, plants dependent on specific soil mycorrhizae, plants which cannot exist unless their complex requirements are met. Being in voluntary isolation has put dramatic constraints on my ability to "botanize." My expeditions are limited to walking distance from my home, but even so, this spring has brought a number of interesting finds: several slime molds, a plant not previously recorded on Park property, and a few scattered specimens of Corallorhiza maculata, one of my favourites. I mention the last specifically, because I had not observed them in this area previously, and I've done quite a bit of prowling about in the trailless woods in the last thirty years. I have been lonely for my mycoheterotrophs, more than for human company.

Yesterday afternoon, I walked out to the wooded strip between my property and the one adjacent to me, intending to pitch some radish leaves onto the unofficial compost pile. At the very margin, spotlighted in a sun-fleck as if to say, "Hey! Down here!" was a single stem of Corallorhiza maculata. The flowers were just beginning to open on the lower portion, a few maroon spots winking at me as I gaped in surprise. As I walked back to the house to get the camera, I burst into tears. If I couldn't go to my mycoheterotrophs, it seemed that at least one of them had come to me.