The seasons are beginning to change here at the biological station, and the air is turning crisp. For the IE students, this means that we are all beginning to unearth our sweaters and stock up on apple cider. It is hard to believe that we are about to enter our third month at the station—somehow it simultaneously feels like we’ve all just arrived and that this has always been our home.
On the very first week of class-- before we all really knew each other-- we went to Great Smokey Mountains National Park to learn from some environmental experts about this place we now called our home. One night after a long day of hiking and biking, we started a fire and Jason, one of our teachers, read us Cherokee stories.
These stories, recorded for posterity by James Mooney in the 19th century, connected us to the land that we had just spent the last two days exploring. The entire experience was strongly reminiscent of summer camp as we huddled around the fire and listened to the entrancing tales of the various plants and animals that called this place home. It was impossible not to feel inspired by these stories—especially as a lover of myths and legends-- so I wrote my own about a plant that also calls Southern Appalachia home.
This is the story of wisteria.
Long ago, in a time that feels much removed from ours, but in a place not too far from Highlands Biological Station, there lived an old couple existing peacefully in a grove of white oaks.
Many years before our story takes place, they had fallen in love in these woods, in long walks meandering through trees as she gathered acorns and he held them for her. When the time came for them to be joined together, they chose to live among the oaks and planted one in honor of their love. And what a love it was! They cared for each other dearly, and while their lives were not without strife, the vast majority of it was overflowing with goodness. They raised their family in that grove, their children learning to walk amongst the trees, the patter of their tiny feet softened by the gentle leaves of the forest floor. Happy days were spent here, but time continues on, and children eventually grow up and set off on their own. Now their home was mostly silent, except for the sound of the old woman and her beloved quietly going about their day.
One day, the woman—weary from a life well spent-- was walking through the woods gathering acorns when she knew that she could walk no further. She decided to rest underneath her oak tree. She laid her head against the trunk and soon fell into a sleep so deep that she never woke up. Her journey on earth had been full and joyous, but it was time for her to continue into the next life. Her husband eventually found her there and, heartbroken, buried her underneath their oak tree and lost himself to his grief.
Each morning, he would rise from his sleep with the sun and plant himself next to the tree, weeping bitterly for his lost love and watering the tree with his tears. He would not leave until the sun set in the sky, repeating this process the next day and the day after that. Before long, he noticed something rather strange. In the exact location his tears fell, a small plant had begun to sprout. He watched its progress during the weeks that followed as it grew into a great vine encircling the tree. Soon it sprouted brilliant purple flowers in huge clusters so heavy that the vine sagged from their weight. Taking this as a sign from his lost love, the man continued to sit at the tree watching the development of the vine, trapped in his sorrow.
However, he soon began to notice that this vine was hurting the tree. While the trunk was strong and steady, the unfamiliar vine was choking the life out of the small branches that held the acorns. Desperate to protect the tree, the man frantically cut the leaves off. By the next day, they had already started to grow back. For weeks, the man cut the vine back, but it always returned.
Exhausted, the man sat back against the tree and let his tears flow freely. He felt lost without his wife—she would have known what to do. His hand brushed against the ground at the base of the vine and his fingers came back covered in mud. As he rubbed the mud between his fingers, he thought about the vine and suddenly a strangled laugh came out of his mouth. In his consuming grief, he had forgotten that plants must be watered, and this vine was nourished from his tears.
Determined to preserve the tree, the man slowly learned to manage his grief and the vine receded. With the addition of careful pruning, the oak and the vine were able to coexist, and the tree started to thrive again. While the man still missed his wife dearly, he found joy again in their children, who brought their little ones to play underneath the beloved oak.
Even now, tear still nourish the wisteria vine. Nowadays, they are the tears of the mother, mourning the loss of her diverse flora and fauna and her human children destroy all that she has generously bestowed upon them. Her grief blankets Appalachia in the purple blooms of the wisteria, choking innocent trees to death like humanity ravages the earth.
-my