Do your daffodils seem despondent? Have your roses become remote? Are your forget-me-nots acting fretful about something they’d rather not remember?
We’re learning more now about the living, breathing, emotional inhabitants of our gardens, farmlands and forests. They’re not always completely happy while providing us with food, medicine, lumber and fresh air. Believe it or not, even lacking brains, they can experience personal anxiety.
For instance, scientists report tests that prove some edible plants will collapse their leaves when they are touched by humans, perhaps to discourage hungry vegans. Polygraph (lie detector) tests have confirmed these emotional reactions of plants when handled roughly.
On a less professional level, two groups of school children tested the reactions of plants subjected to praise and disapproval. One group complimented a plant every day for a month, while an identical plant was insulted daily by a second group. At the end of the month, the praised plant had grown in size and improved in appearance while the insulted plant’s leaves had turned brown. Let’s hope the second group of kids felt bad enough to tell their wilted plant, “We’re sorry, Pansy, we didn’t mean a word of it.”
Without employing any scientific procedures I’ve become convinced over the years about the unstable emotional condition of the plant life in my backyard. There’s my neurotic lawn which, in spite of my tender care and encouraging words, becomes suicidal around July 15th every year. There is such a thing as “Panic Grass”. You could look it up.
I have a sneaking suspicion my lawn is somehow agriculturally related to and somehow, emotionally connected to the New York Mets infield. July is often a bad month for that beloved team. I’ll bet the groundskeepers’ troubles increase during every slump.
Some people claim they are more in tune with the feelings of plants than the rest of us. My brother-in-law merely glanced into my vegetable garden one day and exclaimed, “Those are the saddest tomatoes I’ve ever seen!” He left with a large bag of “morose” big Burpees, so I suspect his diagnosis.
I planted an oak tree sapling over ten years ago assuming it would become the typical giant of the forest, a legacy for my grandchildren. But it’s still much shorter than me. A local nurseryman could not give a reason for the lack of elevation, but I think I’ve figured it out. Acrophobia! My oak tree has a fear of heights. I might have to build a 25-foot trellis.
Imagine That 