Speaking in Tongues Unknown
Learning the language of unexpected flowers (plus a repurposed poem)
This past spring, our big, beautiful snake plant (sometimes called Saint George's sword, mother-in-law's tongue, or viper's bowstring hemp) that my own mother-in-law gifted my husband and I from a cutting of hers many, many years ago, began to bloom.
Without warning, a softer kind of stalk began to sneak its way out from between the sturdy sword-shaped leaves. Small white petals shaped like stars that could almost pass for being part honeysuckle appeared, and offered a sweet summertime kind of scent that, in early April, made me crave the fragrant heat of a night in late July. I touched the petals with the very tips of my fingers and found them slightly sticky, like honey.
Growing weary of the cool, gray spring weather in Boston, I indulged the opportunity to travel forward a few months, flower wise. I was delighted. Then, intrigued. I didn’t know snake plants could bloom. Could snake plants bloom?
Intrigue turned to confusion and eventually, concern, when I dug into a bit of internet research and learned that snake plants bloom rarely, and when they do, it is very likely because of stress.
How in the world could our snake plant, ever quiet and serenely green (and not responsible for any of the bills), feel stressed? I’ve been in therapy for seven years and have made great strides in managing a multitude of anxieties; had I simply passed my collection of worries along to our plant to deal with instead?
In the process of seeking out research about why and when snake plants flower, I found a list of conditions that can contribute to the rare blossoms we got to see (and smell) in the spring. According to florasense.com’s article about this phenomenon, snake plants may flower as a response to:
Maturity and Stress
“Blooming in snake plants is often associated with mild stress conditions. A common trigger is being pot-bound, where the plant's roots have completely filled the pot. This restriction can mimic the challenging conditions of their natural habitat, prompting the plant to flower as a survival mechanism. Additionally, older, more established snake plants are more likely to produce blooms. Their mature state often coincides with a greater likelihood of experiencing stress conditions conducive to flowering.”
Seasonal Changes
“Snake plants are sensitive to the change of seasons, with a higher likelihood of blooming during spring and summer. These seasons offer longer daylight hours and more intense light, which aligns with their growth cycle. The transition from the dormant winter period to the active growth phase in spring often acts as a natural stimulus for flowering.”
Light Exposure
“Despite their reputation for thriving in low-light conditions, snake plants prefer bright, indirect light for optimal blooming. Direct sunlight can be too harsh, leading to scorched leaves, but a well-lit room or a location near a window with filtered sunlight can encourage flowering. This light exposure should mimic the dappled sunlight of their native environments.”
I would never have guessed that a plant could bloom despite - and even because of - stress. Described above as a “survival mechanism”, it’s as if the plant was attempting to send a message in the only language that it knows that we as humans also know (flowers), and hope that if it can get our attention with a sweet scent and catch our eye with delicate white petals, we might just be able to offer it the attention it needs in order to not only survive, but thrive.
Are we as human beings any different?
I don’t believe in seeking out stress in exchange for my own version of blooming. But let’s be honest: we all probably get plenty of regular doses of stress and pressure, often enough to allow us to notice patterns in how tough times make us feel and how we tend to respond.
Do we break down or do we bloom? In what language do we cry out for help during these moments of need?
I don’t know why snake plants bloom when they feel rootbound and other plants begin to wither away instead. Similarly, I haven’t been able to make a science out of why I as a human being, can sometimes compose a poem in the midst of a heartache, and other times, feel like I’m doing everything I can to just make it to the weekend intact.
I’m less convinced that knowing why these manifestations of great beauty arise from stress is as meaningful as simply being aware that from moments of tremendous need and vulnerability can bloom beauty. Well-crafted words, some’s hand reaching to hold another’s, a painting lovingly made, a garden. There are infinite ways that we let each other know that we need each other in order to survive, to thrive.
As I validate that the questions are welcome, no answers required, they flow freely.
How can stress lead us to clear expression of what we need?
How many different tongues must we master so that we can find safety within ourselves and with those who we love, who love us, but who may not speak the same metaphorical language of love as we do?
How does creating something beautiful from our own distress signals sit with the receiver of these messages differently than causing brown, rotting leaves to appear might? How does beauty sit differently with the observer than decay? How does beauty sit differently with the maker than decay?
Does beauty’s power lie in her demands to be seen and heard? In her ability to stop us in our tracks any way she can, so that we will, for her sake and our own, act?
Is there any evolutionary advantage to the snake plant’s strategy of producing a white floral flag of sorts, relying on our ability to learn a new language along the way in order to bring relief and room?
Should we, too, be required to ask for help in appealing ways? How could it serve us? How might it cause harm?
I don’t have answers, but find myself making a poorly timed New Year’s resolution of sorts: I will learn new languages so that I don’t miss when another living being (be it a plant or a partner) is right in front of me, asking for my care. Perhaps my assignment is not to be able to translate perfectly right away, but to simply start by listening, deeply. Perhaps the very act of paying attention can bring about a kind of calm, for us and those whose wellbeing we are stewards of.
I’m still learning the language of the flowers.
I’m still learning the language of my own heart and those I love.
May the messages that fall on our ears and eyes enter in, and find room to elicit the action that is needed in the moment, whatever it may be.
(On the note of learning and relearning new-to-us languages, I’m sharing this poem I wrote for my Wild Unfolding collection back in 2020. As always, I would love to hear if you read something you loved.
A New Tongue
The trees have been here before,
and will remain long after
we walk this earth,
our shoes
making geometric shapes
in the soil that blankets
the old, twisted roots,
our eyes gazing up in awe
at the smooth young branches
grasping towards the stars.
An ancient message working its way
through the bark and knots and veins of leaves,
offering us words we don’t yet understand
in a language that we don’t yet speak.
When will we be willing to burn the books of yesterday,
erase the mythology we invented to explain our unworthiness
and overthrow the tyrant who keeps our soul in check?
What if our intuition hasn’t been lost, only paved over,
and if only we would consent to letting the rain wash away
the hardness that smothers our true nature,
we might just, once again, be acquainted with the soft, soaked soil
from which a spring flows, cool and clean, from the earth that is us?
Have hope.
Wisdom can never be lost, only waiting for us
To re-dis-cover once we learn to speak
with a new tongue.