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Authors: DavidGeorge Haskell
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finally pierced the litter, standing on a finger-high stem. A week ago, the bud was a thin claw, encased in silver fuzz. Slowly, the claw filled out, fattening and elongating as the air warmed. This morning, the bud’s stem is shaped like an elegant question mark, still covered in down, with the tightly closed flower suspended at the tip of the curve. The flower points demurely down, its sepals closed against nighttime raiders of pollen.
The flower cracks open an hour after first light. The three sepals spread, revealing the edges of three more inside. The sepals are flushed with purple and, although
Hepatica
lacks true petals, these sepals havethe shape and function of petals, protecting the flower at night and attracting insects by day. The flower’s opening motion is too slow for my eyes to perceive directly. Only by looking away then returning my gaze can I see the change. I try to still my breathing, slowing to flower-speed, but my brain races too fast, and the slow, graceful motion eludes me.
Another hour passes and the stem straightens; the question mark turns into an exclamation point. The sepals are spread wide now, shining rich purple at the world, inviting bees to investigate the untidy mop of anthers at their center. One more hour and the exclamation point is written in a hurried hand, bent backward a little, lifting the flower’s face directly at me. This is the mandala’s first bloom of the year. The lively skyward arch of the flower’s stem seems a fitting gesture of springtime release and celebration.
The flower’s name,
Hepatica
, has a long history, one that reaches back to Western Europe where a close relative of the same name has been used in herbal medicine for at least two thousand years. Both the scientific name and the common name, liverleaf, refer to the plant’s purported medicinal qualities, suggested by the three-lobed liverlike shape of the leaves.
Most of the world’s cultures have a habit of extrapolating from the shapes of plants to their medicinal powers and hence to their names. In the Western tradition, this habit was codified into a theological system by an unlikely scholar. In 1600, a German cobbler, Jakob Böhme, experienced a stunning vision of God’s relationship to creation. The heart-ripping magnitude and power of this revelation tore him away from his shoe-making trade and thrust a quill into his hand. Out flowed a book, a stream of words attempting to communicate the massive wordless vision. Böhme believed that God’s purpose for His creation was signed into the forms of worldly things. Metaphysics was scrawled into flesh. He wrote, “Every thing is marked externally withthat which it is internally and essentially… [and] represents that for what it may be useful and good.” Mortal, imperfect humans could therefore deduce purpose from the outward appearance of the world and could see the thoughts of the creator in the shapes, colors, and habits of His creation.
Böhme’s work caused his expulsion from his hometown, Görlitz. The church and the city council would not tolerate unauthorized mystical experiences. Shoemakers, they felt, should stick to cutting leather and leave visions to the well-read and the well-bred. Later, he was allowed to return on the condition that he keep his quill away from paper. He tried and failed, the vision’s power pushing him on to Prague, where he continued his theological essays.
Böhme’s ideas did not become widely known until botanical physicians learned of his work. His doctrine helped their trade by providing a theological cabinet in which to store their herbal remedies. Many physicians already used the external forms of plants as mnemonics with which to remember their medicinal functions: the scarlet juice of bloodroot for disorders of the blood, toothwort’s indented leaves and white petals for toothache, coiled roots of snakeroot for snakebite, and dozens more. Now, the healers had a theory with which to organize and
The flower cracks open an hour after first light. The three sepals spread, revealing the edges of three more inside. The sepals are flushed with purple and, although
Hepatica
lacks true petals, these sepals havethe shape and function of petals, protecting the flower at night and attracting insects by day. The flower’s opening motion is too slow for my eyes to perceive directly. Only by looking away then returning my gaze can I see the change. I try to still my breathing, slowing to flower-speed, but my brain races too fast, and the slow, graceful motion eludes me.
Another hour passes and the stem straightens; the question mark turns into an exclamation point. The sepals are spread wide now, shining rich purple at the world, inviting bees to investigate the untidy mop of anthers at their center. One more hour and the exclamation point is written in a hurried hand, bent backward a little, lifting the flower’s face directly at me. This is the mandala’s first bloom of the year. The lively skyward arch of the flower’s stem seems a fitting gesture of springtime release and celebration.
The flower’s name,
Hepatica
, has a long history, one that reaches back to Western Europe where a close relative of the same name has been used in herbal medicine for at least two thousand years. Both the scientific name and the common name, liverleaf, refer to the plant’s purported medicinal qualities, suggested by the three-lobed liverlike shape of the leaves.
Most of the world’s cultures have a habit of extrapolating from the shapes of plants to their medicinal powers and hence to their names. In the Western tradition, this habit was codified into a theological system by an unlikely scholar. In 1600, a German cobbler, Jakob Böhme, experienced a stunning vision of God’s relationship to creation. The heart-ripping magnitude and power of this revelation tore him away from his shoe-making trade and thrust a quill into his hand. Out flowed a book, a stream of words attempting to communicate the massive wordless vision. Böhme believed that God’s purpose for His creation was signed into the forms of worldly things. Metaphysics was scrawled into flesh. He wrote, “Every thing is marked externally withthat which it is internally and essentially… [and] represents that for what it may be useful and good.” Mortal, imperfect humans could therefore deduce purpose from the outward appearance of the world and could see the thoughts of the creator in the shapes, colors, and habits of His creation.
Böhme’s work caused his expulsion from his hometown, Görlitz. The church and the city council would not tolerate unauthorized mystical experiences. Shoemakers, they felt, should stick to cutting leather and leave visions to the well-read and the well-bred. Later, he was allowed to return on the condition that he keep his quill away from paper. He tried and failed, the vision’s power pushing him on to Prague, where he continued his theological essays.
Böhme’s ideas did not become widely known until botanical physicians learned of his work. His doctrine helped their trade by providing a theological cabinet in which to store their herbal remedies. Many physicians already used the external forms of plants as mnemonics with which to remember their medicinal functions: the scarlet juice of bloodroot for disorders of the blood, toothwort’s indented leaves and white petals for toothache, coiled roots of snakeroot for snakebite, and dozens more. Now, the healers had a theory with which to organize and
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