Plant Talk

I’m in a rut with our national security and institutions and democracy under siege. I take some consolation from political commentator Robert Reich who writes that what we're going through might “awaken Americans to the truth about what… we must do to get back on track toward social justice, democracy, and widespread prosperity.” But I need a distraction, so I surf the web looking for a rabbit hole and stumble across a piece on communication among plants. I go down the hole.

Mycelium, the vegetative part of fungi, appears as a mass of branching, thread-like filaments winding through the soil. When we head to the woods in search of morels we’re actually looking for the fruiting bodies of morel mycelium— the vast majority of the fungi is below ground, breaking down organic matter and linking plants by attaching to their roots. These connections allow plants to share nutrients and communicate by way of chemical messaging while providing the fungi with necessary carbohydrates. It’s a win-win.

If an acorn sprouts in a fencerow and the young seedling finds itself under a thick growth of brambles starved for sunlight, the mother oak detects the struggle and uses mycelium to send sugars and nutrients to her offspring, fueling its growth until it can gather sunlight on its own. There are similar responses when plants are attacked by pests or disease or are physically damaged. News spreads quickly through the network and the whole community may pitch in, even unrelated plants.

Fungi thrive in woodlands but live in soils everywhere— in our potted plants, yards and gardens, pastures and croplands. Their function in helping plants communicate is bolstered by soil microbes which are likewise capable of transferring nutrients and messages. Both fungi and microbes are often damaged or destroyed by pesticides and poor land use.

There’s talk above ground as well, by way of airborne compounds which alert plants of potential threats. It’s a real thing, caught on film. That sweet smell of new mown grass alerts other grass plants of impending danger. They respond by moving sugars and other compounds to their roots to speed up recovery after being sliced. Equally impressive, some plants can hear the buzzing of a nearby bee and will increase the sugars in its nectar in response. These are all things to haunt us when we’re next pulling weeds or digging potatoes or mowing grass. They are also things that offer a powerful teaching about community, cooperation, and the hidden networks sustaining life; things that stand in stark contrast to the disjointed and often divisive nature of human society.

There are people who claim they can literally hear plants speaking, though there isn’t the science to back them up. But neither does science explain this: In the Amazon lives a primitive tribe known for developing a powerful hallucinogenic brew using two unrelated plants. In a land of 80,000 different vascular plants, how did the tribesmen discover which two to use? According to Harvard anthropologist Wade Davis, it’s a stretch to say it was solely trial and error. The tribe explains matter of factly that the plants talk to them. And when asked how they establish plant taxonomy, they say that on nights of the full moon, plants sing in different keys. It falls short of a full explanation, but opens the door to more questions about plants and our ability to listen and understand.

I leave the rabbit hole with a thought, that in spite of all we know, we don’t know jack. Maybe one day we’ll learn that plants are conscious, or that consciousness exists in the very fabric of the universe and pervades everything. Leading physicists and philosophers are batting that question around right now. It’s heavy stuff, life altering, and compared to the drone of daily news, genuinely refreshing.