At first, it was you and me.

Me looking at clouds, reading books and daydreaming of a life that was round and soft and comfortable. You looking at a computer with numbers that were solid, concrete and linear, and imagining a future that moved in a similar straight manner.

I wanted curves and loops and hopes, and you wanted lines and graphs and outcomes.

I didn’t want an us. I wanted you and me with enough space in between to fit three letters and two spaces. The spaces to keep me safe and distant and dreamy, and the three letters of and to keep me just close enough to you and just far enough away from me.

An us felt too small and precarious and unstable. It was close and intimate, two letters snuggled right up against each other. How would I breathe? What was so comfortable about fitting two great people with big ideas and full lives in two small letters?

It seemed like the u would never hold all the joy and pain, the laughter and tears, the adventures and misadventures of an us. It was bound to break, to tip over, or to spill out from the bottom, and to make the us fall apart — suddenly or slowly. The s just seemed like half of infinity standing up straight and tall. A foreboding sign teasing and ridiculing any us that wanted to last forever.

When I saw uncertainty and doubt, you saw potential and promise. You saw an us that was flexible and resilient. That could move with ease, navigating the world and the words and the doubts and the fears with a sense of wonder and exploration.

I saw an us that was suffocating and fragile and bound to get lost — on a blank page, in a small crack, or floating up into a space where the you and the me ceased to exist and my clouds and your lines intersected and tangled and eventually vanished. I kept my me and you kept your you and I splashed and played in the and and the the space surrounding the and.

But slowly you took that space away.

The you moved closer to the me and there wasn’t much need for the space or the and. You stripped away the hesitation between you and me and showed me a you that was fine and funny and full of feeling. You showed me a you that could daydream and frolic and find shapes in clouds that weren’t just numbers and facts and figures. And you showed me a you that was confident but scared, excited but apprehensive.

You took me inside, led me through to the tail of the y and the comfort in the o and the depths of the u. You let me take refuge inside of you. And while I thought we were exploring you, you were showing me a me that was hearty and healthy and happy.

You guided me over the humps and the bumps and the curves of the m and I taught you how to slide down the e, dangle over the edge, and let yourself be swallowed in its mouth, much smaller than your o but more with sides and arches to discover.

And then you introduced me to an us that could carry the weight of a you and me.

You showed me strength of the u. How to fill it up, with love or fear or excitement. At first I tried to tip over the u, to make it wobble or leak or break, but it absorbed the strength of the you and me and it would not budge. It filled and emptied and filled, but there was always room for more. It cozied up against an s that had blind spots and big curves and a lot of ups and downs.

But the s didn’t fall or mock me or tease me. It didn’t pretend to be infinity or even half of infinity.

It was an s that was happy wedged up close to a u. I found the spaces in us that weren’t quite as big as that in between the you and me, but that were there none the less.

I didn’t have to hide in the us. Instead I could stretch out my arms and my legs and know that you would be near enough to give me space and I would be far enough to feel the stillness.

I shared my me and you gave me your you and we became us.

We became an us that had lines and edges and soft corners and overlap and space. We became an us that navigated the clouds, that sailed through blank pages, that wrote our own story.

I kept my me and you kept your you and we shared them in our us that no longer felt strange or unstable, but felt natural and strong and filled with two great people who breathed together and breathed apart but shared the same air.

Originally published at www.rebellesociety.com on December 5, 2017.

Becoming Us: Taking Away the Space Between You and Me. was originally published in wander.wonder.write on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I am a notorious indoor plant-killer. I can kill a cactus, and I have. I can also kill a $300 topiary if you leave it in my care too long. This is highly embarrassing given that A) I am the direct descendent of a houseplant queen: my mom has been living the urban jungle life long before it became Instagram worthy. B) My first job was watering plants at a local nursery. And C) My current job is with a company whose main mission is to “bring nature indoors” with LED lights for indoor gardening.

So the fact that I can turn green into brown without so much as a glance is quite spectacular, yet true. (But please note this extends only to indoor growing. I fully trust my capabilities when rooted in the earth and allied with Mother Nature). Ask around, I have references. Once my dad sent a potted tree to my north-facing Brooklyn apartment. It was spring. That thing lost its leaves so fast I thought winter really was coming. But despite my numerous non-successes, I don’t give up trying.

You see, failing at caring for indoor plants is almost as rewarding as succeeding. Why? Because it encourages the practice of compassion. When that potted tree started withering, I panicked. Then I reacted. In attempt to provide it with sufficient light, I dragged that wiry hunk of wood from window to window so many times each day the floor bared permanent damage. I Google-d common tree illnesses and inspected for leaf fungus. I even considered buying fish food, for a tree.

I went through an entire spectrum of emotions with that tree. Anger: at my dad for sending me an enormous plant when a bouquet of flowers would have sufficed. Sadness: for feeling incapable of caring for a tree. Frustration: at not knowing how to handle the darn thing. And finally pain, which isn’t an emotion, but was a result of the above-mentioned dragging back and forth of a very heavy pot and plant.

It took me awhile to arrive at compassion.

Compassion is hard to conjure up. It’s definitely not the first thing we reach for when we are angry at others or disappointed in ourselves. It’s probably not what we think to channel when we feel fear. And it’s certainly not something we can demand — of ourselves or others. Maybe that’s because compassion, like a houseplant, must be cultivated, cared for and then shared, but never forced. Once we find a way to shuffle through those dominant and overwhelming emotions and reframe them through compassion, boy does the load feel lighter and the world look brighter. “A sympathetic consciousness of distress together with a desire to alleviate it” can transform confrontation to conversation, envy into joy, guilt into acceptance, or a struggling houseplant into daily motivation to act with intention.

“A human being is a part of the whole called by us universe, a part limited in time and space. He experiences himself, his thoughts and feeling as something separated from the rest, a kind of optical delusion of his consciousness. This delusion is a kind of prison for us, restricting us to our personal desires and to affection for a few persons nearest to us. Our task must be to free ourselves from this prison by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty.” ― Albert Einstein

Being responsible for one green(ish) living thing reminds me how powerful personal action is and helps me stay mindful of my emotions. It’s hard to be angry or frustrated resentful of something that is, in this case, dying because of me, right before my very eyes. Seeing my plant in pain sparked a desire to help. I wanted more than anything for that little piece of life to flourish: it had earned my undivided compassion.

Once I honed compassion for one small plant, it was easier to find compassion for the rest of the world around me. Plants have a way of reconnecting us with our ecosystem. They remind us that all things are living and that our smallest actions have the biggest consequences: on ourselves, on others and on the universe. They spur us to nurture compassion, to take action, each and every day. And when our baby plant starts to blossom (or heck, even if it dies), we can look around and see we’ve nourished (or tried) not just one little green guy, but part of the whole.

The truth is, if we can cough up compassion for a plant, we can probably dig around for compassion for ourselves. Then dole it out to friends and family and pass it along to strangers. And just maybe, if we start small, we can end big, creating through our actions a universe built on compassion for a stronger, more resilient earth and a kinder global community.

Epilogue: That potted plant ended up in a good home, just not mine. When it lost its last leaves I dragged it out to the sidewalk where it was promptly picked up by a neighbor promising to have a green thumb. Moral of the story: don’t tell my dad I killed his tree. And then conjure up a little compassion for me, and my plants.

Originally published at www.holstee.com.

Cultivating Compassion With (Dying) Plants was originally published in wander.wonder.write on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Last summer I wound up in Sicily for three weeks. Day one involved a very hot and rather dark room. A group of 20-something, mostly post-graduate, international students gathered for a program centered around food, innovation, and the Mediterranean diet. One of the very first classes led by a nutritionist was to discuss health. She challenged the group to define health. “A balanced diet.” “Sufficient physical activity paired with healthy eating.” “Feeling good.” It wasn’t until someone with a phone and a decent signal rattled off the World Health Organization’s (WHO) definition that we came to a pause: “A state of complete physical, mental, and social well-being, and not merely the absence of disease or infirmity.” And there it was. Complete well-being. Physical, mental and social.

The definition seemed perfect (as a definition should be). It covered the spectrum of elements that are needed to stay well and not merely be not sick. These days, well-being is a tag line. We want to be well — well and good, well and happy, well and whole. Sometimes at any cost or every cost. And we’re always looking for a way achieve it: quickly, easily, effortlessly. The way it can seem everyone else is doing it, except you.

The hard part is that by definition, well-being means having it all. For a long time, before I even considered the definition of health, I strived to be complete. And for me, this meant being perfect. I was a poster-child for “starting tomorrow” or “starting Monday” or “starting next year” and then that time would come, I’d adhere to my healthy resolution (morning runs, a food diary, daily journaling) for all of five minutes and the minute I made a mistake, I’d abandon ship. Frustrated, angry, disappointed. All or nothing.

I wanted to feel good, look good and be good. I wanted an Instagram-worthy diet filled with abundant greens. To be able to run 10K without huffing and puffing. A thigh gap straight out of Victoria’s Secret swimsuit catalog, all while maintaining a loving relationship, a super social life, while of course being financially successful and intellectually stimulated through work. If I do this, I thought, I’ll feel better. If only I had that, I’ll be better. When it came to well-being, I wanted to be perfect.

But that sort of health perfection was out of reach. It’s the comic carrot dangling in front of the running rabbit on a treadmill. Never. Going. To happen (to me). Every time I got one thing, something else slid out of control. Amazing boyfriend and solid relationship? Complete self-loathing when bathing suit season came along. Weekly yoga routine and some semblance of upper body strength? Enough daily tears to fill a reservoir in California. Active social life? Couldn’t even tie my shoes to get out of the door for a run. Perfect? Never.

As I pondered my accumulated years of health failures from that stifling basement in Italy, I felt a bit resentful that the WHO has, by definition, deemed me unhealthy because I just can’t fulfill their requirements.

Fast forward nine months. I find myself on another island: Bali. Here it’s all sunshine, abundance, beauty and sea. Pure vacation. I lie on my back in a room that smells of spearmint, a thin sheet covering my naked body, with tears streaming down face. Plump but firm hands hold my head, massaging my neck with purpose. My body is shaking, convulsing, and I’m crying in front of a complete stranger. And I don’t stop crying after he quietly lets me know the hour is up and the massage is over, leaving me to the whirring of the fan and the hot, wet mess of tears and snot covering my face.

I love spas. Massages. Manicures. Any sort of treatments. But this was different. This wasn’t a relaxation retreat or day spa. There were no bowls of scented flowers or tropical massage oils. I came in wanting to be relaxed and left feeling forgiven: feeling complete. The moment he laid his hands on my back, sussing out sore spots, I could feel my body surge with energy. By the end, when the flood of tears began I could feel that I was whole. All I had ever done wrong, to others, but mostly to myself, was past. All the things I felt guilty for (stretch marks, missing yoga, saying yes when I meant no, fear, hurt, missing morning runs, sadness), it all came pouring out. Only then did I feel well.

Being healthy isn’t being perfect. It isn’t someone else’s definition either, and it certainly isn’t following a carrot on a treadmill. Wellness is completeness and with that comes sometimes sadness, sometimes smiles, and sometimes a rocking fitness routine paired with a failing love life. It’s understanding and being aware that I will never have it all, or really, that I already do have it all. That it is ok for me to feel sad, for me to feel hurt, for me to feel ecstatic, confused, nervous or like I can conquer the world (and then fail). It’s permission to love myself and the forgiveness for letting myself down. And it’s hard to find.

I was lucky to capture a moment of well-being on the other side of the world, but believe me it hasn’t been easy to hold on to. I still judge myself for overindulging or skipping morning journaling. But I also remind myself that being well is a practice. I know I won’t find it by chasing after it on a treadmill, or idolizing the Mediterranean diet (A lie, by the way. It’s a lifestyle, and a scientifically shoddy one at that, in my opinion.) But maybe I’ll hold onto by accepting everything that I am: complete. Tears, fears, frustrations and all.

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Originally published at www.holstee.com.

Tears, Fears, Frustration and Feeling Complete was originally published in wander.wonder.write on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Looking back on the scientific history of plants you’ll find a jumble of Latin names, tales of plant incest, mass migration and most likely a whole lot of speculation, of course with a dash of traceable knowledge. There’s a bit of a thrill being able to (more or less) trace the origins of the foods we know today, but the history which we don’t know or can’t see has potential for a lot more excitement. From an anthropological standpoint, put yourself in the shoes of that first person who decided to make the leap from ornamental beauty (Aww, what a cute little berry with strange seeds outside) to edible attraction (Maybe it will be delicious if I stuff it all in my mouth?). Would you be so brave?

In this case, we’re talking about the strawberry. Today’s gigantic bright red berry, the Fragaria ananassa, is a superhero variety created by crossing the hearty North American F. virginiana and the large Chilean F. chileonsis sometime in the 18th century. But their smaller and more ancient woodland cousins have histories with humans that date to ancient times, when tough wild strawberries were deemed edible, but not delicious enough to eat in abundance. In fact, early mentions of the strawberry from the likes of Roman poets Ovid and Virgil were typically in reference to their decorative flair rather than any delicious taste.

By the 1300s the French were taking wild strawberries from the woods and cultivating them in their gardens, so someone must have had a taste for these early-blooming fruits. One of those someones was Madame Tallien, later the Princess of Chimay, a staple in Emperor Napoleon’s court. She was said to bathe in the juices of 22 pounds of strawberries. Quite an extravagance, but she may have been better off ingesting all that goodness. Strawberries have long been believed to improve appetite, treat poor digestion, prevent dental plaque and sooth a sore throat. In addition, strawberries have some of the highest percentage antioxidant content and are rich in vitamin C.

Strawberries are a sexy bunch, often interpreted as a sign of fertility and fecundity. Bravely displaying their seeds on their skin, strawberries can germinate even when soil isn’t present. Most cultivated garden strawberry plants last around three to four years, while the wild varieties (Fragaria vesca) might last up to ten. If you want to grow your own at home and indoors, woodland strawberries like the F. vesca ‘Alexandria’ can be a good fit as they don’t send out runners and stay compact in the pot.

The strawberry is decorative and delicate. It’s an early bloomer and a sign of optimism, bursting forth with flower and fruit even in the face of early frost. In some areas of Bavaria, farmers continue the practice of filling small baskets with wild strawberries and hanging them from their cattle’s horns. The bountiful baskets are offerings for forest elves, said to have a weakness for strawberries and willing to bring good fortune for healthy calves and plentiful milk in return for the fruit. Sounds like a fair trade!

Originally published at www.bulbolight.com.

Sneaking Strawberries: A Ripe Delight for Cooler Days was originally published in wander.wonder.write on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

If we were to ever be so naive as to judge a book by its cover, there’s no doubt this one would top the charts. The title is catchy and the vibrant images of we’re-not-quite-sure-what are set off from the stark black background, leaving any bookshelf browser intrigued. Even so, published in 2009 (softcover in 2012), it has taken awhile for this title to end up on our desks, despite being the serious plant lovers that we are.

In fact, the shocking images and engaging title are a carefully planned ploy from authors Wolfgang Stuppy, Madeline Harley and Rob Kesseler who know full well that the minute details of plant life are sometimes too tedious to attract the average reader. The two scientists and artist (respectively) previously collaborated on the creation of three books focusing on the details of plant life and their reproduction through pollen, seeds and fruits. The Bizarre and Incredible World of Plants is a visually driven compilation that takes the best of those detailed books and puts them into a single edition in an attempt to encourage engagement with a wider public audience.

What’s inside the mysterious cover? Pollen, seeds, and fruit: down to the very last detail. Using scanning electron microscopy to produce precise images of plants, Kesseler enhances what would be black and white stills with surreal colours, creating a microscopic world of wonder. In the introduction, the authors point out that the “mesmerising images lie somewhere between science and symbolism, sensual markers inviting further contact with unseen miracles of the natural world.”

While the graphics dazzle, delight and sometimes haunt (seeing scary pollinators like bats and rodents up close isn’t the most appealing), the text is dry and informational. Stuppy, a seed morphologist, and Harley, a palynologist (go ahead and Google it), both work for the Royal Botanic Gardens Kew. While they do their best to make the intricate details of plant survival accessible to the average reader, there’s a certain amount of concentration required to digest all the knowledge packed into this book.

What could pass as just a beautiful coffee table book is actually filled with information on how plants have survived and evolved over the past six hundred million years and the reproductive capacities that allow them to prosper without moving their roots. When all is said and done, the details of pollen, seeds and fruit come down to plant sex. “Perhaps without realizing what is going on, we enjoy watching some of the ways in which plants conduct their most private affairs: flowers are pleasing to the eye and often to the nose as well, and the fruits that follow bring pleasure to our palate,” point out the authors. Afterall, like most things in nature, plants are just trying to stay alive.

A quick skim will stimulate the imagination and provide a treasure trove of information on the tactics plants take to evolve and survive. The Bizarre and Incredible World of Plants reminds us that there are no accidents in nature, every form is functional.

Publisher: Firefly Books (2012)
Authors: Wolfgang Stuppy, Rob Kesseler, Madeline Harley
Language: English
Published in: Canada

Originally published at www.bulbolight.com.

The Bizarre and Incredible World of Plants was originally published in wander.wonder.write on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

“When in the mood to make eggs green // (To clarify just what I mean, Not ‘eco’ green, like Prius cars // But coloured green, like men from Mars) // In the metal pan you should // Consider only what tastes good. // Rule out at once the croquet lawn, // The waistcoat of a leprechaun…”

So begins the entry under Basil & Egg in Niki Segnit’s The Flavour Thesaurus, a compendium of flavour combinations that range from the obvious perfect pair to the charming but unsuspecting duo. The same pages that celebrate favourites like almond & vanilla or blue cheese & pear delve into more bizarre combos like coffee & ginger and tomato & cloves. Segnit went ahead and choose 99 diverse flavours to explore through 16 different categories including the likes of Green & Grassy, Earthy, Spicy, Marine and Creamy Fruity. The result is nothing short of a magical anthology that is quirky but informative, yummy but adventurous, and more than likely to find a prized spot on your bookshelf or bedside table.

After analysing the well-worn pages of her own cookbook collection, British-born Segnit found herself wondering, “Had I ever really learned to cook? Or was I just reasonably adept in following instructions?” It was just the inspiration she needed to make her own foray into the world of culinary science, history and human taste to come up with a book that suggests ways to cook, prepare and pair food without the absolute rigidity of following a recipe. Even limiting herself to just 99 flavours, Segnit points out that would mean 4,851 possible combinations. While she admittedly doesn’t detail each and every one, the 300 plus pages are filled with inventive combinations and unusual descriptors.

The result is nothing short of a magical anthology that is quirky but informative, yummy but adventurous, and more than likely to find a prized spot on your bookshelf or bedside table.

Bacon & banana? “Not the least bit sophisticated, but fun,” writes Segnit. In the Green and Grassy category, one will find the likes of saffron, anise, cucumber, dill, parsley, cilantro, avocado, pea, bell pepper and chili. And don’t expect the pairings to be simple or subtle. Under the saffron & anise section, Segnit hints that the delicate saffron is “best unchaperoned” but that if you dig deep and let a single thread of the golden beauty melt on your tongue, notes of liquorice are evident. “You’ll also notice,” she goes on, “that the next time you look in the mirror, that your teeth are the colour of a leering Dickensian villain.”

It’s this playfulness so loosely dispersed in what could have been a monotonous anthology that makes The Flavour Thesaurus such an easy read. Expansive in many ways but limited in others, Segnit acknowledges the infusion her own subjectivity in the book’s introduction. “Other omissions,” she writes, “like zucchini, might strike you as odd: all I can say to the zucchini fan is a) sorry, and b) this book makes no claims to be the last word on the subject.” Perhaps it is impossible to get the last word on something like flavour, but if you’re looking for a good word, try Segnit’s: it is bound to entertain.

Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing (2010)
Author: Niki Segnit
Original language: English
Published in: New York

Originally published at www.bulbolight.com.

The Flavour Thesaurus: Witty Words and Creative Combos was originally published in wander.wonder.write on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Bree Claffey opened Mr Kitly in Melbourne, Australia in 2010 because of her fascination with indoor plants. Years of living in Japan and visits to urban environments like Brooklyn inspired her to create the current shop, which plays the part of gallery and architecture studio as well. Designed for plant lovers like herself, she sells plants, pots and home objects. Indoor Green is a hardcover, glossy paged passion project realised through Claffey’s network of houseplant aficionados around the world that enters into the plant-filled homes and workspaces of creatives all over.

“This book presents a unique opportunity to explore notions of decor, and to ask deeper questions of how and why we find aesthetic pleasure in plants,” says Claffey in the introduction. “Plants are gorgeous, multifarious, messy and real and can inspire all kinds of action and reflection,” she says.

Indoor Green certainly doesn’t feel messy: it’s a bright, glowing and carefully curated compendium of interviews, essays and houseplant care tips — a worthy exploration of how to live with plants indoors.

Jewellers, architects, ceramicists, designers and even avid orchid-collectors are all interviewed about their life with plants: from New York City to the heart of Sydney and across the globe to Japan. From just outside of Melbourne, Irene and Peter Selzer run the design studio Iggy and Lou Lou where they create jewellery and homewares. Their home is quilted with vines of green, natural light, and carefully chosen accessories that give it a farmhouse feel in a suburban, seaside setting. Their response to how they approach houseplant care? “Look around. If plants look happy, don’t water them. If they don’t look happy, water them.”

Claffey also interviews Joe Crawford, retired police officer and a lifetime orchid collector. With somewhere around 200–300 orchids among the greenhouses in his home, Crawford has been collecting rare and also native Australian species of orchids since the 60s, when he first attended an orchid show in Melbourne.

At the start of each profile, readers get a brief run-down of the person and plants being portrayed in the following pages. Crawford’s plant list stretches long, but his favourite orchid is the Paphiopedilum. He keeps all of his orchids in greenhouses outdoors and surmises that many people find orchid care difficult because of the conditions of an average home: “We need warm, dry conditions to live in. They like to be warm, moist and airy with plenty of wind around them,” he points out.

Interspersed among the intimate interviews are candid and clever essays from influencers in everything from design to botany. In a quick bit entitled How to grow fresh air by Dr. B.C. Wolverton, the retired NASA scientist, maps out the best plants for filtering the air from pollutants. An accompanying table sheds light on the most common indoor plants and their efficiency in keeping the air clean. While mostly practical in advice, Dr. Wolverton also shares his own experience with an intricate filtering and hydroponic plant growing system involving waste water from his bathroom, plants and goldfish. Perhaps this section merits a Don’t try this at home without supervision warning!

At the end of the book, you’ll find practical plant profiles detailing how to care for ten of the most popular houseplants, from Devil’s Ivy to the Pony Tail Palm, while the last pages include an index of scientific names of indoor plants and general care tips. It’s rewarding to find a book that mixes the practical with the fanciful and Indoor Green does just that, deep diving into a world where green guides daily life.

Publisher: Thames & Hudson (2015)
Author: Bree Claffey
Language: English
Published in: Australia

Originally published at www.bulbolight.com.

Indoor Green: A Book Review of Life with Plants was originally published in wander.wonder.write on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

If you’re looking for a traditional recipe magazine, turn right around. Gather is no average-joe magazine for home cooks pressed for time. It’s an intellectual journey of “seasonal recipes and exceptional ideas” created by a cast of contributors (food stylists, renowned journalists, famous photographers) from the food world and beyond, with credentials that are impossible to list. It has won a James Beard award, an Art Director’s Club Award, and twelve Society of Publication Designers Medals, so it’s no wonder that each biannual volume is so highly coveted (and quite costly). But we do love that 10% of proceeds from the sale of each issue are donated to Edible Schoolyard NYC and the Food Bank for New York City, which makes reading even more worthwhile.

Each issue centres around a larger theme that is then dissected and reworked into smaller sections throughout the magazine. Recipes share space with personal essays, factual anecdotes and photos that are worthy of a frame. The Winter 2016 volume, Origin, is a journey into the world of natural history inspired by New York’s American Museum of Natural History, with each chapter modelled after one of the sections of the museum: Geology, Ocean, Fossils, Biodiversity, Space, The Ages, and Crystal Visions.

We’re particularly attached to this volume because it explores a theme so near-and-dear to our vision. Writes Editor Fiorella Valdesolo in her opening letter, “Natural history, by its simplest definition, the study and story of nature in all its forms, is about expanding the human spirit; about opening our hearts and minds to the phenomena at work all around us.” The way Gather celebrates nature is striking. Recipes like Crystal Shrimp Dumplings give us drool-worthy photos and a satisfyingly simple meal, but turn the page and you’ll be lost in a poetic reflection on symbiotic relationships among species (the sea anemone and the clown fish) and food (sea salt and chocolate). The contrast in content is constantly surprising, and each volume can be savoured for quite a bit of time.

And while Ocean and Space might just have our favourite photos, the Biodiversity section is talking our talk. Who knew that in Victorian-era England people were so crazy for ferns there was a medical term to describe the madness: pteridomania? Or how about Laura Silverman’s blurb on the Secret Strife of Plants that claims, “Plants can hear you chewing and they don’t like it,”? These so-called “exceptional ideas” leave us continually curious and wanting more. Each page holds a treasure trove of information, emotion and insight into the natural world, and what’s better than that?

Editor: Fiorella Valdesolo
Issue: Volume 5, Issue 8 (Winter 2016)
Published in: NYC

Originally published at www.bulbolight.com.

Gather: Recipes to Explore the Natural World was originally published in wander.wonder.write on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Botanical gardens may seem like neatly curated natural playgrounds for city dwellers seeking a bit of green, but in fact, early botanic gardens (known as physic gardens and first established in 16th and 17th century Italy), were initially created with an eye towards scientific research, conservation and exploration of plants. A botanical garden remains, by definition, a place of scientific study rather than a simple spot of pure reverence for the plant world. But let’s be honest, often our attraction to these lush gardens is more on account of nature’s beauty rather than an urgent interest in the scientific names of plant species.

When it comes to present day botanical gardens, the Royal Botanic Gardens Kew at the edge of London are at the head of the pack. Founded in 1759 and stretching across 300 acres of land, their living collection contains over 30,000 different types of plants. Meanwhile, preserved in their herbarium are over seven million plant specimens making it one of the largest in the world. Not only is it one of London’s top tourist attractions, but this UNESCO World Heritage Site is a leader in plant and fungal research. Their mission? “To be the global resource for plant and fungal knowledge, building an understanding of the world’s plants and fungi upon which all our lives depend.”

It’s a big task they’ve taken on, but perhaps a bigger challenge is broadcasting the abundant knowledge stored behind the scenes at Kew. With around 250 scientists and 100 or more PhD students and research fellows, Kew is producing information that reaches far beyond what the average garden visitor sees. That’s why, in 2012, Kew reached out to Lonelyleap, a creative studio that specialises in storytelling through film. The collaboration produced a five-part film series by the title of Beyond the Gardens. The aim was to invite the general audience into the realm of valuable work that Kew is doing in the name of plant cataloguing and conservation.

The videos are short but captivating, allowing a mesmerising glimpse into a world so few know exist. Together, the five episodes, The Fungarium, The Forgotten Home of Coffee, The Plant Family Tree, Crop Wild Relatives and The Future of Taxonomy bring to life a story that begins 500 million years ago and continues today, thanks in part to the work being done at Kew. The present-day botanical world was built on foundations of green as algae slowly made its way from sea to land. It’s difficult to grasp today’s botanical diversity (accepted estimates guess at around 400,000 species) which means that it’s also difficult to understand the alarmingly quick rate at which we are losing species (again, a conservative estimate would be that 1 in 5 plant species are endangered). Laura Martinez, a postdoctoral researcher at Kew points out, “If you don’t know how many species you have, you cannot begin to conserve them.”

Live plants have enough of a tough time attracting human interest so the cataloguing of dead specimens might not seem the most appealing. But Lonelyleap will change your mind. The five different episodes explore vastly different concepts yet manage always to make their focus relevant to human interest by framing their stories around the knowledgeable staff at Kew and our human reliance on the vegetal realm (from our collective coffee addiction to our unacknowledged gratitude to fungi in their support of plants).

The Lonelyleap team for the Beyond the Garden series consisted of Simon Waldron, co-founder and creative partner of the London branch, Shaun Spark, in creative and post-production, and Sophia Doe, producer (who has since left Lonelyleap to study Visual Anthropology at Goldsmiths University London). Says Shaun, “Lonelyleap has a very collaborative approach to producing films. Many people worked across different disciplines to create the Beyond the Gardens series.” An approach that most certainly pays off.

Lonelyleap brings together the science, the people, and the plants of Kew. Their videos are much more than a mere presentation of knowledge. They are a call to collective action: To further plant awareness. To acknowledge plant evolution. To understand and appreciate each small step that goes into conserving the diversity of the global ecosystem.

We had a chance to talk with the Lonelyleap team about the collaborative process with Kew and what it meant for them in terms of expanding the human/plant relationship.

[illuminate] What was your reaction when Kew reached out? Did you know about the work they were doing with the cataloguing of plants?[Lonelyleap] When Kew reached out to work with us, no one in our team knew about their long history of botanical research. These days Kew Gardens is advertised to the public primarily as a beautiful botanical garden. Sadly, their libraries and archives of knowledge are not well known outside of the scientific community. It’s difficult to describe our films with Kew to others as most people can’t believe that this catalogue exists!

Did they have a vision or were you given a blank slate?

Our first project with them was for an exhibition inside their botanical gardens, about the Millennium Seed Bank, a giant underground archive of over a billion seeds. From the beginning, we knew we wanted to explore the depth of the institution and bring to focus just how vital Kew’s work is in conserving the world’s plants today. We didn’t want to make pretty films with no substance! Kew agreed with us that the beauty of these films should come from honest interviews that get to the heart of the matter.

How did you decide on what aspects of their work to focus on (it’s such a large undertaking) for your series?

We worked closely with Kew to decide which areas of their institution needed our spotlight. They have many departments and all of them are busy cataloguing and exchanging knowledge with industry and scientists. We wouldn’t say that there is a single reason that we developed the series of films we did, they all serve different purposes and we approached each one with fresh eyes. Whatever that particular story needed, that’s how the project unfolds. We’re sure there are many more films worth making with Kew!

What do you find fascinating about plant conservation?What’s fascinating about plant conservation is how broad and mysterious it still is. Humans tend to care more about animal conservation because we love the idea of protecting cute panda bears, but plants are just as important to the eco-system and are being destroyed at a faster rate than we can keep track of. Last year, in 2015, over 2,000 new species of plant were recorded! Some of these new specimens could help us find new properties for medicines. If an institution like Kew isn’t supported fully, then we risk losing knowledge of our world as we know it.

How do you see your stories playing a role in the interaction between plants and humans?

What we tried to do with this series was invite the audience into the world of plant conservation through close portraits of the staff that work there. For instance, the Mycology assistant Begoña, who catalogued thousands of specimens in our Fungarium film still had a real sense of excitement about what she did. By spending time with her and allowing those eccentricities into the film, a barrier is broken down and the audience can relate to the gardens much easier. Ultimately, we are all fascinated by how strange and wonderful the natural world is, whether you’re the manager of Kew Gardens or a child watching our films.

Why is it important for a broad, general audience to understand this work that goes on behind the scenes at Kew?

We want to be realistic about the goals of our filmmaking. We’re not expecting a sudden million person rush to Kew’s website to donate money. It’s more about changing attitudes over time, creating a platform for Kew to simply explain that they are much more than just a pretty garden. Our films have already made impacts on a governmental, policy making level. The coffee conservation film The Forgotten Home of Coffee was played to a council at the UN Climate Change Conference in Paris last year!

What was most difficult in telling the Beyond the Garden story?

As always, the difficulty in telling the story was the balance of showing against telling. The topics are always very rich visually, we all love the look of plants and flowers, but also very complex and layered. How far do you go in explaining the scientific endeavours in detail? Do you risk losing parts of your audience? Some of the films were lighter and more stylistically driven than others, like The Plant Family Tree. Whereas The Forgotten Home Of Coffee, for example, relied upon the audience already enjoying coffee to carry them through the more academic sections.

What was your main goal in the Beyond the Garden stories?

Our main goal with the Beyond the Garden series is to change perceptions of who Kew Gardens are, bringing new audiences to an often overlooked institution. As we mentioned earlier, only those in the scientific community really understand that Kew is providing such a vital service to the world. They are actually going through a funding crisis at the moment, struggling to raise enough money to continue their research across the world. We hope that our series of films can reach new networks of audiences and that those may then keep it alive when a petition needs signing. Knowledge is power!

Do you look at plants differently now?

Of course! We have thousands of beautiful illustrations sent to us by Kew, drawn as that species was first discovered. Our research has led us to some amazing discoveries. There are over 100 species of coffee in Ethiopia alone, and we only use two of them in the rest of the world to make the drink. We have a large print in our studio of the plant family tree we illustrated for our Kew film! It lives with us every day.

Originally published at www.bulbolight.com/illuminate

Plant Storytelling: The Creative Unveiling of the Royal Botanic Gardens Kew was originally published in wander.wonder.write on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Imagine a time when vegetables were so cherished that they were cast in precious metals and showcased in temples, dedicated to (sometimes) faithful Gods. It sounds like any plant lover’s dream, but in fact was a reality of ancient Greece, or so the story goes. Golden radishes, silver beets and lead turnips were offered to the god Apollo.Root vegetables are easy to dismiss as the ugly step-sisters of more elegant veggies, like mesmerising Romanesco broccoli or Pantone inspired Rainbow Chard, but they hold their own in terms of flavour, variety and sophistication. There was a reason the radish was cast in gold, a reason we may not exactly know, but we can take it as a hint to pay respect to this oft-overlooked root.

Today the radish is more often celebrated for its easy and quick cultivation, but then ignored when it comes to inventive or consistent consumption. Any novice gardener knows just how easy it is to sow the seeds, wait a couple weeks, and pull up bunches of beautiful red, round, and perky bulbs. But often the novelty of their simple harvest wears off and the bulbous roots grow soggy while the luscious greens turn yellow, hidden in the back of the fridge. Because Europe is mostly accustomed to the petite spring and fall varieties, we are also in the habit of eating them raw where their spicy bite is best appreciated. However, to discount the many ways to consume the radish is as big of a mistake as thinking that the only radish available are small, rosy-red buttons we see on supermarket shelves.

Radishes are in fact more diverse than the average store might suggest. A member of the Brassicaceae family (with cabbage, mustard greens, and kale among many of their cousins) radish varieties range widely in size, shape and colour. What we see today of Raphanus sativus, the scientific classification of the colloquial radish, has been shaped over centuries by human selection from its original form native to western Asia. Popular are the ‘French Breakfast’ with their snowy white tip and pink gradients, or the typical ‘Cherry Belle’ with their bright red outside and stark white inner flesh. The ‘Giant of Sicily’ is an Italian heirloom that doesn’t come from Sicily at all, but rather Italy’s other island, Sardinia, and is known for a sweet, crisp taste. An unusual sight to behold is the ‘Black Spanish’ with a rough black skin, white flesh and either round or oblong shape. Perhaps even less common to the typical Western market are the Asian winter varieties that include the ‘Daikon’ and the ‘Chinese Red Meat,’ with the ‘Daikon’ growing upwards of three kilos and pushing 25 cm in length!

The radish family is varied not just in looks, but also tastes. Each distinct variety is suited for a different preparation. Larger more starchy varieties do well roasted or braised or made into stocks, while brighter and smaller varieties show more kick when eaten raw, but are equally delectable pickled, flash sauteed or grated into a satisfying slaw. What is commonly considered the spicy or pungent flavour of the radish is formed by an enzyme reaction that creates a volatile mustard oil. This spiciness is mostly concentrated in the skin so peeling will remove potency while cooking halts the enzyme reaction, tempering the strong flavour. The French are famous for serving up just-plucked radish with the greens still intact and dipping them into butter with a dash of salt for an enticing appetiser. Their greens, known to be bearers of vitamin A and C, and rich in calcium, are popular in soups or as spicy additions to salads. Fermented dishes like Nepal’s Gundruk soup made with radish leaves or India’s Sinki that utilises the root have been around for centuries.

Archaeological evidence suggests they were one of the first crops, alongside wheat, fava beans and peas, that early Europeans survived on. Additionally, it’s said that the radish itself was given to feed the labourers building the pyramids of Egypt. Even today in Oaxaca, Mexico, the tradition of showcasing the radish root continues on December 23 of each year. Shopkeepers carve elaborate scenes and designs from the root to attract customers to their stores for last minute Christmas shopping. A hotly contested competition, the history of this night and the celebration of the radish dates back about 1,000 years.

When it comes to radish consumption don’t be shy. Seek out a rare variety or check out what’s popular at your local market. If you’re impatient and stubborn, the radish could be your new best-growing buddy, as they are hard to kill, easy to seed and delicious to eat. While the fresh bite of a tender spring radish warrants little more than a dash of salt and maybe a dab of butter, we suggest throwing them in your favourite pickling mix to get a fermented treat that will do you well.

Originally published at www.bulbolight.com/illuminate

The Radish: A History Rooted in Ancient Times was originally published in wander.wonder.write on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.