The Plants of Lower Lake

Proof that I really have moved back from the World of Administration:  I just spent the afternoon reading by Lower Lake.  Mount Holyoke is truly gorgeous; last week it was put on a list of the 15 most beautiful campuses in the world.  And I work here.  Life is good.  The ability to read by Lower Lake is one of the things I missed most in my travels through Administratia.  I never had three hours free in which I could ditch my shoes, wander over to the lake, lounge in an Adirondack chair, and just read. 

Now as I said, Mount Holyoke is gorgeous, and I really noticed it today.  Which brings us to Roald Dahl’s “The Sound Machine.”  [Note: this is not the book I was reading today; a review of that tome will have to wait until its argument, make that its quite interesting argument, has time to sift in the mind for a bit.]  [Second Note:  yes, this is the Roald Dahl of children’s book fame.  He was also a writer of short stories for adults.]  Our hero invents a sound machine which can hear sounds on frequencies beyond those which can be sensed by the human ear.  He discovers that plants emit sounds when they are wounded, sounds which are not quite like yelps of pain, but more akin to shock (apparently plants don’t have memories of previous wounds?).  (Wounding a plant includes such things as cutting off its flowers and driving an axe into it.  (The preceding explanation was provided for those whose imaginations could not generate an example of a wounded plant. (Let us hope that there are no Readers who actually Required Said Explanation.)))

As a story…forget that.  I promised (myself) to stop complaining about “Short Stories.”

Staring at all the amazing plants today got me wondering:  would that which makes plants worth admiring be enhanced or degraded if “The Sound Machine” was right?  I’ve been thinking a bit about the nature of Nature in recent weeks.  For our 25^th wedding anniversary (insert “Ah, that’s sweet”), Janet and I journeyed up to the Coastal Maine Botanical Garden.  Janet likes gardens; always has.  She is, indeed, obsessed with plants.  I, on the other hand, have only lately come to an appreciation of all matters plant-like.  (I feigned an interest when courting; Janet feigned an interest in football; so I think we are even on that score.)  Gardens did it.  A perfectly planned garden would surely rate among the Great Works of Art. The Coastal Maine Botanical Garden is a great work (small g, small w) of art.  So, is Mount Holyoke.  Now one part of what makes these Gardens so beautiful is their inherent transient nature; gardens change, constantly.  Not just seasons, but weather and wind patterns and sunlight and rainfall all make the garden look slightly different than before.  Truly beautiful.  None of this is at all surprising to the Reader.

But, what if these plants had the ability to emit sound?  Indeed, what if they were conscious?  Would I be more or less enraptured in staring at their beauty?  Would I be terrified of them?  Would I feel so free to rip out the weeds which surrounded my chair in order to enhance the pleasure I felt in reading there on a pleasant summer day?  I’m not sure.  There are two large trees which are right outside the window of my office when I look up from my computer screen.  Those trees have been there for as long as I have been in this office (they predate me by decades—big trees).  I know those trees.  What if they knew me?  Would that thought cheer me?

Now don’t get me wrong.  I don’t think plants are sentient.  The thought experiment is simply whether I would be happy, terrified or indifferent if I found out I was wrong about that.  I don’t know.

So, we can conclude with an Imperfect Song about the Most Perfect Garden: Eden.