For the first time in many years, I started gardening again this year. I've lived in a duplex with a backyard for over three years now, and I promised myself when I moved into an apartment with an actual yard that I'd garden. I've always loved plants, and there's always a certain, special novelty about nurturing something from a small seed or seedling into a thriving, happy plant.

All “plant people” must feel like plants nurture their own mental wellness. But for folks like myself with neurodivergence, it's almost as if there's a secret special gas gauge inside of us, primed for delight, that's fueled by random and unplanned explorations in nature — and by discovering how to keep a plant alive. So it seems natural for us to be gardening and exploring the wilds outside our own backyards.

Except that I haven't. Usually because of a perpetual cage match that squares off my inner child against my perfectionism, my health anxiety, and my internalized ableism.

I often avoid social situations where I'd have to participate in any one activity for a sustained period of time: whether that's a half-day canoe trip, a three-hour pottery class, or a day-long gardening workshop. I know that I can't do any of these things safely for very long. And if I can't be average in a group, in a supportive social environment, is it safe to haphazardly try to do anything on my own?

It always seems like the answer is no, but that's only if I listen to my fears rather than my long-suffering inner child. The answer should be an exuberant yes. Yes, every person deserves to experience delight. Yes, every person deserves to appreciate nature in a slow-paced way that doesn't overwhelm their ability to care for themselves. Yes, everyone deserves magic.

So I decided to try to garden in a haphazard, unplanned, and potentially deeply mediocre way this spring. And so far, I haven't killed anything. I have, admittedly, let all my cilantro go to seed. More than one member of the mint family on my fledgling front porch garden has developed permanent sunburns. I also, regrettably, have entirely forgotten what I even planted in a few pots.

But I did still discover magic in the process; a slow-moving magic that doesn't require any effort or intervention at all. You just need a brief window of opportunity to observe it in progress.

More often than not, the window of opportunity for me is a stormy day. The sun will briefly come out, like it usually does. And then clouds will converge and a storm may break. And then, just as quickly, the open blossoms of the calendula plants in terracotta pots on my front porch will suddenly close up like a tiny fist.

This reactive quality is shared by other members of the daisy family, a name that many etymology enthusiasts have traced back to the word to dægesege, or an Old English turn of phrase for "day's eye". Like calendula, daisy flowers open and close in sync with the movement of the sun.

Every day, if I notice one of my calendula flowers before it's fully open I feel like I'm in on a little secret. And in a way, I really am.

According to an herbalism concept commonly known as the doctrine of signatures, observable attributes of a plant can be subtle cues to their unspoken medicinal purpose. The night-blooming behavior of Jasmine, for example, nods to the way in which the flowers can serve as an aid for individuals in need of cooling, calming, and soothing. Chaga mushrooms, a parasitic growth that predominantly forms on Birch trees, look like a bulbous, cancerous mass — a clue, it would seem, to what researchers have discovered in clinical studies: that the growths can be helpful as an adjunctive therapy in the treatment of cancer.

And calendula? What does its yellow, fluttery petals and reactivity to the sun say about its medicinal benefits?

If you have a kid, or two, you may be thinking, “well it’s beneficial in butt cream.” And yes, that’s true. And it’s certainly where the sun does not shine.

In western herbalism, the flowers are used to alleviate the vagaries of diaper rash as well as to alleviate all manner of other skin-related boo-boos: such as bug bites, burns, scrapes, and eczema. There are also many more numerous uses for it within western herbalism that I won’t attempt to comment on.

But there is one much more subtle one that I will.

The flower that reacts to the brilliant optimism embodied by the rising of the sun has a surprising, paradoxical affiliation: with grief. The herbalist and founder of the Chestnut School of Herbal Medicine, Juliet Blankespoor, notes in her book The Healing Garden, “Most modern herbalists don’t use calendula as one of their primary antidepressant herbs, but it was traditionally used by early European herbalists in this capacity, and I’ve seen it help many folks with their mood over the years.”

In their calendula monograph on the Rowan + Sage Herbaria website, the herbalists Sarah Corbett and Sabrina Nelson add that calendula brings a "...sunny disposition to those who are feeling like the light has gone out within, often due to relational harm. It's especially suited to people who feel cold and sluggish, have poor circulation and feel depressed or disconnected from themselves.”

This subtle side of herbalism is what I feel like I have barely scratched the surface on: how plants can intrinsically spark hope inside of us. How they can help us feel joy. And how they can help us simply get outside and observe instead of giving into the pressure of outdoors culture to conquer something that feels “spectacular” enough for social media.

…

They’re there for us when we have any kind of heat rash, too, though. That’s real.

Further Reading

• Calendula by Sarah Corbett and Sabrina Nelson, 2023, Rowan + Sage Herbaria.
• The Healing Garden by Juliet Blankespoor, 2022.