'Release from the Relentless Consciousness of Self'

Seamus Heaney somewhere said true poets always know the names of wildflowers. Certainly, he knew “Lupines,” and his poem “A Herbal” is a veritable bouquet:  

“Between heather and marigold,

Between spaghnum and buttercup,

Between dandelion and broom,

Between forget-me-not and honeysuckle . . .”

 

I’ve just learned that Ruth Schottman, an Austrian-born biologist and author of Trailside Notes: A Naturalist's Companion to Adirondack Plants (1998), died last month at age ninety-eight. She lived in Burnt Hills, N.Y., north of Albany. I interviewed her several times, wrote about her book, accompanied her on tramps through the woods, especially in the spring, and relied on her when I had a botanical question. Though not a poet, she lived up to Heaney’s claim and confidently identified every flower, tree, sedge, grass and fungus we encountered. Remarkable, considering that her first language was German and so many plants are known by common, folk and scientific names. Her obituary quotes a passage from Trailside Notes:

 

“I have learned one general principle from observing nature and reading about it: there are many ways of coping with life. For some of us, nature watching is a release from the relentless consciousness of self. We find joy in empathy with other organisms. . . .  No matter how old you are, new discoveries—new to you—await you on every outing.”

 

The Louisiana poet Gail White speaks for the rest of us, the bumblers in the woods who wish we knew more, in “I Come to the Garden” (Asperity Street, 2015):

 

 “I can name so few flowers. This is why

I’m not a better poet. Shakespeare knew

oxlip and gillyvor and eglantine,

while I, beyond camellia, violet, rose,

and lily, am reduced to saying, ‘There,

those crinkly yellow things!’ Out on a walk

with mad John Clare, I’d learn a dozen names

for plants, and bless the wonders underfoot.

‘More servants wait on man,’ George Herbert said,

‘than he’ll take notice of.’ I know it’s true,

 although I’ve never had observant eyes.

 Would I care more if my heart’s soil were deep

 enough for herbs and loves to take firm root?

 Mine is a gravel garden, where the rake

 does all the cultivation I can take.”