Many years ago, I was given great advice on how to take better photographs, especially of subjects like the wildflowers that I love. That advice was to get the image focused and framed well, and then to take in a long breath, hold it and slowly breathe out. At the end of the exhale, snap the picture. This is similar to the concept of Chi energy found in Asian philosophies and martial arts. 

I don’t know about y’all, but I’m getting excited for the return of wildflowers.  

In Southern Appalachia, we’ve had a real winter this season with long, extended cold snaps and a couple of good, region-wide snow and ice storms. Now we’re looking at a few weeks of warmer weather ahead, and in mid-February that means the emergence and bloom of the first of the spring wildflowers. 

When you see a plant growing, flowering and fruiting in a garden, field, forest or pot you’re only seeing a part and not the whole. Much of the plant exists below the ground in the soil in the form of roots. It’s common to think that half of the plant is aboveground — stems, flowers and leaves — and half is below the ground in the roots, but this is not true across the board. 

Plants grow in soil. It is plant roots that hold soil in the ground in fields and forests, and along creekbanks, streambanks and riverbanks. When floods come again — and they will — having plants like shrubs, trees and wildflowers growing along and up to the waterline will help ensure that the banks do not fail.

I think a lot about native plants. In fact, it is the subject of most everything I do, from the weekly wildflower walks I lead during the growing season, to the many classes, workshops and presentations I offer throughout the year. And I write about native plants in these columns that I produce twice a month. My focus is on plants that are native to the southern Appalachian Mountains and Western North Carolina. 

I’m a fairly serious person, usually sticking with facts, data and science. But occasionally I enjoy a good joke or a bout of silliness. Actually, anyone who has been reading these columns or has been on a walk among the wildflowers with me knows that silly puns and jokes are my bread and butter. 

As the fall winds blow the remaining leaves from deciduous trees and the plants have gone dormant for the season, the bones of the mountains and skeletal shapes of the trees come into view. Especially on snowy days, when the fallen snow lays on both forest floor and the branches of trees and shrubs, creating a stark outline of the forms of both hills and limbs. 

In autumn, large trees like maples (Acer spp.), hickories (Carya spp.) and Oaks (Quercus spp.) get all the attention for their vivid fall leaf color. And that esteem is well deserved, along with smaller trees like flowering dogwood (Benthamidia florida), blackgum (Nyssa sylvatica) and sourwood (Oxydendron arboreum), these colorful trees bring the tourists and their cameras each fall. 

I have been thinking a lot about healing lately. How it happens, how long it can take and the differences between healing emotional wounds and physical wounds, not to mention psychic and spiritual wounds. And to no one’s surprise, I’ve been thinking about plants: how they heal themselves, how they help heal the land, and how they help us in our own healing of body and spirit. 

There is almost no flower in the Southern Mountains deeper in purple color than the ironflowers (Vernonia spp.) blooming now in unmown ditches and fallow fields all around Western North Carolina and across the Southeast.