Katherine Smith, a local from Pinebluff, is
an Alaskan greenhorn and accidental poet.
She’s currently working in Chugach National
Forest, living to make life that is art.
THROUGH THE MUSCADINE continued
THROUGH THE MUSCADINE con't. next column
"Have a Sunny Day."
Illustration by L. S. Crain, Southern Pines.
Of the Same Humus
by Katherine Smith
Artemisia absinthium, Avena sativa, Angelica
archangelica. The true names of plants are
ancient poetry. Close your eyes and speak them
aloud, and you’ll brush up against a row of beesought
inflorescence with the exotic fruit on
your tongue.
Genus is a plant’s capitalized generic name.
Derived from Latin or Greek, mythological
figures, or plant characteristics, it classifies
a group of related species. Species is the
lowercased specific trait, classifying a group of
plants capable of breeding. Once organized by
the similarities of reproductive parts, plants are
now partitioned to families by their DNA.
A plant’s scientific, binomial name tells
its story. Oplopanax horridus translates to
something like “bristly, wild” (horridus) “all
weapon” (panax, oplo), referring to both Devil’s
Club’s physical body and its medicinal potency
against tuberculosis, bronchitis, rheumatism,
arthritis, and infection. Matricaria chamomilla
translates to “dear mother chamomile” and
is advisable for soothing menstrual cramps
and stimulating lactation. Goldenrod’s genus
Solidago translates to “healthy and strong”
(soldare) and “to make whole or solid” (ago),
referring to the plant’s topical healing abilities.
Plants’ full names are first awkward and
unfamiliar to our English-centric diction. To
speak them is to speak their meaning, presenting
us with the active and alive relationship between
our physiology, psychology, and theirs. It is
to address friends and guardians and trail our
fellow ancestors. Just like that, we are ushered
over the hedges of speaking to the land of
language. The language of the natural world
is ephemeral, written in cyclical time,
punctuated by the shades of moon,
sun and star light, by the many
syllables of silence. It is our
native tongue.
Like ours, plants’ names
animate their character, their
medicine or poison, who
named them, and to whom
they are relations. When we
call plants by their names,
we identify them with a living
legacy as profound as our
own, and something shifts
in us both. As Katherine
Elizabeth, I am the pure and
clear oath of God’s satiating
bounty. My paternal line is
named for metal smiths, and
my maternal line for tribal
leaders. Knowing my name
gives me intimacy into a
earthen legend I was born to
be a part of.
In the ancient world, a name was a prophecy,
a symbol, and the very nature and essence of the
given being. It could be divinely changed after
trial or trauma. We think of Abram to Abraham;
Jacob to Israel. A name change had the power
to henceforth alter the course of the individual’s
life. Eve is the “Mother of all living,” designated
as the “helpmeet.” The Hebrew word from
whence we get helpmeet is “ezer.” Ezer originally
had two roots. One meant “power” and the
other meant “strength.” Ezer is used twice in
reference to woman, three times to life-saving
rescue, and 16 times in reference to God. There
is emancipation in the utterance of our true
names. Adam literally means “ground man,” as
related to adamah, the Hebrew word for ground
or earth.
Names are important solely because of their
meaning. Human is derived from the Latin
humanus. The etymological roots are the Latin
homo, meaning “same” and “man,” humus
meaning “earth” or “ground,” and the Proto-
Indo-European root dhghem-, meaning “earth.”
God spoke the world into creation, where
humans and plants were borne of the same
humus. To speak the true name, to whittle down
to etymological marrow, reminds us of our
emergence; our kinship with the natural world.
To know our name changes the course and
intention of life, if only we will live up to it.
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No. 130 The Pinehurst Gazette, Inc. p.33
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