My introduction to plant identification came through herbalism and the desire to know the plants so I could harvest them for medicinal use without poisoning myself.
This process transformed my relationship with nature, creating an intimacy with plants I hadn’t experienced since my lonely adolescent wanderings through the meadows behind my house.
As I sought the healing plants, I became obsessed with identifying every weed I encountered. Forests, however, remained boring to me, associated with memories of long, tedious hikes in the woods with my parents when I was small.
Then someone gave me a book on tree identification, and the world of the woods opened up to me. For two years, I carried a field guide to trees everywhere I went, examining leaves, stroking bark, squinting up at treetops to see if the twigs were opposite or alternate. I even learned to identify trees in winter, despite the absence of helpful leaves.
I found that being outdoors was never boring, even in cities, where there are trees on almost every block. I started trying to identify bark by touch, rubbing trunks with my eyes closed. A few years later, I discovered buds and leaf scars, further clues to the identity of trees in winter, and this miniature realm brought fresh insights. I also find that trees have different qualities, that I feel cheerful standing under almost any linden, for instance, while white pines make me feel protected.
There is something about trees that makes for a deep personal connection. They have trunks, and so do people. Their life spans are comparable to ours. They stay alive in winter, unlike most other plants. Many of us have childhood memories of climbing trees, or attachments to individual trees or groves. We have all enjoyed their shade. Learning to identify trees makes us a notch closer and more in love.
