Plants & Perspectives

By Magnolia Mullen

The yellow jackets and I sit still, letting the early March sun warm our bodies. My Valley slowly begins to wake from winter’s slumber. Under the protection of the veranda’s roof, I am also still. The Melipona bees and I have no need for the equatorial February sun to touch our bodies for warmth. The jungle hums and teems with life all year round.

Sun rises, painting the sky pink and orange, those names of colors flat to describe its vibrancy. Mt. Baker and her henchmen illuminate, the leafless trees are no competition for the sun’s rays. Thick mist in the Maya Mountains shrouds the rising sun. Steam rises from the already warm ground, combining with the mist to create a seemingly impenetrable wall.

The smell of the Puget Sound and the first mow of the season politely tickles my nose. Fields of cabbage are quartered, chartreuse centers shining. Mallards and swans root through flooded fields. Citrus and bananas ripen on the trees, heavy jack and bread fruit fall and begin their breakdown under their mother, offering nutrients to be dispersed and reabsorbed. The sickly-sweet smell of overripe fruit and decomposing vegetation permeates my senses.

Tulip greens from a neglected, long-forgotten pot reach upwards. Tender willow leaves form swollen buds on the curly branches. Rose tinted amaryllis are budded, thriving in the sun on the balcony. Monsteras and bromeliads cling to tall palms, peace lilies and Syngonium compete for filtered light on the canopy floor.

Familiar red-breasted robins scurry and stop suddenly, scurry and stop, along the freshly mown grass. A slick river otter runs along the bank, gliding smoothly back into the Skagit River. Toucans, their flight comical and astonishing, dip up and down past the rainforest treetops. An iguana clambers up a coconut palm, leaving on the white sand below a pile of black sticky waste to get stuck on the bottom of an American’s croc.

Driftwood and leaf debris float down the river, sand is the only ingredient on the shore. Trash swirls in the Caribbean surf, breaking down Styrofoam and plastic into smaller pieces to become ingrained with the coarse sand. Tourists fill plastic bags with more plastic. I wonder about the strong breeze that will blow their filled bags back into the sea.

The chorus of spring peepers fills the cool nighttime, each calling for a mate to join and create masses of eggs. Another choir, all with names unknown to me, celebrating the warm night. 

The moon is at the same stage but hung at a different angle in the cool and starry or humid and misty night sky. I have moved my bed’s position, so the upright moon can shine on me for all the hours of darkness. In between tropical downpours, the moon peeks from behind the low clouds. She’s upside down, compared to my perspective from North America.

Twelve hours of daylight at this time of year in both places. Peace lilies and monsteras growing in both, inside my home at 48 degrees north, wild and free outdoors at a latitude of 17 degrees. 

Currently, a festival of tulips is on the agenda. Planting seeds when the soil finally warms, plunking vegetable starts into the earth that can handle the cool nights and rainy, windy days. In the Maya mountains, life hurdles along as it does all year, in the constant 80 degrees. Plants grow, vining their way towards the sun.

For now, I will take the reliability of regular trash pickups, postal service, clean beaches, and leaving my car unlocked. The annual return of the sun, the leaves, the birds. Potable water, consistent electricity. My family, my home, my community. Fresh air, the Evergreen State. Three thousand miles away, the jungle tempts, with its wildness. The sense of urgency yet so much stillness. A vibrant assault on the senses, year-round abundance, humidity, warm water, and another type of evergreen. Same as the vines and roots of the rainforest reach for water and the sun, invisible tendrils of the tropics stretch and catch at my heart and soul.