On invasive species
Many of the plants that we call “invasive” are here because someone loved them. Someone braided the seeds into their hair or sewed them into their skirt hemline as their lives were uprooted. Other plants hitched rides in the muck of someone’s boots. Some were brought in intentionally for hedge lines, or experiments, or as reminders of childhood memories. Most of what we now consider to be invasive species were introduced in early colonization. Many have since lost their relationships to these plants that their Ancestors brought to Turtle Island.
Jessica Hernandez calls them “displaced plant relatives.” The word “relative” is key here because the most proximal verb is “relate.” How might we relate to plants we think shouldn’t be here? Especially when they are causing disruption. How might those relationships extend into our relationships with other beings, ourselves included? When we remove plants without relating to them, we cause scars.
Using the word “invasive” brings forth other violent language. We can come at these plants “guns blazing.” Go to battle against them. Annihilate them. Violent language creates a gateway for us to remove these species by any means necessary.
Thinking of plants as extremely abundant rather than invasive, does not negate that this overabundance can cause disruption to ecosystems. Of course it does. But they are here, so, in some way, they belong here. Our well-intentioned minds are much less sophisticated than entire ecosystems. Our plans are mocked by nature’s. We can still support the lands we walk on, however, we can do it with less malice and indignation towards certain relatives. It strikes me as ironic that many plants that we consider to be invasive and disruptive grow best in places that we have caused disruption first: roadsides, marshes, and long-abandoned garden plots.
Sophie Cassel reminded me in a class last week that plants don’t have malice. I would go another step in saying that, when it comes to each other, what looks like malice is often a desire to survive. These plant relatives are not playing chess with us. They are just here, eating sun and soil. Drinking water and growing abundantly.
Sophie also spoke on the nature of nature. Where there are gaps, nature will move in to fill them. So, a part of our duty in healing the planet is to be mindful of the gaps we create and what might go missing in our efforts to remove a plant we don’t think should be there. Extraction and healing do not naturally follow each other. The process must be carefully stewarded and observed. It must also be slow to allow for the brilliance of nature to find its way.
When we uproot these plants, we can honor the lives they lived by making medicine from them. We can share the medicine generously and spare other, less abundant plants from the harvest. This overabundance allows rest and recovery from other frequently called-upon plant relatives. Beautifully, many of the gifts of these relatives support us in meeting the moment. Knotweed, for example, is an anti-inflammatory. In a very inflamed world, maybe it is here to tell us something.
It can be overwhelming, of course, to think of the scale and intricacy of these beings and the impacts they have. Much like previous musings on tending to your corner of the world, the assignment here is much the same:
Build relationships with the plants that grow where you are
Support the plants in your corner of the world
When you are a stranger in another place, build relationships with the land, plants, and creatures
As one person with one body, don’t take on the entire burden of species overabundance and try to carry it alone.
Ponder questions like:
What is displacement?
What is diaspora beyond the human diaspora?
What might these plants be trying to teach us?