Personalities of Plants

Anthropomorphism is a bad word in our language, especially when it comes to plants. We’re taught that plants and humans are nothing alike - none of our physical parts are similar, after all. Their cells have walls and chloroplasts while ours don’t. They root in one place while we are free to roam. They make their own food from the sun while we eat other beings for our energy. Because we are structured so differently, it has been widely assumed that we are worlds apart. Interestingly, this is an expansive topic in biological science right now.

More and more studies have been researching the specialized cells and signaling systems that plants use in response to their environment. These mechanisms even allow plants to convey information to other plants, insects, and animals. We’ve learned that plants emit sound when stressed to reveal their type and condition to nearby neighbors.They use chemicals, hormones, and molecules both above ground and in the soil to pass along information about predators, harm, and potential danger. They are also able to distinguish friend from stranger, responding appropriately and consistently. Science requests that we use a sterile language when we talk about these processes so we can highlight our differences, not our similarities. But is this not the definition of communication?

Likewise, plants have unique responses to stimuli. Light, water, touch, temperature, and chemicals all elicit different reactions not only between species, but sometimes even within the same species themselves. This has been tested with reliable results over the span of years, indicating consistency with individual reactions in the same environment. Is this not the definition of personality?

The idea that plants may be showing human-like traits is highly debated. While they also show evidence of also having memory, decision-making skills, adaptability, and the capacity to learn, we are hesitant to assign these qualities. We don’t want to anthropomorphize.

Let’s set aside our fears of being incorrect for just a moment and allow ourselves to be driven by wonder. What if we spoke about personalities of plants instead of using the scientific language that separates our species? How would that change the way we relate to them?

Instead of saying, “datura has a nocturnal flower” we could say “datura only feels comfortable to open up in the dark”. Both these statements can be true, but only one would be accepted in scientific circles. The other could allow the night owls among us to find common ground with this beautiful plant. Likewise, “poison ivy is a nuisance” can also mean “poison ivy is a protector and boundary holder”. There is a lot more to a plant’s story than what we see from a human perspective. Sometimes we need to widen our understanding. “Sunflowers face the direction of the sun” could be phrased as “sunflowers’ devotion to the sun dictates their every move”. Adjusting the framework from which we understand another species grants us a new perspective. The meaning isn’t necessarily different, but our language crafts a whole other experience. Suddenly, life becomes relational, vibrant poetry.

Sophie Strand suggested that anthropomorphizing could be used to imagine something different, to strengthen an empathy muscle. Yes, we don’t know what it’s like to be another species, but there’s nothing wrong with trying to dream about it. This is where stories bloom from, where imagination is nurtured and culture is developed. This is where we are offered an opportunity to create our own idea of what it means to be a human. We can take on plants, animals, even rocks as beings to learn from. What is similar? What is different? And what does that mean about our own place in the world?

It is possible to anthropomorphize and still respect the unique experiences of another species. We empathize with people every day while acknowledging that we will never fully know what it is like to be them. But we can learn, listen, and imagine. We can be open to correction and being wrong. Without extending a metaphorical hand (or paw, or leaf) to another being, we can’t connect with it. Our understanding of others has to start somewhere and it makes sense that it grows from what we already know.

When I, as an animist, talk about the personalities of plants, I am not living in a world fabricated inside my head full of dangerous projections and exaggerated reality. It’s quite the opposite; I am hyperaware of every little pattern disruption and subtle difference that I physically observe. I am constantly overwhelmed by the amount of information being communicated in my environments. Just a few decades ago, my own neurodivergent way of functioning would have subjected me to less-than-human labels. But there are gifts that come with my limitations, just as there are with plants’ capabilities.

I greatly appreciate biological science for all of its developments in how we understand the world around us. It offers ways to care for our bodies and keep us on this earth longer than we would have without such advancements. My own disabled body would not be here without all the surgeries, medications, and vaccines I’ve been privileged to receive. But science does have a tendency to encourage individualism rather than community. And it does seem bent on positioning the self-perseverance of our species above all others.

Anthropomorphism is not as scary as we’ve been led to believe. And it’s not at odds with science, either - both are useful techniques that work best in balance. Instead of always dissecting our differences, there are times we may want to prioritize connection between us and the rest of the natural world. This is what allows us to have healthier relationships with our more-than-human kin. After all, they might be crafting wild stories about us, too.