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I learned the term “plant blindness” from a Penn State Master Gardener webinar I watched recently. According to the Botanical Society of America, who coined the term in 1998, it means “the inability to see or notice the plants in one's own environment—leading to: (a) the inability to recognize the importance of plants in the biosphere, and in human affairs; (b) the inability to appreciate the aesthetic and unique biological features of the life forms belonging to the Plant Kingdom; and (c) the misguided, anthropocentric ranking of plants as inferior to animals, leading to the erroneous conclusion that they are unworthy of human consideration (Wandersee & Schussler, 1998a).” Think of it as seeing a wall or floor of green instead of individual plant make up of any area.
There are conservation ramifications to plant blindness. From a 2016 article from the University of Washington's Conservation magazine, “plants comprise 57 percent of endangered species in the United States, yet receive less than 4 percent of endangered species funding; plant science programs dwindle. Multiple studies have found that people are automatically drawn to images of animals rather than plants, and more readily recognize and remember them.” .
I am plant blind. There’s so much that I don’t see when I’m outside. On any given walk, it’s easy to gloss over the plants that I’m unfamiliar with and instead let my eyes focus on the ones I already know. This reinforces my previous learning and my brain patterning forms ruts. It can be overwhelming to look in a garden, at a meadow, into a forest, or along a path and see individual plants when there is a multitude of flora in the vicinity. If I think this way about the plants that surround me, then I can only imagine all of the things that are beyond my awareness as I go about my day.
I’ve begun a quest to expand my plant perception. Each day, I take note of one plant that catches my attention. It can been a weed in the lawn or a flower in a garden or a fern in the woods. I snap some photos for reference, and then taking my curiosity home, I get out my guidebooks and my laptop and start asking questions: What are you? Are you poisonous? Are you edible? Are you medicinal? Are you craft-able?
After figuring out how the plant relates to me and other humans, then I ask some broader questions about how it’s living in the ecosystem: Where did I find you? What type of plants were around? What was the soil like? What animals eat you? What do you look like in different seasons?
Just like conversing with someone new, I get to know the plant; the answers to my questions build a profile I can remember. The next time I’m outside and I see the plants I took the time to meet, I feel like I’m catching up with a friend. I know them. And that makes me feel more comfortable, more connected with my environment.
So much of our lives are built around what we see and there is much in front of us that we are completely unaware of. What are the aspects of your environment that are just part of the backdrop for you? Is it the buildings, the roadways, the trees, the people? Consider getting to know more about the history of your neighborhood or saying “hi” to the person at the bus stop you see everyday. What steps can you take to feel more connected to life?