I feel the sun’s angle shifting, the days growing shorter. This change in light signals to my internal rhythms that it is time to prepare for a period of rest. For you, this is known as early autumn. For me, it is the perfect moment to create new life from my cuttings. My stems are mature yet still vigorous, having spent the spring and summer storing energy. The wood is semi-ripe—not the soft, succulent new growth of spring, nor the hardened, woody growth of deep autumn. This state is ideal; it holds the potential for roots but is resilient enough to not rot easily before they form.
When you approach me with your shears, look for a healthy, disease-free section of my vine. I prefer a piece about 4 to 6 inches long, with at least three sets of leaves or nodes. The most crucial part of my future is the node itself. This is the point of immense cellular activity, where my leaves, buds, and aerial roots emerge. It is from these nodes that my new root system will be born. Please make a clean, sharp cut just below the bottom node; a ragged tear invites pests and disease, which could doom my offspring before it even begins its journey.
Once separated from my main form, my cutting requires immediate care to redirect its energy. Gently remove the leaves from the bottom one or two nodes. These leaves would otherwise be submerged and rot, fouling the water or soil around me. The top leaves should remain, as they are essential for photosynthesis—the process that will fuel my growth until my new roots can take over nutrient absorption. While some of your kind recommend rooting hormone, I see it as a welcome boost. It mimics my natural auxins, the hormones that stimulate root growth, encouraging my cells to divide and differentiate more rapidly.
My needs now are simple but specific. I crave a moist, well-draining, and airy medium. A blend of perlite, vermiculite, and peat is ideal. It holds moisture around my stem to prevent desiccation but allows oxygen to reach my developing tissues; roots cannot breathe in waterlogged soil. Place me in a bright location, but out of direct, harsh sunlight. My limited leaf system cannot cope with intense transpiration without a root system to replace the lost water. A clear plastic bag tented over my pot can create a humid microclimate, a miniature greenhouse that reduces water stress and keeps me turgid and happy.
In this warm, humid, and bright sanctuary, my work begins. The cells at the wounded node callus over, protecting my inner tissues. Then, spurred by the moisture and hormones, they begin to differentiate. Dedicated cells start dividing, elongating, and organizing into the delicate, white structures you recognize as roots. This process is my sole focus. I am not growing new vines or leaves; every ounce of energy is devoted to establishing my foundation. In a few weeks, a gentle tug will meet with resistance—the surest sign that I have anchored myself and am ready to support new life.
