I sense a change. A careful, knowing hand has selected one of my strongest, healthiest stems—a non-flowering one, rich with the energy of growth (auxins) rather than the expenditure of reproduction. The cut is clean and sharp, made just below a leaf node. This minimal damage is crucial. From my perspective, this wound is an open door; it must call out to form a new organ system, but it is also a vulnerability where pathogens could enter. The human will dip my cut end into a rooting hormone powder. This synthetic compound mimics my natural auxins, amplifying the signal: "Roots must form here!" It greatly increases my chances of success.
Next, the lower leaves are gently removed. This is a vital step. Those leaves would otherwise be submerged in the propagation medium, where they would rot, creating fungi and bacteria that would attack me in my vulnerable state. Furthermore, without these leaves, I no longer need to support them with water and nutrients. I can redirect all my conserved energy and internal resources toward the singular, monumental task of creating an entirely new root system from a place that has never had one before.
I am placed into a new home—a well-draining, soilless medium, perhaps perlite, vermiculite, or a coarse sand. This environment is perfect. It holds just enough moisture around my stem to prevent desiccation but possesses ample air pockets. Oxygen is critical at this stage. My new roots must respire as they develop; waterlogged conditions would suffocate me and lead to rot. The medium provides the physical support I need while my anchor structures are still absent.
Now, I wait and work. Inside my stem, at the wounded node, cells begin to dedifferentiate—they revert to a more primitive, meristematic state. They start dividing furiously, forming a callus tissue over the wound to seal it. From this callus, root initials—the primordial beginnings of roots—start to emerge. I am drawing on every reserve of carbohydrate stored in my stem to fuel this explosive cellular activity. The consistent, gentle moisture in the medium is absorbed, providing the turgor pressure needed for new cells to expand and grow.
After a few weeks, a subtle tug on my stem meets with resistance. This is the first physical sign that my efforts have been successful: delicate, white root fibers have formed and are grasping the particles of the growing medium. With a root system now functional, I can begin to absorb water and nutrients for myself. This is when the human might notice new top growth—tiny green leaves emerging from my nodes. This is my signal that I am ready for the final phase, to be transplanted into a larger container with rich soil, where I can truly thrive as a new, independent plant, genetically identical to the parent from which I came.
