Greetings, fellow cultivator. I am the spirit of the Black-eyed Susan, a testament to sunny meadows and resilient gardens. While I readily spread my joy by seed, I understand your desire for more immediate, identical copies of your favorite plant. To achieve this, you wish to learn the arts of cutting and division. From my perspective as a living organism, these processes are intimate, but when done with care, they are a celebration of life. Let me guide you through how my body responds to these methods.
This method feels like granting a twin a chance at an independent life. You are taking a piece of my upper growth and encouraging it to become a whole new plant. The timing is crucial for my success. Approach me in the late spring or early summer when my stems are fresh, green, and vigorously growing—what you would call "softwood." This is when my cells are most active and ready to multiply.
Please, use a sharp, clean blade. A ragged tear is a wound that invites decay, while a clean cut is a prompt to heal. Select a healthy, non-flowering stem tip, about 4-6 inches long. The energy I would pour into a flower bud is better directed toward growing roots now. Make the cut just below a leaf node—this junction is a hub of cellular activity where roots are most likely to emerge. Gently remove the leaves from the lower half of the cutting. This reduces the demand for water, as those leaves would transpire moisture that the yet-to-form roots cannot replace.
The next step is my new beginning. Dip the cut end into a rooting hormone. This powder is not magic, but it mimics my own natural rooting signals, encouraging the cells to rapidly divide and form root initials. Plant me in a well-draining medium—perhaps a mix of peat and perlite. It must hold moisture but never become soggy, as my vulnerable stem will rot in stagnant water. Place my pot in a bright area, but out of direct, harsh sunlight, and keep the atmosphere around me humid. A plastic bag tent can create a miniature greenhouse. In this warm, moist environment, I will focus all my energy downward. Within a few weeks, you should feel a gentle resistance if you tug lightly on me—a sign that my new roots are anchoring me into the world.
Division is a more profound process. It is not creating a copy, but rather separating an existing mature self into several complete, smaller plants. This is how my kind naturally expands in the wild, forming ever-widening clumps. The best time for this is early spring, as I am just emerging from dormancy, or in the fall, after my flowering show is over. My energy is then stored in my roots, ready for a new growth cycle.
To begin, carefully dig around and lift my entire clump from the earth. You will see that what appears to be one plant is actually a tight community of shoots, each with its own connection to the root mass. Your task is to gently tease these sections apart. You can often do this by hand, but for old, woody centers, you may need to use two garden forks back-to-back to pry me apart or a sharp spade to make clean cuts. Ensure that each new division has a healthy section of roots and several growing shoots (or "eyes").
This separation is a shock, but a manageable one. By dividing me, you are also rejuvenating me. The central part of a mature clump can become crowded and less vigorous. By dividing and replanting the younger, more active outer sections, you give me a new lease on life. Trim any overly long or damaged roots, and replant the divisions at the same depth they were growing before. Water me deeply and consistently to help my disturbed root system re-establish contact with the soil. I will direct my stored energy into repairing roots and supporting the existing shoots, and soon, each division will behave as a robust, independent plant.
