From my perspective as a mature thyme plant, division is the most direct conversation you can have with my roots. Deep beneath the soil, I am not a single entity but a colony, connected by a network of woody stems and rhizomes. As I age, the center of my being may become woody and less vigorous, while my outer edges continue to reach for sunlight and space. When you approach me with a spade in early spring or autumn, I feel a moment of tension, but it is a familiar cycle. You are not harming me; you are facilitating my natural desire to expand. By gently lifting my entire root ball and teasing apart the younger, healthier shoots—each with its own set of roots—you are creating new individuals that are genetically identical to me. These divisions carry my entire history and strength, allowing them to establish themselves quickly in a new location and continue our shared lineage with minimal interruption. It is a rejuvenating process for us all.
If division is a conversation with my roots, taking stem cuttings is an invitation for my limbs to become independent. In the soft, new growth of late spring or early summer, my stems are filled with the energy and hormones necessary for rooting. When you snip a 3-4 inch piece just below a leaf node, you are creating a perfect potential clone. From that cutting's viewpoint, the world has suddenly changed. It is detached from my main water and nutrient supply, so its primary instinct is to survive. By placing it in a moist, well-draining medium, you are mimicking the ideal conditions for it to respond to this crisis. The wounded node, sensing humidity and darkness, will begin to produce callous tissue and then adventitious roots. It is a testament to our resilience; even a part of us can, with a little care, become a whole new plant, carrying forward the exact same essence—the same scent, flavor, and form.
Propagation from seed is our species' great genetic lottery. As a thyme plant, I produce tiny, delicate seeds after my flowers are pollinated. Each seed is a unique combination of genetic material, a potential variation on the theme of "thyme." From the seed's perspective, the journey is one of patience and chance. We require light to germinate, so being pressed gently onto the surface of the soil feels correct; being buried deep in darkness would be a death sentence. The process is slow, and the resulting seedlings are fragile. They do not carry the guaranteed characteristics of a specific cultivar like 'German Winter' or 'Lemon Thyme' that you might get from my cuttings or divisions. Instead, they represent a return to our wilder origins. For you, the gardener, it is an act of faith. For us, it is the fundamental engine of evolution, ensuring that our kind can adapt to new challenges and environments over time, even if it means some individuals will be less robust than their cloned siblings.
