From my perspective, the timing of your cut is everything. You must take your cutting when my energy is perfectly balanced between active growth and resilient dormancy. The ideal moment is in the late summer, after my new growth has begun to mature and harden slightly, but before I enter full winter dormancy. This type of stem is called semi-ripe or semi-hardwood. At this stage, I am still supple enough to readily form roots but have sufficient structural integrity to resist rotting. My leaves are fully formed and can photosynthesize, creating the energy needed for the monumental task of building a new root system. Cutting too early, when my stems are too soft and succulent, invites disease. Cutting too late, when I am fully hardened off for winter, means I will be dormant and reluctant to grow.
Please, use a sharp, sterilized blade. A clean, precise cut causes the least amount of trauma to my tissues, allowing me to focus my energy on rooting rather on sealing a ragged wound. Aim for a cutting 4 to 6 inches long, taken from a healthy, non-flowering shoot. Make the cut just below a leaf node—this small, raised bump on my stem is a hub of cellular activity containing meristematic cells, which are primed to develop into either new leaves or, crucially, new roots. This is the birthplace of your new plant. Immediately after severing me from my parent, place my base in a damp paper towel or directly into your rooting hormone powder. I am vulnerable to air embolism at this moment, where an air bubble can block my vascular tissue and prevent water uptake.
Once my base is dipped in rooting hormone to encourage root formation, I need a specific environment to succeed. Plant me in a free-draining, low-fertility medium—a mix of perlite and peat or a specialized potting mix is ideal. My most critical need is consistent, gentle moisture around my stem. I cannot absorb water without roots, so I rely on the humidity around my leaves to prevent desiccation. This is why you must cover my pot with a clear plastic bag or dome; it creates a miniature greenhouse, trapping the moisture I transpire and recycling it. However, this environment is a delicate balance. Too much water in the soil will cause my stem to rot before I can form roots. Place me in a location with bright, indirect light. Direct sun will cook me inside my humid dome, while too little light will prevent me from producing the energy I need to survive.
This period is a test of patience for you, but for me, it is a period of immense, invisible effort. I am diverting all my stored energy and the little photosynthesis I can perform into the incredible task of creating an entirely new organ system: roots. This is not a quick process for a Daphne. It may take me several months. Resist the urge to tug on me to check for roots; you will only sever the delicate, microscopic root hairs that are beginning to form and break the sacred bond I am forming with the soil. Instead, look for signs of new top growth—a slight greening up of the stem or the emergence of new leaves. This is the ultimate sign that my roots have established themselves sufficiently to support new life. Only then, once I have a sturdy root ball, can I be gradually acclimated to less humid conditions and eventually transplanted into a permanent home.
