As a writer with an affinity for the natural world, it's little wonder that "seed" as metaphor found its way into my research, writing, photography, and teaching over the years. In many ways, holding a seed in our hands before planting is a moment to hold hope, possibility, and potential. A plant's long evolutionary history has been stowed away in a tiny package, awaiting the right environmental conditions to burst open into its future. How can our hearts not feel fuller at the thought of all that promise?
Of course, even the most beautiful promise goes unrealized if we aren't mindful of what a seed needs to germinate. In a very practical way, when a garden bed is full of seeds that don't break open and grow, what we're left with is an empty patch of earth--a learning experience but not helpful for attracting pollinators to stop by. For me, one of the more disappointing flower gardening moments came a few years ago when not one of my lovingly sowed Russell Blend Lupine seeds germinated.
The Roots of a Lupine Obsession Are Deep.
My attraction to lupines began years ago when I read up about Mount St. Helens before a planned day trip from Portland. Photos of the mountain surrounded by wildflower fields thick with subalpine lupines struck me as a testament to the ability of life to find a way despite catastrophe. I learned the science behind the ecological succession role that lupines played there as a pioneering species after the eruption, but back then, as I imagined being surrounded by all that color splashed against such a dramatic backdrop, it felt miraculous that something so ethereal could blanket an area once blown to smithereens.
In my youthful haste to visit the national park with a friend, I didn't consider the season (rookie move, Middleton) and soon realized that we'd missed our wildflower viewing window. As I stepped out on the dry, volcanic terrain below Mount St. Helens, I pretended I was wading through the wildflowers, promising myself I'd be back next season. I never made it back. Now, I'm convinced I can bring a little of that wild place to my urban/suburban landscape.
Plant Research Makes My Ill-Informed Assumptions Eat Dirt.
In my ongoing effort to find flowers that will grow successfully in Colorado's Front Range climate, at first I assumed that the lupine seeds didn't germinate because they weren't meant to grow in the area's clay soil and dry air. (Lupines do grow up in the Rockies, where the alpine conditions are more favorable for survival.)
But what I learned from a year of exploring our unique growing conditions is that, with just a little upfront preparation, cultivating these lupines from seed in the Denver metro area is possible. In fact, most lupine seeds sold in stores or online have been selected to grow in more diverse climates than the mountains.
Part of the pea family (Fabaceae), the genus Lupinus contains about 200 plant species. In some parts of the world, you can find lupines trees. Not exactly what I imagined when I decided to try my hand again at growing a much smaller species of lupine in the garden.
Still, I wanted to know why lupine seeds are hard to start outdoors here. Too little too late for my lupine growing during that first-year attempt, but after reading tale after internet tale of lupine seed starting that yielded few, if any, viable plants, I found some positive lupine growing experiences.
While lupine seeds are notorious for their low germination rate when they're being cultivated for the first time in the garden, if I mimic their natural growing conditions, I can coax lupine seeds to give it a go here.
Once established in our garden, I'm hopeful the Tall Russell Lupines will self-sow and pop up at their own pace next spring.
The biggest obstacle to lupine germination seems to be getting water through the seed's tough coating. Some gardeners swear by a thorough seed soaking in water for 24 hours before sowing in soil that's about 72 degrees F for germination.
Of course, by the time it's warm enough to sow lupine seeds outdoors here, the soil is already drying out and the low humidity is further sapping moisture from the garden. I knew I'd need to apply consistent moisture to the seed before sowing and that I'd need to sow indoors to give the plants a chance to get established before transplanting into our flower beds.
I'd also read that subjecting the seeds to a period of cold would trigger germination and that scraping the seed's tough surface would help water more readily reach the seed inside.
Below you'll find steps I followed for my lupine seed germination experiment, proof that creative writers can be skilled in "doing" as much as "dreaming."
Furrow & Trowel's Lupine Seed Germination Tips
Gently chip at the seed coating to reveal the seed inside. If you wind up mutilating the "meat" of the seed, I'd toss it. The goal is to be able to see a little of the seed but to not damage the seed. (I also left some seeds untouched.)
Store the chipped (and unmarred) seeds in a damp paper towel inside a plastic storage bag in the refrigerator.
Refrigerate for seven to 10 days. You'll know the seeds are ready for indoor sowing when they start unfurling.
Sow about 1/8" deep in seed starting medium, place under grow lights, and wait. I didn't have long to wait. Within two days, the seedlings popped above the growing medium. Within a week I had 100% germination.
Following these steps increased germination rates, and I was able to quickly move them up to bigger pots after they all established true leaves. From what I'd read, it's important to treat their roots carefully because they depend upon a strong taproot to thrive, so I happily began nerding out about proper transplant techniques in preparation for their move.
My hope was that if the lupines thrived, their dropped seeds would have the entire winter for the necessary deep freeze and that they'll receive plenty of moisture from snowmelt to prepare them for growing the following year. While only one of the original seedlings survived past year one, I do have a permanent lupine fixture in our flower garden that greets me each summer when I step outside our house. If you're as enamored with seeds as I am, I recommend grabbing a copy of Thor Hanson's The Triumph of Seeds. Hanson blends hard science with eloquent storytelling, and his writing has been a useful entry point to the incredibly diverse plant kingdom and its many species's drive to persist. I've learned so much about the mechanics of seeds and also how plants have evolved through constant interplay with their environment, developing unique defense mechanisms to increase chances their seed will survive and proliferate. In the case of lupines, it's clear their slick surface protects the vital work going on inside as the seed waits for the right condition to germinate and grow. With patience and ingenuity, us gardeners can convince them to grow from seed. I'm here for other lupine seed germination and cultivation tips. Send them my way in the comments or in a message.
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