While we as academics often approach the environment with the aim to comprehend scientific processes, nature offers just as many lessons that are broadly applicable to everyday life. From the complex fungal networks that allow trees to communicate underground to large-scale migrations of monarch butterflies under environmental pressures, nature mirrors our relationships with one another and society as a whole. Perhaps no greater life lesson can be illuminated by an unexpected biological source than that of the sheep laurel.

One such class that heeds the call to be taught by ecosystems is Ecology (BIOL 2327), which convenes in a space starkly different from the usual glass enclosures of the Visual Arts Center and the sterile, white ambiance of Mills Hall. We are in the “classroom” known as the Brunswick Town Commons, an eight-minute bike ride from campus. The classroom floor is engulfed in dense mats of firework-like sphagnum moss, the walls of pine, maple and chestnut extend in all directions, and the brisk air is ringing with the “chicka-dee-dee-dee” warning of the black-capped chickadee. There are a million teachers here in the Commons, each with their own lesson to impart.

During one lab period in November, I found myself scrunched beside a seven-inch tall plant with whorls, three-leaf sets at the same vertical height. Its leaves are thin and elongated—as if you stretched a thick rubber band with all your might—giving the plant its apt name: “Kalmia angustifolia,” literally meaning “narrow-leaved.” It is also called the sheep laurel. I speculate that the sheep laurel, like many of us, went through an emo phase in its adolescence. You may recognize another member in the sheep laurel’s family as you pass by the walls of Druckenmiller Hall, Hawthorne-Longfellow Library and Ladd House: “Rhododendron maximum,” the great laurel. The leaves of both plants curl and fold down in order to fight water stress, sunlight overexposure and snow damage during the cold months.

Though sheep laurel is widely distributed in the Commons, each individual flower I observed did not stand any taller than two-and-a-half feet. I was puzzled by its abstention from the forest-wide race to soak up the sun above the canopy. What drives seemingly the rest of the plants to stretch upward and outward?

The answer lies in the role that shade plays in plant resource allocation. For example, a young pine sapling “dislikes” inhabiting the understory, so it instead directs its resources to growing more rapidly upward until it breaks above the canopy. The proteins behind this light-impacted response are known as phytochromes. Individual phytochromes analyze the composition of light wavelengths they receive, with plants selectively capturing the red-light wavelengths. If you ever find yourself amazed by the intense “greenness” below a forest’s canopy, you are directly observing this shortage of red-light wavelengths—the first role of phytochromes. After detecting the ratio of red light to other light, phytochromes instruct a plant to either grow taller, like the pine sapling, or produce more branching and leaves, as the pine might in a few years.

In order to determine the impact of shade on sheep laurel growth specifically, Sophie Miller ’28 and I hurled (to randomize plant selection) the 25 centimeter by 25 centimeter quadrat, as if we were on Chaos Theory ultimate frisbee, recorded the height of and total number of leaves present on each sheep laurel plant within the quadrat and estimated the percentage of canopy cover. Unfortunately, our list of scientific instruments did not include a scribe, so I was left scrambling to count leaves and jot down the heights Sophie called out to me. Nevertheless, our little team persevered in the name of science.

The sheep laurel in the Commons, as it turns out, did not differ significantly in its ratio of branching to height in response to the amount of shade. In fact, there was a linear correlation between height and number of leaves, making the branching to height ratio a constant no matter the sun exposure. These results suggested that sheep laurels somewhat ignore their phytochromes’ instructions for growth.

Why does sheep laurel disregard the forest-wide norm of loftiness? What could be so fulfilling in the understory? Simply put, sheep laurel capitalizes on its strengths. The plant does not possess the physiological mechanisms necessary for pine tree stature, so it grows patiently and addresses the challenges associated with understory tenure tactfully. For example, sheep laurel crafts strong neurotoxins that harm livestock to prevent harmful herbivory. It has even recognized benefits in the understory of some black spruce forests, as valuable nutrient input into the soil from leaf litter is higher compared to that of the open canopy. The abundance of nutrients allows sheep laurel to assist other plants and the rest of the ecosystem through efficient carbon cycling and sequestration. Globally, the latter process significantly alleviates climate change by storing carbon in plant biomass rather than the Earth’s atmosphere.

By forfeiting the sweeping but attractive expectation to reach the canopy and investing in tailored strategies, sheep laurel both protects itself and cares for the ecosystem. As Bowdoin students, faculty and other community members, we can apply the lessons of the sheep laurel to our own lives: We should not all reach for a universal, picture-perfect, canopy goal. So, fill a niche true to yourself—and, who knows, you might find yourself remedying a critical issue just like the sheep laurel.