Constantinople Acacia

The number of names this tree has is enough to make you think that humans need to get their act together. Shakespeare, of course, would contradict me with the following argument: "What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet." And I would respond that this is not true to some extent as words are important for they tell a story. 


Let me explain myself. 

The bloom captured in this photo comes from a tree called Albizia julibrissin. The story behind this appellation is that of Italian doctor and botanist Antonio Durazzini. In 1772 he named it in honor of the 18th century Florentine naturalist Filippo degli Albizzi (descended from that notorious Florentine family that were in constant quarrel with the other notorious Florentine family, the Medicis, for centuries). The second component of the name, julibrissin, is derived from a very mispronounced Persian word گل ابریشم (pronounced guliabrisham) which means silk flower. Well, at least, that's what I discovered through research -- forgive me, I'm no expert in the Persian language.

 
It has also been named -- depending on which region you hail from and what mood you're in -- 

• Persian silk tree
• pink silk tree
• pink siris (siris comes from Hindi)
• Lenkoran acacia (most likely related to the Azerbaijani city of Lankaran)
• bastard tamarind (someone was clearly not very happy with the way this tree mimicked the tamarind tree indigenous to Africa)
• Chinese silk tree
• mimosa

The latter name is misleading as any expert horticulturalist would explain, which is why I'll let you address any further questions regarding this mix-up to him or her rather than deal with the issue myself.

In Iran today, this tree is called shabkhosb which means "night sleeper". In Japan, it is nemunoki, nemurinoki and nenenoki, all of which translate to "sleeping tree" because its leaves close at night. I find these four names most bewitching as they weave poetry into the equation.



In French, apart from albizia or the equivalent translation of the words silk tree, it is called Constantinople acacia (Acacia de Constantinople) or Constantinople mimosa (Mimosa de Constantinople). This name tells once again the story of Filippo degli Albizzi but focuses more on how the Florentine nobleman and naturalist came upon it (it doesn't take much energy to deduce that he first saw it in Constantinople on one of his expeditions). At any rate, in 1749, as Handel was pleasing crowds with his performances in London, expeditions and land claims were undertaken in the Ohio Territory, six Russian sailors were finally rescued after spending six years on an island in the Arctic Ocean, as Apaches and Spaniards were literally burying the hatchet in San Antonio, and King Louis XV of France decreed that all beggars and vagabonds regardless of age and gender found roaming the streets of Paris would be thrown in prison indefinitely, well that is the year Albizzi is said to have introduced the species to Europe. "To each his own" befits the situation, I would say.

Turning now to the tree itself, flowering season, at the end of spring and throughout summer, is a busy time for the Constantinople acacia as it welcomes bees, butterflies and hummingbirds that feed off its nectar. It is a low-maintenance tree yet provides so many benefits: it offers shade, is a soil conditioner, has a pleasant fragrance and bright flowers, and can be used in medicinal preparations. This latter point needs care, however, because the plant is considered toxic as well so proper knowledge as to what parts of the tree may be used in treatments is required before attempting any concoctions to treat insomnia, boils, abscesses, injuries, irritability, and poor memory.

As for me, this tree is simply beautiful. The soft leaves that close as you touch them, and the bright pink color of its flowers that is visible from far away is yet another case of "perfection in the details" by yours truly: this thing we call nature. 

This particular photo shows the old and the new as one flower opens its vulnerable tendrils to the wind while beside it, faded and wrinkled, its peer has veered down the road to oblivion. This is yet another example of how nature educates or prepares us for what lies ahead, if only we paid more attention to it and took time to capture the essence of our existence before it's too late to fully experience it.

So we're back to Shakespeare and the reason for names and stories. I've chosen to stick with the term Constantinople acacia and color the tree with one of its places of origin, mixing in the story of how it came to Europe. After all, a name affords inanimate words with life. If we combine the things we learn from nature with the life we lead as a result of that knowledge we gain, we may well bring stories to people's minds when, once we are gone and no longer tread on grassy fields or wade in the shallows, they utter our name.