Scientific Name: Osmanthus fragrans (odorous fragrant flower)

The details of immortality are like a dream. No one knows where it starts and ends; no one can conceive of a world ungoverned by bookends or memory. Anything touched by the concept of infinity is often shrouded in confusion and misinterpretation.

Yet on the grounds of Mount Kunlun in China, immortality grows in the gardens of Xiwangmu (Queen Mother of the West)— a fearsome goddess of disease and divinity—where flat Peaches of Immortality ripen every 3000 years. Though legends tell of times when the peaches were gifted to mortals, the garden was enshrouded in divinity and couldn’t be found without blessing. All the better, because immortality often tasted like a curse to those who could not fully grasp it, banished to a reflection of the Jade Garden on the moon, where the Omsonth (Osmanthus tree) is covered not with immortal peaches but by thousands of flowers that carry its soft, fruity scent.

Long ago, it is said that the heroic archer Houyi shot down nine suns to save the Earth from the blazing force of ten, and Xiwangmu gifted him an elixir from her peaches. Unable to leave his wife Chang’E (originally Heng’E) in the mortal realm, Houyi left the elixir at home… only for Chang’E to drink the elixir alone. Interpretations of the myth argue incessantly over whether she stole it out of selfish compulsion or she was coerced by a thief (Peng Meng), whether she ran fearfully from an enraged Houyi or she was lifted, screaming, from where she stood as Houyi tried desperately to catch her, foiled by the distance he usually conquered with his arrow. Embroiled by a mystery convoluted by secrecy and time, the two lovers were rent apart, with him on the mortal ground, and her on the vast and cold surface of the moon, where the moon rabbit mixed an elixir from the Osmonth’s bloom.

Some say Chang’E begged the rabbit for an elixir that would take her back, to somehow undo this curse (others say she begged for an elixir so she could forever stay on the immortal plane).

Nearby, a woodcutter named Wu Gang heard these whispers of immortality. Wu Gang was a man who felt lacking in too many respects—he was slow, sluggish, and never managed to finish the tasks he put his mind to. He knew he would need an eternity to fix all his shortcomings, but (due to the same shortcomings) he could not reach enlightenment for immortality. When he had tried, taking a three-year trip in search of enlightenment, he returned home to find his wife three sons deep in a flagrant affair with a prince, Bo Ling, killing the man (or the wife) in rage. So, when he heard of an elixir (a shortcut!) to immortality, he reached for it… and was banished to the moon, where he was cursed to stay until he managed to chop down the Osmonth. Yet every branch he cut was quickly replaced by another in a Sisyphean task that left Wu Gang toiling piteously to the wax and wane of the moon as he tried (with no avail) to return home, to the mortal world.

Out of pity or jaded cruelty, divinity moved the moon closer to the earth just once a year, on the fifteenth day of the eighth lunar month, around mid-autumn (this is why the moon appears larger and brighter). Wu Gang, seeing his home, chops at the tree with such desperation that whole branches dislodge and hit the Earth; meanwhile, on Earth, a mournful Houyi diligently prepares his wife’s favorite food and leaves them under the cold light of the moon, in hopes that she might be able to receive it and feel the warmth of home. And those around him, carrying his sentiment, started to do the same, making dishes of osmanthus cakes, liquors, and teas to reach the lady Chang’E.

All the while, the Jade Rabbit continues churning the fragrance of the osmanthus tree.

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If you ever brushed by an osmanthus plant in full bloom, it’s no surprise that this plant is associated with immortality and the moon. On the vast East Asian mountain-sides (from China to the Himalayas), the shining evergreen plant spits out intoxicating clusters of flowers in the haze of the mountain mists, wafting out the scent of jasmine and peaches (it’s no wonder this plant is found in the ancient Chinese text, Classic of Mountains and Seas, next to plants that cured hunger or granted clairvoyance).

Actually, the osmanthus plant grows quite well in domesticated environments, serving as a popular house plant or ornamental shrub, wild osmanthus blooms are unrivaled in their beauty because their flowers grow from older wood, and a pruned plant will focus its next five years on throwing out new shoots to compensate for its loss and will put out far le mh ss flowers. For the same reason, it’s best to prune osmanthus (if you must) in the winter or early spring, when the plant won’t be as afflicted by scales and aphids (which prefer younger growths and often afflict the plant). Propagations prefer the misty warm humidity of its natural environment (the misty mountainside of USDA Plant Zone 8b-11), so it’s recommended that you remove the green tops of cuttings when propagating, to prevent rot.

In its own right, the scent of osmanthus is often considered divine: “Unlike other flowers smelling either too delicate or too intense, osmanthus presents a floral scent that is clean enough to wash away the dust in the air and rich enough to spread over miles. It’s hard to believe it comes from nature and not the moon in heaven” (Yan Wanli). However, with the faint scent of immortal peaches and the silver or gold colors of the moon, it makes sense that the osmanthus is associated with the qualities of both.

Traditional medicinal practices also associate osmanthus with longevity; with its cleansing and warming effects, this plant was often used to purify the blood (as well as the liver and kidney), the stomach, the eyes and joints (from cataracts, blurry vision, and rheumatism), and the throat (from coughs and bad breath); all of these, in turn, would rejuvenate and reinvigorate the body. Indeed, these effects were proven in scientific studies, where osmanthus extracts showed antioxidant, anti-inflammatory, antiproliferative (anti-tumor), immunomodulatory, and neuroprotective properties; though not as potently as the myths suggest, these properties enhance body function and slow aging.

These effects are partly caused by terpenes like linalool, which are not only a large component of the osmanthus scent but are known for the soothing effects frequently associated with lavender (and marijuana). This would explain the healing, dreamy qualities of the flower’s aroma. These terpenes (as well as other volatiles, like jasmonate) also ward off insects (fruit flies, houseflies, ticks, and mites, to name a few), and is thought to be twice as effective as citronella in outdoor settings. Linalool has antifungal and antimicrobial properties, finding itself in many cleaning products (though its oxidized form often aggravates eczema).

With such enriching qualities, it might come as no surprise that the osmanthus often symbolized wealth and prosperity in Eastern culture, regarded as an upper-class perfume, and a symbolic emblem of fertility in old Taiwanese wedding customs, along with the pomegranate plant. In imperial China, the plant even became associated with victory, and plucking Osmanthus was associated with passing imperial exams— even in modern day, osmanthus flowers are thought a fitting gift to celebrate an accomplishment.

Cultivation of this plant is done only for three days after the small buds open, with its small yields much smaller after its drying process. This might be used to explain the high cost also associated with osmanthus, further associating the plant with wealth and money.

It also makes sense that this plant would feature so strongly in the Mid-Autumn Festival, which is often viewed in parallel with the North American Thanksgiving holiday in that it seems to celebrate the wealth of the year’s harvest, decorating tables with feasts of crabs, mooncakes, pomelos, and osmanthus drinks. From its soothing promise of longevity to its representation of success, the osmanthus can definitively be a sign of good fortune.

Then why are all the myths associated with the Osmonth and moon so embroiled in the concept of futility? The story of Wu Gang is an allegory for endless toil, a man who never reaches immortality or death. Houyi and Chang’E demonstrate the shortcomings of limited immortality, both sides torn by the parting. No matter how these myths are interpreted, their stories speak of an incredible divide between what people wish for and what they achieve.

Perhaps this can be attributed to the scent of the plant. Just as the moon merely reflects the sun, the osmanthus carries only traces of the peach’s sweetness in its fragrance and taste. In mythology, even the scent of Xiwangmu’s peaches could supposedly extend a person’s life (by 360 years, to be precise), but it doesn’t compare to eating the peaches themselves; likewise, the mortals who reach for immortality illegitimately can only ever reflect true divinity and are instead enveloped by bare solitude.

The divide between taste and scent might also denote the contrast between contact and distance (to touch is to taste, to smell is to sense at an arm’s breadth). The experience of smelling is complex and often solitary as well; scents transform as they travel through the air and interact with other people. Translated by an individual’s specific olfactory receptors and then by their neural pathways, a scent is likely highly individualized; as one scientist Hiroaki Matsunami puts it, “It’s like hitting keys on a piano to produce a chord.”

Likewise, smell is intrinsically entangled with memory (due to the brain’s anatomy). Paint a street with a past lover’s cologne or perfume, and suddenly you can evoke an incredible flurry of emotions that stops a person in their tracks as the people around them hardly register any difference (this flood of emotions is such a prevalent experience that it has a name: the Proustian moment). Memory (and therefore smell) is highly individualized, and, in a world where experience defines personality and culture, these differences emphasize the gaping divides in our realities (our perspectives and societies) that no amount of time can overcome. All of this, created by a past of moments that people can no longer reach.

Thus, perhaps the emphasis on the osmanthus scent evokes the feeling of isolation. Just as you can’t take an osmanthus from the mountains without impairing its mysticism, you can’t remove its scent from its context without misunderstanding its meaning (for example, the smell of osmanthus couldn’t possibly feel the same to Yunnan’s populace, who cultivated the plant over 2500 years, and those in 18th century Europe, who experienced the scent while trying to assimilate Eastern countries into their own religion through missionary work). No matter how much you take the physical characteristics of a culture, you can never capture its significance.

This can create a fundamental divide between people (across cultures and pasts) which can be likened to the insurmountable chasms created between the characters in the Chinese stories of the people on the moon. The distinct scent of osmanthus invokes a longing for integral people and realities that are no longer there; the people on the moon are removed from their homes and those who they loved and their presence is replaced by the consistent smell of osmanthus.

It’s interesting to note that osmanthus plants carry the rare characteristic of androdioecy: they produce both male and hermaphroditic flowers. Just as the women in the two mentioned stories allegedly abandon their men for personal longevity (Chang’E in the form of the elixir, Wu Gang’s wife in the form of separate progeny), the female features of the plant reproduce without the aid of their male counterparts. Another way to look at it is that some of the hermaphroditic plants have been castrated from their female parts, making them useless on their own.

On the other hand, there must be a reason the plant is celebrated in such a warm, family-oriented holiday, meant to bring their communities together. Although the stories sound tragic, they’re told in social gatherings where people share the food and scents that hold the characters apart.

I think the meaning of this practice is self-evident. It’s a feature that’s shared with many of the members of Osmanthus’ botanical family, Oleaceae. From the type genus, olive (olea europea), which symbolized peace after the end of the storm (or in Noah’s case, the end of the Flood), to forsythia, which symbolized anticipation (as the forebearer of spring), members of Oleaceae have a habit of representing yearning and reunion. Jasmine (Jasminum), a plant with a scent often compared to osmanthus, was frequently used in Indonesian weddings and Thai gestures of appreciation, and the lilac (Syrgia) is usually used to symbolize love and longing, featuring in a song of two lovers who sing of reuniting, called We’ll Gather the Lilacs.

The osmanthus and lilac are like two sides of the same coin. While lilacs grow in USDA Plant zones 3-7 and osmanthus survive in USDA Plant zones 8-11, both produce fragrant pannicles of flower clusters on old wood (flowering most prolifically if unpruned). Both have similar scent signatures (due to volatile particles like jasmonate and linalool), though this can be said about many members of this family (even olive flowers are thought to have hints of apricot).

Where there is longing, there is a connection. And while scent might create a longing for specific experiences and memories, it also creates new ones and resurfaces recollections that link individuals together. In other words, it not only defines chasms of experiences but brings people together. Scent is a personalized signature.

In the plant world, the scent that comes from a plant is meant to interact with the insects around it, as mentioned earlier, but it’s also often used to interact with other plants, warning them of danger so they guard themselves and respond with their mutual defense systems. In the plant world, scent is an essential form of communication.

In Chinese culture, the Mid-Autumn Festival is shared, and osmanthus is a common theme. Whether it’s osmanthus jam, chátāng gruel, a detailed brewing method for tea, or a specific custom for making and pouring osmanthus liqueur, the scent of osmanthus often creates a link between those who celebrate its culture. The scent of the osmanthus flower is said to be “thick, clear, long-lasting, and far-reaching”, powerful enough to bring individuals who are worlds apart back together.

Perhaps these Mid-Autumn stories are merely cautionary tales for those who tempted fate: Wu Gang is a sluggish man with immortal greed, and Chang’E is an eternal foil to the man who gave up immortality for love. However, there is a certain beauty to the fact that these stories are filled with holes and uncertainties; for the people who hear and tell the story, these characters are merely caricatures (Heng’E, the beautiful lady, Houyi, the archer who was left behind, and Wu Gang, a man who was all talk). However, the dubiety of their stories leaves a sense that there is a truth behind the stories that are private to the original people who represent them; they themselves hold the true memory of what happened that night, and that memory is cemented into the scent of the osmanthus, and the sentiment is carried on through history. Like the leaves of the osmanthus, the characters are forever paired on either side of the branch of their stories.

It’s the scent of the osmanthus that brings the moon closer to the Earth on the day people celebrate the Mid-Autumn Festival, under the glow of its flower and the celestial being it represents. And on this day, it’s the scent of the osmanthus that will tether you to those you love, and bring to mind the memory that, no matter how far apart you are, you will always be near to the hearts of those who keep you there.