By Yasir Hall
When I accepted an international horticulture traineeship at Chollipo Arboretum in South Korea, I expected to discover new plants, new landscapes, and new techniques. What I didn’t expect was that one of the greatest lessons I would bring home had less to do with what I was growing and more to do with how I thought about horticulture.
One of the first plants that captured my attention was the Muginghwa (Hibiscus syriacus), known in North America as the Rose of Sharon. As South Korea’s national flower, it is far more than an ornamental shrub. The name Mugunghwa (무궁화) translates to “the eternally blooming flower.” It is a symbol of endurance, resilience, and perseverance, qualities that have long reflected the spirit of the Korean people. Chollipo Arboretum maintains an extensive collection of Mugunghwa cultivars, and walking among them gave me a new appreciation for a plant I had previously viewed as simply another landscape shrub. In Korea, I learned that plants are not only valued for their beauty, but also for the stories, history, and identity they represent.
Over the course of my traineeship, I rotated through several departments across the arboretum, each offering a different perspective on horticulture. One month, however, left a particularly lasting impression. During that rotation, I worked with the 번식 team (the propagation department).
Each day was spent taking cuttings, preparing propagation material, and learning techniques that often differed from what I had been taught in the United States. At first, I found myself instinctively comparing every method to what I already knew. But before long, I realized something much more valuable: different doesn’t necessarily mean wrong.
One propagation project, in particular, has stayed with me.
While propagating a holly (Ilex spp.), I expected to prepare trays filled with a familiar propagation medium such as a peat and perlite based mix. Instead, my instructor handed me lightweight expanded clay aggregate (LECA). I remember thinking, we’re rooting cuttings in clay balls?
My instructor explained that the large air spaces between clay aggregates allowed the wounded stem to callus quickly while still maintaining consistent moisture through regular irrigation. The balance of oxygen and moisture created favorable conditions for adventitious root formation and often reduced the time needed for successful propagation.
From a plant physiology perspective, the explanation made perfect sense. Newly wounded cuttings require oxygen for cellular respiration and callus development, while excessive moisture can limit oxygen availability and increase the risk of decay. LECA provides exceptional aeration while retaining enough moisture around the cutting to encourage root initiation. Although the medium differed dramatically from what I had previously used, the biological principles remained exactly the same.
That moment challenged an assumption I didn’t even realize I had been carrying: that there was one “correct” way to propagate plants.
The more time I spent working alongside Korean horticulturists, the more I understood that horticultural practices are shaped by climate, available materials, institutional experience, and generations of observation. Good horticulture isn’t about following identical procedures—it is about understanding the biological needs of the plant and applying techniques that meet those needs under local conditions.
Another detail that fascinated me was learning the Korean names for plants. The holly we propagated was called 호랑가시나무 (Horang-gasi namu), meaning “tiger spike tree.” The name describes the plant’s sharp, spine-like leaves. It reminded me that while botanical names give horticulturists around the world a common scientific language, local names often reveal how people have observed and related to plants for generations. Throughout my time in Korea, I found myself listening to plant names as carefully as I looked at the plants themselves.
As our profession faces new challenges, from changing climates to emerging pests and shifting growing conditions, adaptability will become increasingly important. No single nursery, arboretum, or country has every answer. The opportunity to exchange ideas across cultures allows us to build on shared scientific principles while remaining open to different approaches. Learning from one another strengthens horticulture as a whole.
Looking back, I realize my time at Chollipo Arboretum was about much more than learning new propagation techniques. It taught me that horticulture is both a science and a cultural practice. Plants may follow the same biological principles wherever they grow, but the people who care for them often develop different and equally effective ways of working with nature.
Perhaps that is why the Mugunghwa remains the plant I remember most. It symbolizes endurance and resilience, but for me it also represents openness: the willingness to keep growing, to remain curious, and to recognize that there is often more than one right way to cultivate life.
Yasir Hall is a horticulture student at Temple University Ambler and a graduate of the Longwood Gardens Professional Horticulture Program. Drawing on professional experience in public gardens and botanical institutions, including work as an ecologist and horticulturist at Bartram’s Garden, his interests focus on public horticulture, garden interpretation, and the ways gardens foster education, environmental stewardship, and meaningful community engagement.
