Speaking With

A brief treatise on plant communication

Talking with the plants, the minerals, the elemental elders in my vicinity - is very important to me. I didn’t come upon this because someone told me I should, although there are those who would say so. I don’t think there are any shoulds in the matters of existence. We are, after all, embodied consciousness. By divine right, that means we are free of all limitations except those which we impose upon ourselves.

I did, however, begin speaking with my wild elders because it was demonstrated to be possible and beneficial. A combination of qualities I am consistently drawn to. Community, I have found, is exceptionally important to me - and I have learned this first and foremost from finding community outside of my human relations. From that point of wild resonance have I been able to discover how deeply I treasure and seek community of my own speciation as well. The best of both worlds, for me, is to be in community where all people are recognized and regarded. This very much includes Black Obsidian, Great Blue Heron, the grasses swaying in the memory of my mind of what summer is, and the Frogs - who I had the immense pleasure of hearing just this evening when I sat out with the primal forces (primarily wind and earth), the stars visible through the cloud cover. Of course, the scope of my wild relations knows no bounds. All elements of this time-space reality, and anything that might be considered to be beyond, are all subsumed within the one original family. We are all original kin. Forged in the primordial fires of the origin itself.

I find it soothing to speak with plants, because I am aware that they are listening intently.

I’ll tell you a true story, whether you believe it or not is on you.

When we lived in Wisconsin for a spell, in what came to be known as The Healing Spiral, we had a lot of house plants. A number of those plant-friends were spider plants, descendants of the first great spider plant to enter my familial lineage via my brother when he was six years old, coming home from kindergarten with a tiny, spider plant baby in a dixie cup. At the time of this story, two and half decades later, the spider plant lineage is growing strong, and we have a number of them. I use kinesiology with all our plant friends, as it is the easiest way to ask if they need water (how much), want food (how much), want essences (which ones), want a new pot (I’ll get to it, I promise…I always eventually do). And so, there is nothing odd about me asking this one particular plant of its needs, them telling me that they want to be moved into the kitchen - directly next to Victor’s baking table. I understand about this particular spot. Before it was occupied by a jade plant that was (in my opinion) obsessively stubborn about wanting to be there. I didn’t understand at first, until I noticed the direct shaft of sunlight that streamed during the afternoon. Note taken. So, during one of my whole house overhauls room by room, where I would focus on my intentions for the space, offer essences, remove anything that didn’t belong, and then completely clean and reorganize - I moved the spider plant in question to that very spot. Its leaves are lanky, very lanky and floppy, like all spider plants I have ever seen (even the ones in the wild down in Belize) - are. A couple weeks pass. I’m enjoying the plant’s company in the kitchen, but mostly feeling satisfied that I am able to satisfy their particularities. It then becomes awkward for me the moment when Victor pulls me aside (in the kitchen, in front of the spider plant) and asks me if I can find another home for it. It’s all up in my baking grill, he says. And I am oh yes I get it, I’ll take care of it all the while feeling uncomfortable because that was where the plant wanted to be. Awkward. So I stall a day or two. And then I notice something that seems completely unlikely, almost unbelievable. Almost.

Unlike any of the spider plants I have ever known before, this one has begun the process of lifting up ALL of its lanky floppy leaves. And within another day, it has accomplished its intention. No leaves are flopping over Victor’s baking table. The plant gets to remain where it wants to be. Everyone is happy.

Besides that, I have witnessed the whole thing, Victor too, and cannot unsee or un-believe it.

A whole roomful (or city full) of people could scoff about talking to plants, but I assure you they have never done it. Anyone who has taken the time to have a conversation with a plant, truly, knows on a very deep level that there is a positive exchange of information. Mutuality is sought and received on both sides.

This is one of the primary reasons that whole plant medicines are teachers, not simply remedies.

Me and the Ox-Eye Daisy, June 2019