Lesson 1: Non-Human Persons

This week’s lesson was a fairly low key entry into the new practice I’m hoping to build. Basically, the instruction was to start talking out loud more regularly to the non human people in our lives. So, as I’ve been going around my house taking care of my house plants, I’ve been trying to more consciously greet them. This is something that I think a lot of people do, at least some of the time, especially if they have plants in their home so it wasn’t so difficult to begin. I started something like this a couple of months ago when I resolved to try and connect with a tree in the park. That experience inspired a poem; my houseplants don’t seem to be quite that communicative but it certainly makes me more mindful of their health if I think of them as tiny beings who work with me to provide beauty and clean air in exchange for a kind word and some water. 

In trying to more regularly talk to the plants in my home, I realized that I have a lot of resistance to the idea of talking to my plants because it makes me more like my mother. Growing up, my mother was in the habit of talking to trees, plants, animals, etc. and while she never cared how others might perceive her actions, I was acutely aware that her behavior was NOT NORMAL. In reflecting on this memory of my embarrassment, I am struck by the fact that while I was embarrassed, literally no one else ever mentioned or commented on her occasional quiet greeting to a tree or rose bush. As recently as this summer, when I asked her what she was doing in our back yard and she said “talking to the plants”, I rolled my eyes and made derisive comments. It is amazing how strong the impulse is to crush another person’s connection to the world around us. Cultural conditioning is so strong!

Below is the poem I wrote after I connected with the tree in the park:

On an anxious morning

Find a tree.

Approach, as is proper, barefoot and reverant.

Marvel at the cool kiss of soil against the soles of your feet,

Vibrating with hidden life.

Stepping close, press your face and hands into the curious warmth of its bark.

Breathe. 

Murmur your fears into it's rough embrace;

sink into long, slow tree thoughts

sticky with sap and seasons. 

Turn your fingers to the sun, spread wide, pink veined leaves to catch the golden morning light.

Hang from strong branches and swing your feet lightly, a child on your parent's patient arm.

Breathe.

Take the straight trunk into your body and remember the rustling, windy messages of the crown. 

You will need them when the human world recalls you, with it's haste and noise. 

Breathe.