Plants know tings we don’t
Where roots remember and leaves speak to the sky
Underneath the earth’s surface, the roots hold the memory of all who walked the land before. Stretching deep and weaving through time, nature’s hidden threads whisper secrets to the land—fragments of footsteps pressed into the soil, echoes of forgotten songs carried by the wind, and the lingering weight of rain that has come and gone. In the hush of the underground, timeless conversations hum, where wisdom flows like an unseen river, connecting past and present in a language only the soil remembers. Nutrients pass from one to another like silent messengers speaking without words. A network of wisdom pulses beneath our feet, unseen but ever-present.
Above, the leaves stretch toward the sky, as if in conversation with the sun and stars. They shimmer in golden light, dancing with the breeze, brushing against the whispers of the wind. Messages travel through the air, carried from distant places. The rain softly announces its return, the wind braids itself through nature’s outstretched, and the butterflies, bees, hummingbirds, and moths arrive, each carrying stories stitched into the flutter of their wings. Tiny feet of ants trace hidden paths along stems, while beetles hum in the shade of wide leaves. Every living being plays a role in the symphony of growth, and every sway of a branch is a line in an untold chapter waiting to be discovered.
In the way plants grow, a quiet, steady force unfolds—an effortless magic that defies chaos around it. A kind of knowing, a patience that outlasts storms and droughts, welcoming the curious touch of a child, like a spark waiting to ignite, and bearing the weight of centuries. Time presses against their bark like an unspoken challenge, yet still, they rise. The bloom arrives without a sound. The leaves heal, like silent promises, each one mending itself under the touch of time. The vines climb as though born to conquer, twisting upward with relentless purpose.
The line between dream and reality blurs, like a mist that slips through your fingers. The plants know tings we don’t, seeing the world in ways beyond our reach, as if they hold the rhythms of the earth in their roots. If you listen closely—if your fingers sink into the soil, if your breath pauses long enough to catch the wind flowing through the branches—you might sense their wisdom and feel the quiet pulse of connection to all living things.
