We think we’re awake. Think we’re aware.
But go meet a plant — really meet it — and you might realise just how little you’ve been seeing.
At first, all you’ll notice is a wall of green. That’s normal. Most people stop there.
But if you stay — not with your head, but with your body — something starts to shift.
Bit by bit, leaf by leaf, the plant shows itself.
Not as an object. Not as a “thing to forage.”
But as a presence. A being.
One that’s been there all along, just waiting for you to slow down and listen.
There’s no ceremony. No grand epiphany.
Just the quiet undoing of how you’ve been taught to see.
And then, maybe one day — if the land lets you —
that thick green wall thins to a veil.
And you glimpse the world behind the world.
A place thick with wonder. Imagination. Kinship.
Not fantasy — not escapism — but raw, living strangeness.
This is not about control. Or enlightenment.
You’re not in charge here. The plants are.
They don’t speak in words.
They pull you sideways —
into coincidence, gut instinct, unexpected turns.
Serendipity becomes your shadow.
The world begins to shimmer.
You don’t need to believe in anything.
You just need to show up.
Drop the performance.
Stop trying to fix or be fixed.
Let the plant be what it is — and let yourself be changed by that meeting.
The old ways of seeing — all thought and theory and separation —
they don’t feed the spirit.
They don’t root you.
And without roots, your big ideas and beautiful visions?
They’ll topple at the first strong gust.
So get out of your head.
Come to your senses.
That’s where the doorway is.
In your breath.
Your skin.
The soft crush of a leaf between your fingers.
A taste. A scent. A moment of stillness.
The plants took me long ago.
I stopped fighting it.
Now I let them lead.
It’s not tidy. It’s not easy to explain.
But it’s real.
And it’s always close —
just a sniff, a nibble,
a pause —
away.