Flowering

He was paging through a book on foraging in the Northeast when something prompted a memory of a Native healer in Alaska. She had worked back then with plants to heal people. He'd asked her once how she knew which plants worked well on what ailments. Was it knowledge passed down to her? No, she'd said, it came mostly from talking with the plants. A kind of singing. A kind of praying. Very humble. Being completely open to what the plants have to teach. A certain mindset or maybe even the complete absence of a mindset. 

She'd said it just comes from the Universe. 

He also remembered a time, some years later, trying to talk with plants himself. But he wasn't nearly as open or clear or humble or unencumbered as the Healer had seemed. For an entire day, he had tried to remain calm as various apparently nonsensical words appeared in his mind in certain rhythmic patterns. He'd feared he was having a psychotic break. He'd known though that he had to open himself wider and get beyond the fear. 

Later, in a dream, the word patterns returned and made sense within the dream's context. He'd come to the realization that just as people generally don't know the languages of plants, so the plants are imperfect in their attempts to communicate in human languages. 

Outside the bookstore, he crouched for a moment to gently caress a dandelion. He sang to the flower, imperfectly, in a new language.