The Plants are Calling - Part 2: In Which The Goddess Laughs
Nature, Wayfinding, Ancestors, Dreams
Dear Readers,
Because a sentence in the last paragraph of Part I got mangled somehow, and because that particular sentence was meant to serve as a hinge to Part II, I am reposting the final paragraph of Part I here, in its edited form, as a kind of prelude to Part II:
In a Facebook group, someone posted a piece by Sophie Strand that was so fresh and so wise that I sought out more of her writing, finding that it spoke profoundly about the times in which we live, the narrow confines through which we view our world, and offered thought-provoking inquiries into other possibilities, among them that it was laughable to think that no other species but ours was capable of communicating—to each other or to us! Of course she was right. How could it not be so? Now that I’d heard the clarion call I knew it to be true because, without realizing it, I had already discovered it. I felt it in my bones. THIS, I realized, was the missing piece of the story of plants!
The Plants are Calling
Part 2: In Which The Goddess Laughs
I hadn’t camped for at least a dozen years when I finally pitched my tent, about three summers ago, for a week’s stay on the edge of a meadow. I’d been raised in a camping family, becoming a backpacker as a young adult, with plenty of wilderness to explore in the Cascade mountains, just beyond the edge of town. What I looked forward to the most was night time. It was then that a delicious feeling would sometimes steal over me as I listened to the gathering stillness—the community around me surrendering to the night. A community that included every being—all species, myself included. I didn’t have the context or the words, at that time, to describe the sensation but I reveled in it whenever it arose, like a mother’s kiss, before falling asleep. I very much hoped to feel it once again.
Perhaps because of the long hiatus, what I actually experienced in the liminal zone between meadow and forest, wakefulness and sleep, turned out to be much more profound—a kind of gravitational attraction. Like a lover, the magnetism of the Earth drew me close, taking me, as “Beloved,” by surprise as I found myself thrilling to the pull. After losing myself for a while in the sweet anticipation of the earth’s embrace, I eventually returned to ordinary reality with but one burning question forming in my mind: who or what was seducing me this way?
Nature’s promiscuity has often been reciprocated in me. I’ve been enchanted by stars, transfixed by animals, captivated by flowers, mesmerized by waves, and transported by forests. But this was somehow different. While definitely reminiscent of my earlier passions, this, I recognized, was All-Of-It-At-Once, Gaia in Her entirety—so sweeping that, rather than standing apart as ”appreciator,” I’d been gathered into oneness with my own belonging. Afterwards, in the interstitial darkness inside my tent, I slept as Gaia’s beloved. Enwombed in love, wrapped in her arms, Gaia, it seemed, had claimed me.
Inherent in the dance of Nature’s unfolding intimacy was an urgent longing to communicate, a pursuit that soon led to the techniques and writing of the late Stephen Buhner. What Buhner was exploring was no mere conjecture. As described in The Secret Teachings of Plants, he’d been the human recipient of an abundance of plant transmissions, the wisdom of which were put to use for the purposes of healing. “For those of us who wish to learn directly from the wildness of the world, to learn directly from plants the medicinal uses they possess,” he explained, “it is essential to begin to feel with the heart.” He was quite clear: “For every time you begin to gather information directly from the heart of the world, you must look for that one true thing that the phenomenon has to offer you. The one true thing is the complex of feelings that you experience from that phenomenon, the plant. It is the burst of communications that come from the thing being studied, the plant or landscape or ill person you are coming to know. It is not a thinking thing that you have here, this one true thing, it is a feeling thing. And this feeling is a unique living identity that must not be killed with the word.”
The plants, the animals, ancestors, dreams—all are constantly broadcasting meanings unperceived by us, due, essentially, to the noise in our minds. Since most of us have been taught that we ARE our minds, we’ve forgotten that language has a more primal form. Through our long history of attuning primarily to, and communicating chiefly through, the words of the mind, we’ve come to believe we’re the only species who CAN communicate, completely overlooking the vast amount of other-than-human transmissions occurring in every moment, all around us. Arguably, then, the most profound thing we can do, especially at the moment of peril we find ourselves in, is become fluent in our primal, native language. It could save our species—this instant!—IF we were able to humble ourselves enough to honor the wisdom of those other beings with whom we share the planet. Currently, that level of humility does not appear to be imminent. Yet there are those among us, who are awakening.
Which brings us to the ancestors. If you’ve read my earlier posts, you know that, alongside my developing relationship with the plant world, I’ve been carrying on lively conversations with the ancient mothers. Besides their generous assistance and advice, my favorite thing about the ancestors is the breadcrumbs they leave behind—pointing me to my next big learning node. One can always tell when one stumbles upon a breadcrumb. Excitement flares like a neon sign, flashing “This way! This way! Go this way!” So after reading Stephen Buhner’s book—a definite learning node—inspiration emboldened me enough to try out his process. In order to do so, however, I would need immersive access to the natural world, far away from the distractions and habits of the mind. As it happened, my husband and I had plans to visit the redwoods. I made a mental date with the forest!
Redwoods, as those who have walked among them know, are a direct channel to Gaia. They strip you of mind, leaving you wide open, in a state of wonder. Take any trail for five minutes and you will lose your self among the trees. Walk another 10 minutes and you are in communion. The trees are a teaching, plain and simple.
Don and I took a lot of trails. We parked in every trailhead we could find along the redwood highway. Finally, he had had his fill, but I hadn’t yet tested Stephen Buhner’s technique. So I left him to nap in the car while I returned to the trees in order to try.
As I entered the forest I could hear Stephen screaming in my ear, “DO NOT start with a redwood!” On the one hand, I was surprised. Weren’t they beckoning to me already? Didn’t I need a titanic message to pierce the impenetrable denseness of my poor, human mind? On the other hand, however, I understood his alarm. If a redwood and neophyte like me did manage to connect, the overwhelming power of their transmission might be too much—my circuits could be blown! To honor Stephen’s warning, I’d have to settle for a “starter plant.”
I walked further and further, asking the ancestors for a sit spot which took into consideration the limited time available, the potential presence of other hikers, the physical comfort/accessibility of the spot, etc. Ideally it would involve a bench, but not alongside the trail. It needed to be a bit off the track, where passers-by would not disturb me. As time and distance increased, with no sit spot in sight, thoughts about giving up alternated with the temptation to do some serious bushwhacking. Just then I became entranced by a particular redwood, slightly off the trail. Clearly, others had been drawn to it before me as they’d left a visible trail both to and around it.
I approached the tree and started my circumambulation around its enormity. There was a spot on the ground that might have worked as a sit spot if it wasn’t in clear view of hikers. Resolutely, I continued my way around when much to my astonishment, I came across a bench placed slightly beyond the redwood. Both masked from the trail and in clear view of the tree, the bench was absolutely perfect! Thank you, ancestors (and park staff)! Seating myself upon the bench, I closed my eyes and let my mind—rattled by the anxiety of the search and subsequent excitement about the sit spot—settle into meditation for several minutes. While I had resolved not to connect with a redwood, I had no idea which of the many plants on the forest floor to single out. I determined, therefore, to attempt contact with whoever presented themselves upon opening my eyes. There, I found a humble sword fern.
Gazing softly at it, I offered my greeting, returning to meditation while awaiting its response. Soon I sensed it—a kind of inner tug which I certainly didn’t create. Opening my heart to the fern, I asked if it would be willing to engage in a relationship with me—a kind of interspecies friendship. The fern’s response came slowly, as if awakening from a slumber. “You mean me?” it seemed to be asking. Situated, as it was, dwarfed by some of the most amazing trees on the planet, it must have been centuries since experiencing intimate contact with a human—or being noticed at all. Once my intentions had been confirmed, I sensed a shy assent. Gratefully, I drank it in with my gaze, basking in its uniquely uplifting spirit for a time, then took my leave, tripping gaily back through the forest. My attempt at “first contact” had been reciprocated. Stephen Buhner’s protocol worked! I would express my gratitude with a bouquet of flowers on my altar upon my return.
Subsequently, my list of plant allies has grown significantly, along with notes regarding the feelings they generate in me. As I continue to pursue even the slightest level of fluency in the language spoken by the other-than-human, I detect transmissions more frequently—the plants, the ancestors, my dreams, even synchronicities—all are speaking. These occurrences, often themselves brought about by breadcrumbs, lead me to books or teachers with some mastery of this language. Wherever, in fact, I can learn, I go—to their websites, their podcasts, their books, and their courses—there encountering ever more breadcrumbs.
Algorithms, it turns out, are a rich source of breadcrumbs. Through them I met Gerti Schoen (look for her on Facebook. She posts beautiful essays in a similar vein) through which I was connected with Plant Spirit Medicine, founded by the late Eliot Cowan. While, over time, his personal approach became quite shamanic, the healing fundamentals remain simple—cooperation between plant spirits and humans (who serve not as healers, but simple healing conductors). Nothing else is required—no plant products or materials of any kind—just a working agreement between plants and humans.
While many are aware that the goddess laughs when we tell her our plans, I’ve learned that she is amused by our preferences and dislikes as well. Even though Eliot’s basic technique requires no shamanic training, his book, Plant Spirit Medicine, includes many fascinating stories of his visits, experiences, and eventual training with Huichol shamans in Mexico. Reading of his exploits there, I must confess to being reminded of some negative impressions I had developed over the years regarding shamanism’s consistent and disturbing (to me) references to malicious spirits and sorcery. Since I found myself frequently confounded by the humans in plain sight, I had zero interest in a path that required guarding oneself against malevolent entities popping up in one’s precious, inner landscape. Additionally, I had developed a healthy suspicion of white people’s claims to shamanism—just one more channel, I feared, for cultural appropriation. It also didn’t help that the only time I had ever sought a shaman’s services I could detect no result whatsoever. Yet, as fate—or the goddess—would have it, I currently find myself embroiled in an unresolved story which seems to involve … shamans.
Allow me to tell it to you.
It came to pass, while reading Eliot’s book, that I was instructed via a dream to go to Ecuador for a healing. In the dream, I was presented with an image of the Earth, on which a country in South America glowed, emitting rays of light as it grew larger and larger … and then—just like that!—I knew myself to be in Ecuador. There, I was introduced to an Ecuadorian woman who presided over the rest of the dream’s story line like a master of ceremonies. However, nothing about the story appeared to be related to the purpose of my healing. As her presentation drew to a close, she made her final remarks and moved toward the door to exit. I became alarmed. What about my healing? Arising with some urgency, I slipped through the door behind her and made my inquiry. In response, she directed me to the stairs on my left. Then, following slowly behind as she and another woman preceded me, we climbed, first the stairs and then a frightening ladder. It was on that level that I explained the circumstances surrounding my need to be healed. The dream then came to an end.
A few days after, I went for a walk through the neighborhood, as I often do, while listening to a podcast. Selecting, on that day, a dream specialist interviewing Manchan Magan, whose talks I enjoy, I set out upon my way. After about ten minutes, the interviewer mentioned that she had once attended a dream convention in South America, at which some Achuar shamans from the Andes gave a presentation about the way dreams were used in their culture. She went on to say that she’d been so smitten by their teachings that she later returned to study with them for a while. Since she knew Manchan had also spent time in South America, she wondered if he’d run across the Achuar through his work or travels.
Never having heard of the Achuar people, I naturally had no idea how to spell this name or what, exactly, I was even hearing. (Hmm, sounds like … “ahshooar?”) As it happened, just as I listened to this specific part of the interview, I spied a Little Free Library and crossed the street for a look inside. Immediately upon opening the door I was stunned to find before me, a book entitled, “Spirit of the Shuar.” My mouth dropped open. How could this be? I picked up the book to find that the Shuar were, of all places, located in … you guessed it … Ecuador! With shaking hands, I turned to the table of contents to discover that it included a chapter on dreaming. In an overall state of shock, I pocketed the book for the journey home. Forget the breadcrumbs. This time I’d been hit over the head by a loaf of bread!
Upon returning home and reading the book, I learned that the Shuar (correctly pronounced “shwar,”), and the Achuar (pronounced “ashwar”) are the same people, though they long ago split into separate bands due to some historical schism. The Shuar live in the Amazon basin of Ecuador while the Achuar reside in the Andes mountains on the border between Ecuador and Peru. While they probably wouldn’t describe it that way, they live and breathe in what we would call “Gaia consciousness”—at one with the forest and everything in it. I have to concede that the wisdom of the Shuar people and the remarkable healing methods of the shamans described in the book, impressed me very much.
Unlike us, they do not perceive dreaming as something that is limited to night consciousness. They see their lives as a dream, whether waking or sleeping. According to their tradition, when our bodies become unhealthy, it is because of a constraint or misunderstanding within our dream—causing us to lose our way. Shuar shamans conduct a journey with those who seek healing, through the help of the plant teacher. During the journey the shaman is able to help the seeker discover the source of the imbalance. This reveals new, more balanced pathways which, incidentally, happen to have the benefit of restoring them to health. The Shuar call this practice “changing the dream.”
I submit this story, unresolved as it is, because it is a prime example of the way that dreams and synchronicities can be orchestrated to garner our attention. But who or what communicates with us in these ways? Where is the boundary between “our own” purported knowledge and the wisdom imparted by another? Are we a singularity or a multitude? The Shuar people, mysteriously provided as an example, live as one with the forest—there is no separation—with the perspective Gaia consciousness.
I went to Ecuador in my dream but was not then healed. However, a book, put into my hands a few days later, offered more insights into the mystery of Ecuador’s appearance in my dream. I have no money with which to travel there, nor would I know how to get to such shamans, let alone where to find them. All I can do is wait and see where the next breadcrumb (or loaf, as the case may be) will lead me. In the meantime, though, I cannot deny my newfound respect for and interest in shamanism. And this, my friends can only mean … that somewhere, in some invisible realm, a goddess slaps her thigh with laughter!
Well played, dear Gaia, well played!
I love that story and the synchronistic loaf of bread! 🍞🥖
Sending prayers that you laugh your way to the next shaman's doorstep.