I’m sitting amongst the house plants today. It's watering day, and they’re thirsty, but they don’t make a sound. They’re different beings, these green ones, adding beauty and silence and oxygen to my life. Does flora know the One who made it? Like fauna, does it feel His presence—and that of the angels and demons? I think so, but I don’t have scientific studies to back me or statistics to underscore my words. I only know a sunflower turns to the light, and a dog—not long for this world—fastens her gaze on something in the atmosphere beyond her.
We see a fraction. The veil keeps us from the fullest picture of clashing swords and bared fangs, tearing flesh and tumbling entities, and I like it better that way. I already believe; I don’t need to witness what’s behind there.
I know people who see the demonic and angelic realm, and I’m glad my prayers were answered and I don’t. I see the effects on this side of the curtain anyway, and it’s more than enough.
But we were talking about plants, weren’t we?
Does the Dracaena fragrans sense my nearness and look at me?
Does my goldfish plant hear the slosh in the watering can and know refreshment is soon coming?
Does my cactus dream of Arizona and smile when I don’t water him but give a splash to the orchid instead?
Lilies don’t labor or spin, I’ve read, but they’re dressed better than royalty. And the trees of the field clap their hands, so I guess there’s written and experiential proof after all.
I see you too, little ones. Here comes your drink.
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