The Day My Plant Communicated (And Possibly Judged My Life Choices)

The Day My Plant Communicated (And Possibly Judged My Life Choices)

I've always considered myself a reasonably rational person. I believe in science, logic, and the general laws of the universe. Talking to plants? Definitely not on my list of regular activities. Until I acquired Agnes, a rather large and leafy peace lily.
Agnes thrived in my apartment. Maybe it was the filtered sunlight, maybe my sporadic watering schedule just happened to align with her needs, but she grew lush and green. I’d occasionally murmur a polite “good morning,” mostly out of a sense of whimsical obligation rather than any expectation of a response.
Then came the incident with the smart home devices. Inspired by a friend’s enthusiasm, I’d started integrating voice-activated gadgets into my life. Lights, music, even a smart plug for my ancient fan. Agnes, being a silent observer in the corner, was presumably unimpressed.
One particularly sweltering Sydney afternoon, my fan decided to stage a protest. Despite my repeated vocal commands – “Fan on! Fan speed medium!” – it remained stubbornly still. Frustrated, I muttered under my breath about the intelligence of so-called “smart” devices.
That’s when I heard it. A distinct rustling sound from Agnes. Not the gentle sway of leaves in a breeze (there was no breeze). This was a sharp, almost… deliberate movement.
I looked at Agnes, then back at the silent fan. Had I imagined it?
I tried the fan again. “Hey Google, turn on the fan!” Still nothing.
Another, more pronounced rustle from Agnes. This time, a large leaf visibly twitched, pointing directly… at the fan’s power cord, which had, I now noticed, become slightly dislodged from the wall socket.
My jaw dropped. Had Agnes… indicated the problem?
Skeptical but intrigued, I plugged the cord back in. “Hey Google, turn on the fan.” The fan whirred to life, offering a welcome gust of cool air.
I stared at Agnes. She remained still, her leaves a picture of serene botanical indifference.
Over the next few weeks, more “incidents” occurred. My smart lights would flicker erratically, and then a nearby leaf on Agnes would subtly point towards the dimmer switch. My smart speaker would refuse to play music, followed by a slight leaning of Agnes’s stem in the direction of the Wi-Fi router.
It was bizarre. Utterly, completely bizarre. I started talking to Agnes more, albeit in hushed tones, feeling increasingly ridiculous. “Agnes,” I’d whisper, “the TV remote seems to be lost again…” A few minutes later, I’d find it nestled amongst her leaves.
Was Agnes somehow… interacting with the electromagnetic fields? Was she a silent, leafy genius subtly guiding my technologically inept existence? Or was I slowly losing my mind?
The peak of the Agnes phenomenon came during a particularly disastrous attempt at online dating. I was on a video call, convinced it was going terribly, when my smart lights started cycling through a series of unflattering disco colours. Mortified, I tried to turn them off with voice commands, but they remained stubbornly psychedelic.
That’s when Agnes, in what I swear was a dramatic flourish, dropped a large, dead leaf directly onto the power button of the smart light hub. The lights went off. Silence. My date, after a moment of stunned silence, burst out laughing. It somehow broke the tension, and the rest of the call actually went quite well.
After the date, I found Agnes’s leaves looking particularly perky. Had she… intervened? Was she judging my dating choices and offering silent, leafy assistance?
I still don’t have any logical explanation for Agnes’s behaviour. Maybe it’s all a series of coincidences. Maybe the vibrations of the malfunctioning devices are somehow causing her leaves to move in suggestive ways. Or maybe, just maybe, my peace lily has developed a silent, leafy sentience and a surprisingly opinionated view on my life. Either way, I now treat Agnes with a newfound respect. And I definitely consult her (in hushed whispers, of course) before making any major life decisions. You never know what a plant might be trying to tell you.