My mother has always been one to share nurturing words with just about anything. Every abandoned baby bunny rescued by our family has probably heard more loving lulls than the average toddler. A rogue carrot hidden in the back of the fridge is told to “hold still little guy” as my mom winds her wrist behind cartons of milk to scoop it up. 

Now my mother lives in a house overflowing with green. 

A sturdy snake plant, formally known as Flo, resides in an indirect sunlit corner while Prickly Pete, the cactus, soaks under the windowsill. Wilma, a wild-haired little lady, splays across a marble table all while my mom dances through the room watering, caressing, and speaking to the plants as if she is the sun itself. 

I can’t help but notice the relationship my mom has built with her quiet, green companions, and it makes one wonder about the sentience of plants. 

Rather than dismissing plants as incapable of knowing, thinking, smelling, or feeling—simply because they do not fit within our narrow definitions—perhaps we should consider that it is our definitions that are too small. 

Native American languages, in their profound intimacy with the natural world, offer us a lesson in humility. Where English settles on ‘wind,’ the Lakota Sioux language dances with Zitkála tȟaté, a light breeze that carries the flight of birds. The Navajo (Diné) invoke Chiníł'į to speak of wind that refreshes, not just the physical sense but in the spirit too. Hundreds of nuanced terms where we offer only one—this disparity whispers a truth: we are living within the confines of a self-imposed linguistic poverty.

It isn’t that plants cannot think; rather, it is that we have confined thought to the domain of the brain. We have forgotten that wisdom can flow through many channels, seen and unseen. 

Newfound scientific research has touched on the sentience of our green friends. Although lacking a voice, plants release volatile organic compounds when under attack, signaling neighboring shrubs to bolster their defenses. Not only are they aware of their environment but they are reactive as well. 

Consider the Mimosa pudica, a pink-flowered plant that, despite its lack of a brain, demonstrates an ability to learn. When touched, it instinctively curls its leaves inward, a protective gesture against harm. Yet, when exposed repeatedly to harmless stimuli, it chooses not to react, as if understanding that not all threats warrant the same response. This small plant holds onto this ‘memory’ for weeks, adapting its behavior with a grace that challenges our very notion of intelligence.

It is strange, yes, I know. How does one explain a non-neural, non-centralized form of awareness? These revelations invite us to reconsider the boundaries we’ve drawn around life and consciousness. With so much newness to explore, it can be difficult to dip back into established knowledge, but what if the misjudged sentience of plants is something we know in the cores of our very beings? Perhaps this knowledge is not fully undiscovered, but rather partially forgotten. 

There is something within us—most definitely within my mother—that calls us to listen to the quiet, green voices all around us. Give it a try.