Inside Ivy

Suddenly, a barrier let go and my consciousness began pouring out of my body and down into the plant like milk from a pitcher.

By Roger A. “Pete” Peterson

The secrets of the universe are hidden in the details of our experience.  – Pete 

Inside Ivy will change the way you look at plants and the world forever! The “Ivy” in question is a Philodendron or silver-leafed Arrow Head plant. We bought it in the late 1970s to hang from the ceiling next to the kitchen table in the small dining room of our two-story townhouse on the 800 block of McAllister Street in San Francisco. Once the plant’s vines had grown down several feet, it became necessary to sweep them aside to sit at the back of the table. We considered this a small price to pay because the plant looked so beautiful between the two corner windows near the front door. However, when the plant’s leaves began to sweep the floor and we had to be careful not to step on them, we knew it was only a matter of time before we’d have to find Ivy a new home.

It’s a dark and dreary Saturday morning in the middle of winter when the moment-of-truth finally arrives. The four of us, Crystal, Evan, my wife, Sandra, and I are just finishing up with breakfast when Sandra says she wants to clean the dining room windows. To make it easy for her, I take the ivy plant down and set the pot in the middle of the kitchen table. The vines are so long I have to move them out of the way for Sandra to get to the windows without stepping on them. Looking at the plant, I’m amazed to see almost four feet of vines still lying on the floor. This is it, I think. It’s time to find Ivy a new home!

In silent admiration, my eyes travel down the full length of the plant from the pot in the center of the table to the end of the vines lying on the floor. I don’t know if it’s the momentum of my eye movement or if my eyes have a mind of their own but for some reason, they continue to move across the floor beyond the end of the vines until they encounter the bottom of the stairwell against the side wall. With a shock of recognition, it dawns on me that this is the only place in the house that can provide Ivy with enough room to grow. A second shock of recognition hits me when I think about the skylight directly above the stairs. When I moved the vines out of Sandra’s way, I had unconsciously pointed them in the direction of the stairwell. Wow, was there a larger hand at work here? For a long time we knew we’d have to find Ivy a new home but, until Sandra decided to clean the windows, we didn’t think beyond that.

Excited, I climb several stairs to explore the idea further. Through my mind’s eye, I can see the plant’s green and white leaves against the white background of the wall as they cascade down the stairwell. Imaginatively, I watch them grow all the way down the handrail, and yes, even down to the floor below. Oh well, we can cross that bridge when we come to it. Right now there’s only one question left, will the plant pot fit safely on the ledge at the top of the stairwell? Grabbing a tape measure, I hurry upstairs to see. Wow, talk about magic, the ledge is exactly the same width as the base of the plant pot, six inches! Clearly, the stairwell under the skylight is the perfect spot for Ivy.

When Ivy took up residence in the stairwell, I developed a new and interesting habit. Every time I climbed the stairs to go to bed at night, I would admire the plant’s beautiful leaves as they cascaded down the wall. When I reached the plant pot in the upstairs hallway, I would lower my face close enough to feel its aura (energy field) with my own. Silently, I would say, Hi, how are you tonight? After my question, I’d wait for a back-surge of energy from the plant. I accepted this as the plant’s way of saying “Hello” in return. After basking in the glow of the plant’s energy for a few seconds, I’d then finish with, “Well, good night, I’ve got to go to bed now. See you in the morning!”

I performed this ritual every night for several months until one night something different happened, something special! This time, when I leaned over the plant to say “Hello”, I noticed its energy field was much stronger than usual. After my nightly greeting, I blissfully bathed in the tingly feeling of its energy and wondered why it was so strong. Not receiving a response to my vague wonderment, I shrugged and prepared to say goodnight. Suddenly, a barrier let go and my consciousness began pouring out of my body and down into the plant like milk from a pitcher. More than just falling, I felt the plant drawing me in. When the sense of falling stopped, I sat up and wondered where I was. With surprise, I could see I was in a tiny rootlet of the ivy plant, a small hair-like structure growing off one of the main roots.

To my further surprise, I found I was sharing my thoughts and feelings with another consciousness. The rootlet and I were in direct communication! We were sharing our thoughts, images, and feelings as if we were of one mind. When I wondered something about the plant, I got an answer. For example, when I first wondered where I was, I saw myself inside this particular rootlet of the plant. Not only can I see myself inside the rootlet under the soil, I can also see outside the plant itself as it rises up and spills over the edge of the pot. Observing the plant from this perspective, I am acutely aware it’s a gigantic living structure whose joy comes from actualizing the values of beauty and grace. It is a vast community of living souls, each one individual, yet connected to, and dependent upon, each other as they work together to co-create and maintain the physical structure of this beautiful plant.

I can even look out beyond the plant and see the rooms around the stairwell. As I exercise this ability, I watch and listen as my wife and children prepare for bed. My own body, with its eyes closed, is still leaning over the plant supported on its elbows. For a moment, I consider returning to my body but this thought pales in comparison to the excitement of exploring my new surroundings. It is now clear to me that the plant is aware of everything that goes on in the house, including our whereabouts and changing emotional states. I suddenly become aware that as “keepers” of the plant, we are literally extensions of it. It is completely dependent upon us for survival in its separation from the earth. We are its only source of food and water. And hidden deep within this knowledge is a seed of fear and resentment. Any failure on our part to provide the plant with proper care will result in suffering and even death.

Disturbed by the weight of these thoughts, and remembering my sometimes careless regard for plants in the past, I quickly turn my attention in a new direction. I begin to alter the physical structure of the rootlet itself. To me the rootlet’s whiteness represents the energy of all possibilities, a blank slate from which I can create whatever I want. Only half aware of my role in creating my new reality,  I watch in delight as the rootlet begins to hollow out and transform into the control room of a highly advanced starship. Appearing in a console before me is a large screen containing images of the stars and control symbols. In excitement, I create a handsome, male body in an immaculate white uniform.

Even though I suspect the control room represents the power of my own unfettered imagination, the symbolism of a starship and control room lead me to believe that I can move anywhere through time and space at will, and that I have the power to deal with whatever obstacles I encounter. When the control panel comes to life and I begin to understand, or remember, how to use its amazing technology, my imagination fills with thoughts and images of the far-off places and wild adventures I can experience with the power of this ship. I decide that a featureless white uniform is just too plain for a Starship Captain, or dare I say, Master of the Universe. With this grand thought, fancy gold braids and buttons begin to appear on my uniform. As I watch them appear and disappear in accordance with my will and sense of fashion, I suddenly remember my host, the personality energy essence, or soul of the rootlet. Embarrassed, I quickly snap back to the reality of my newfound friend to find him patiently awaiting my return.

I begin to wonder about the nature of the rootlet’s reality, when suddenly I begin to experience it. I become the spirit and intent of the rootlet, barely separate enough to have my own thoughts. Slowly and relentlessly I/we begin to push aside grains of sand as we grow in search of food and moisture to feed the plant. Not only do we look for pockets of the most important nutrients, using both logic and intuition, we look for the most efficient pathway to reach them.

Growing impatient with this slow pace of learning, I switch to different intuitive processes to speed things up. Like looking at a magic video of the rootlet’s life experience, I can review the rootlet’s growth history from the past and into the future as fast or as slow as I want. I experience the varying levels of light and dark as night turns into day and back again and as the height and depth of our growing varies. The rootlet has awareness and intent similar to my own.

I become acutely aware of the rootlet’s normal emotional state. From within its consciousness, I can feel the profound sense of love, honesty, and joy it exudes as it goes about fulfilling its unique potential in life. It knows that its being is unique and important to the life of the plant and All That Is. It does not question its value or role, and it wastes no time comparing itself to others. It simply rejoices in its own being and the being of all life.

Suddenly I’m looking back at our relationship to see how it could have resulted in this amazing experience. What allowed the barriers between us to fall so we could share our unique, individualized energy? Was the love I felt for the plant so strong it enabled me to pass some kind of spiritual muster required for this sort of thing to happen? As I ponder this question, I know the answer is yes and I feel blessed beyond compare!

As I leave the plant, I feel a profound sense of awe for it, especially my tiny host, the Personality Energy Essence that expresses itself as the rootlet. It is so open, loving, and wise, much more so than me, I think. There I go again, comparing myself to an ideal and flogging myself because I don’t think I measure up. What a waste of time! Why can’t I accept the uniqueness and beauty of others, as well as myself, and let it go at that? Why do I have to be unhappy being me and not appreciate what I can do as a unique, individualized expression of All That Is? In other words, why do I insist on feeling bad about myself when there are so many reasons to feel good? Someday I’ll learn to stop doing this to myself and won’t that be a leap forward in my spiritual evolution! With this final thought, I easily slip back into my own body.

When at last I took the time to look into the heart of a flower it opened up a whole new world – a world where every country walk would be an adventure, where every garden would become an enchanted one. ~ Princess Grace of Monaco

Copyright 1998, Roger A. “Pete” Peterson

We are not human beings having a spiritual experience. We are spiritual beings having a human experience. – Pierre Teilhard de Chardin

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3 Responses

  1. […] sheer entertainment, read Inside Ivy. I sent a query letter to Reader’s Digest in July and just sent two more out to New Age and […]

  2. […] Inner Vibrational Touch – Think of the Inner Senses as paths leading to an inner reality. The first sense involves perception of a direct nature–instant cognition through what I can only describe as inner vibrational touch. Imagine a man standing on a typical street of houses and grass and trees. This sense would permit him to feel the basic sensations felt by each of the trees about him. His consciousness would expand to contain the experience of what it is to be a tree–any or all of the trees. He would feel the experience of being anything he chose within his field of notice: people, insects, (and) blades of grass. He would not lose consciousness of who he was, but would perceive these sensations somewhat in the same way that you now feel heat and cold. (See: Inside Ivy) […]

  3. […] In this experience, I made direct contact with the consciousness of a house plant. I entered its […]

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