Lessons in Communication from the Lake's Edge

The Wild's Master Class

I paused at my threshold this morning, feeling a swelling within my being - an invitation forming on my lips before I even stepped outside. Instead of simply opening myself to receive as I usually do on walks, I found myself asking the Wild directly: What do you want us to pay attention to today? What wisdom might serve us right now?

The answer came immediately, as it often does when we truly listen - this would be a master class on communication.

Nature exists in perpetual conversation. Pollinators dance their locations to nectar, fungi weave underground networks sharing nutrients and warnings, trees release chemical messengers to alert their community of danger. Everything - the grasses, insects, worms, the very soil itself - participates in a constant hum of balance, an unending dialogue that maintains the delicate homeostasis of ecosystems.

As I walked, I began to understand that for humans, communication and listening exist like two words inscribed on an infinity symbol, flowing endlessly into one another. Remove either element, and the flow breaks. Nature, in its ancient wisdom, has mastered this dance. It listens in real time, without ego or filter, without the cultural biases and worldviews that so often cloud our own ability to truly hear.

Trees can detect and warn of invading organisms, even humans approaching with harmful intent. They release protective chemicals against insect predators. Yet I've never witnessed a flower grow defensive when bees arrive uninvited. Instead, they practice radical hospitality, understanding that sometimes graciousness itself becomes the fertilizer that nourishes the whole.

At the lake's back edge, I discovered what looked like a conversation frozen in time: two distinct plants positioned in what appeared to be intimate, face-to-face dialogue. The larger bloom belonged to a Swamp Rose Mallow (Hibiscus moscheutos), its white petals gleaming in the morning light. This resilient beauty thrives in sunlight and serves as what botanists call a "reliable indicator species" - its very presence signaling the health of wetland habitats.

What struck me about the Swamp Rose Mallow was its generous efficiency. These blooms offer themselves fully to pollinators during peak hours, then close at night and in overcast weather when their nectar isn't needed. They conserve resources not for themselves alone, but for their buzzing community of partners.

Leaning toward this generous bloom, almost conspiratorially close, grew what I later learned was Halberd-leaf Rosemallow (Hibiscus laevis). Though its tendrils appeared delicate and curious, this vine-like cousin plays its own crucial role in the ecosystem. As an aquatic plant, it provides habitat for countless species while its root systems prevent erosion and offer stability to the banks. Through a process called "autochory," it spreads its seeds using water itself as messenger, slowly extending its presence around the lake's perimeter over the years I've been walking here.

Watching these two related yet distinct species, perhaps more like cousins than siblings, I witnessed something profound about communication across difference. Here was a delicate, respectful dialogue happening between beings who shared ancestry but had evolved different gifts, different ways of serving their shared ecosystem.

The Wild communicates through hum and buzz, through chemical and touch, through seasonal rhythms and daily cycles. There's a cadence to it all, but beneath every exchange lies a fundamental respect for biodiversity, an understanding that the health of the whole depends on each being's unique contribution.

As I continue my walks, I find myself asking the Wild for guidance on one of humanity's most pressing questions - How do we listen to and build relationship with those who seek to destroy? When nature faces species that threaten entire ecosystems, what is the approach?

This wisdom feels urgent now. We need to learn how to maintain the infinity flow between speaking and listening, how to practice the kind of real-time responsiveness that maintains balance rather than breaks it. We need to understand when graciousness serves the whole and when boundaries become necessary for survival.

The Wild holds these answers. We need only step outside our doors with genuine curiosity, pause at the threshold of what we think we know, and ask: What do you want us to pay attention to today?

The conversation amongst all things is always happening…the conversation is a constant experience, evolving, unfolding and speaking…at all times…not just in snapshots of dialogue. The conversation is the container; it is the undertow of humanity.

xx, Victoria