YESTERDAY I caught myself doing it again, talking to non-humans. Recently I have posted about some new little trees I received from the Arbor Day Foundation; I am nursing them along. Some have leafed out; others haven’t. I was talking to one that still looks like a bare twig sticking out of the ground. It is supposed to be a redbud tree. I got two of them and neither is showing signs of life. Perhaps they just don’t wish to come into the world. My mother told me I was that way; she was in lengthy labor while I fought to remain in that nice warm place. Of course, as Henry Miller once said, “to enter life by way of the vagina is as good a way as any.”

Anyway, I was whispering soothingly to this little bare thing that is supposed to be a redbud tree, telling him what a nice spot he had and how I would care for him. I have talked to trees for a long time, believing that I would like to come back – if that happens – as a tree, perhaps a nice live oak or a fragrant pinyon pine.

I talk to inanimate objects as well. Just this morning I cussed out my slippers. When I can’t find something, I often call out “Where are you?” This never produces a response, of course, but it helps me cope with the delay.

Like everyone else, naturally, I talk to my house pets. Bart and I converse all the time, back and forth, as if we each understand what the other is saying. It’s eerie. I have no earthly idea what “meow” means, although I suspect that he understands “Come on, Buddy.”

Talking to non-humans is not a sign of mental instability. It is a normal means of broadening one’s world, making inclusivity a common method for living surrounded by non-human things.

My wife wishes I talked to her more…