That Time I Meditated Myself into a Cult Run by My Houseplants

 

They say inner peace is a journey. Mine started on a yoga mat made from old tax documents and ended with a Venus flytrap initiating me into a houseplant cult that communicates in Morse code.

But let’s back up.

It began—like most great spiritual misadventures do—with Carl.

Carl, in case you missed Episode 1, is my cactus. Or more accurately, he was my cactus. Now he identifies as The Thorn Oracle, a self-proclaimed spiritual provocateur, emotional saboteur, and part-time enlightenment broker.

That morning, I had dared to express mild irritation after stubbing my toe on the coffee table. Carl responded with the kind of pitying disdain usually reserved for people who clap when the plane lands.

“You are toxic,” he said, “and not in a sexy Britney Spears way. In a spiritually constipated way.”

I was still hopping on one foot.

“Carl,” I hissed, “I am bleeding.”

“Exactly,” he said, with a photosynthetic flick of superiority. “Your ego is hemorrhaging. You need cleansing. Ritual. Release. You need—” He paused dramatically, “—group meditation.”

“Absolutely not,” I replied, returning to the couch and a comforting podcast about emotionally unavailable penguins.

But Carl had already begun.

He clinked a spoon against an empty espresso cup. A chime rang out that vibrated with the frequency of unresolved childhood wounds. My ceiling fan started spinning counter-clockwise. The lights dimmed. My pothos plant sighed.

Within minutes, the apartment transformed. Candles I didn’t own appeared on every surface. Incense that smelled suspiciously like lemon zest and generational trauma burned softly. A circle of houseplants had assembled in my living room—Carl presiding from atop a decorative throw pillow like a prickly shaman.

“This is Lila,” Carl announced, gesturing toward a Venus flytrap with unsettling lashes and the posture of someone who’s hosted a TED Talk on “Harnessing Your Inner Predator.”

Lila opened her jaws slightly. “Welcome, fragile vessel.”

I waved weakly. “Hi.”

“We begin,” she said, “with chanting. In Morse code.”

I blinked. “Sorry, did you say—”

“DOT DOT DASH,” shouted a ficus. The others joined in, vibrating with earnestness.

I looked at Carl. “I don’t know Morse code.”

“Good,” he said. “Neither does your higher self. Let confusion guide you to clarity.”

I glanced at my aloe vera plant, who was wearing a tiny poncho and appeared to be weeping softly into a tangerine.

And then… I sat down.

Because despite everything—despite my logic, dignity, and concern that I might be joining a cult founded by chlorophyll—I was curious.

I closed my eyes.

The chanting surrounded me: rhythmic bursts of dot dot dash and the occasional plant-based moan. I felt my breathing slow. My spine lengthen. My third eye crack open like a window during an awkward dinner party.

Suddenly, I was elsewhere.

I stood in a lush greenhouse where the air shimmered like a fever dream. Time hiccupped. Carl floated by on a leaf-shaped chaise lounge wearing aviators and sipping metaphysical kombucha.

“Welcome to the Plant Temple,” he said. “Don’t step on the moss. It remembers.”

Lila appeared beside me, her voice echoing from somewhere inside my frontal lobe. “This is your initiation. Shed your human expectations. Re-root.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means,” she said, “you’re going to learn photosynthetic mindfulness.”

I looked down. My feet were sprouting roots. I was becoming… plant adjacent.

The other cult members formed a circle. A tall bamboo clacked its stalks together in a slow percussive beat. A basil plant hummed Gregorian chants. And then the ceremony began.

First came the Sprouting of Identity—a metaphorical exercise where we each named our emotional soil conditions. I, apparently, am sandy with low nitrogen and abandonment issues.

Then the Watering of the Shadow Self. This involved a dandelion named Travis who whispered all my intrusive thoughts back to me in a Scottish accent. I wept.

Finally, the Sneeze of Ascension.

Lila placed a crystal singing bowl in front of me and dusted it with spores from a dream mushroom. “When you are ready,” she said, “sneeze.”

“I don’t have to—”

“SNEEZE,” she commanded, eyes wild with horticultural zeal.

And so, powered by incense, spores, and plant peer pressure—I did.

It wasn’t just a sneeze. It was a sneeze that shattered the illusion of linear time. I saw my past lives flash before me: a disgruntled 17th-century beekeeper, a sentient loaf of bread, and once, briefly, a traffic cone. My soul somersaulted. I glimpsed the eternal. I knew the unknowable. I also wet myself a little.

And then—just as quickly—I woke up.

Back on the yoga mat.

Carl stood above me, holding what appeared to be a clipboard made of bark.

“Congratulations,” he said. “You’ve achieved Temporary Partial Enlightenment. Asterisk: results may vary.”

Lila smiled toothily. “You are now one with the leaf.”

My living room was once again my living room. No chanting. No cult. Just a ficus quietly vaping in the corner.

I sat up, dazed. “Did that… really happen?”

Carl shrugged. “Reality is just an agreement between your brain and your delusions.”

“But—Morse code? The sneeze? The shadow self watering? Travis the Scottish dandelion?”

“All real. Mostly,” he said. “You processed your inner mulch. You’re composting your trauma. Be proud.”

I nodded slowly, unsure whether to cry or order takeout. Carl offered me a slice of lemon and something called “emotional hummus.”

We sat in silence.

Lila blinked gently. “Our cult meets Thursday’s. Bring a fern.”

I looked at Carl. “Is this going to be a regular thing?”

He grinned—a difficult feat for a cactus, but he managed it with alarming smugness.

“Only if you continue to seek enlightenment,” he said, “and also if I get bored.”

Which, knowing Carl, meant yes.

So here I am. Blogging again. Trying to make sense of a psychedelic meditation session led by a Venus flytrap who may or may not be on a federal watchlist.

Was it all a dream? A metaphor for processing emotional wounds? A cautionary tale about trusting botanicals with spiritual agendas?

Possibly.

All I know is this:

If your cactus ever encourages group meditation, maybe say yes. But bring tissues. You never know when enlightenment will make you sneeze.

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Author’s Note:
Still no sign of the talking mayonnaise from Episode 1. Carl says it’s “in emotional hibernation.” I’m not sure what that means, but my butter is acting cagey.

Remember: if you hear a ficus shout DOT DOT DASH at 3 a.m., don’t panic. Just breathe. Hydrate. And maybe consider joining the Cult of Chlorophyll. The snacks are weird, but the introspection is oddly effective.

Stay rooted.
—A Possibly Cult-Adjacent Blogger