In May I planted sunflower seeds late in the growing season. They sprouted quickly. I protected my seeds from predators which seemed to help. I covered the oval plot with netting, thwarting the birds and rabbits, after pushing the tiny, black ovals into enriched topsoil laid over layers of existing Michigan clay. The seeds took root and became plantlings. I shifted the netting from the top to the perimeter because the needs of the sunflower population changed.
This is called being responsive.
By August the sunflowers had fully grown and began to bloom. They were standing strong, their faces turned toward the sun, on the first weekend our children and grandchildren were able to visit in unison since the start of the pandemic. The tiny sunflower patch looked like a signpost for the ones I love most in the world that read,
‘There is much to be happy about. Stay strong, beloveds.’
This is called being grateful.
Days after most of our children and grandchildren returned to their places a strong storm blew in. It dumped three inches of rain much too quickly, accompanied by wind gusts pushing west to east. The storm knocked limbs off trees and delivered a finishing blow to the local power grid. During the worst of it, the sunflower stalks swayed with the wind, their heads reaching down to touch the ground like graceful dancers and when it was over they could not fully rebound to their fullest height. A week later the crop looks like a floral wave frozen in time, still bowing and leaning westerly and huddled together as though tethered. The larger plants in the front support the weight of smaller ones in the back. But none have fallen.
This is called being in community with one another.
I grew sunflowers as a reminder of a place I loved living. I thought having them near would be a way to honor the memory of a treasured portion of my life when I felt like my best and strongest self. Plus, they’re happy flowers, and who doesn’t love happy flowers? I was sure my own little piece of Kansas waving in my front yard would help nurture me through grief and longingness for a sweet and simpler time, and it did. As an unexpected bonus, to be responsive, grateful, and in community also allows me to look forward and be present with the life I’m living now. Don’t get me wrong, I still have some big missing feelings. But witnessing growth and adaptability, not to mention a lot of happy bees buzzing about, does feel like I’ve grown my very own emotional victory garden. Nature is a nourishing and inclusive teacher.
Copyright (2021) Suzanne Bayer. All Rights Reserved