During this COVID time, like many people, I adopted several new activities to break up the monotony of the days and to find some way of seeing a future that is different from the present, chaotic void in which we find ourselves. Most of us have heard the stories of the bread bakers, those who stripped the store shelves of any sign of yeast and caused a run on flour usually only seen at holiday baking time. There were those who put together puzzle after puzzle, staring and fitting small pieces together well into the nighttime hours until…voila!…the completed picture was visible. Others had weights and yoga mats delivered to their homes and began the exercise regime they had only dreamed of before they had such time on their hands. Many also tackled the stack of unread books that had gathered on the bed side table or on the shelf. What a perfect time to finally read War and Peace, right?

I was one of the people who planted seeds in small containers to be ready to deliver tender plants to the warming, hopeful soil of a spring that would spell the relief of being able to be outdoors, no longer wearing the parka of quarantine. I watered and tended seeds for zinnias, bachelor buttons and sunflowers. Rotating them in the ever-evolving light of the season, I watched them grow and then repotted them when they outgrew their early nests. Just seeing the change in them helped to engender a change in me. When the time was right, I planted them outside and continued to douse them with water and care in anticipation of what was to come. I can report that the zinnias have been plentiful and I have created many beautiful bouquets to grace the table. The bachelor buttons were not as successful serving up only about a half dozen lavender-blue blossoms. Next year, maybe?

But of all the sunflower seeds I planted, only one…ONE…grew into fullness. And yet, it is this one single flower that has given me such joy and provided many lessons. For weeks now I have watched as this plant has grown tall, then taller still, until finally a brilliant, golden flower stands at attention overlooking the garden and the house next-door. I have marveled that this flower, known for always bending its face toward the Sun, had to grow so tall to do so. Knowing nothing about plant science, I find it very interesting that so much green stalk needs to be present to give birth to this yellow, orange beauty. So much reaching upward in search of the light.

Perhaps it is the sign of too much pandemic reflection but this sunflower has become a kind of spiritual teacher to me. All the work it took to continue to stretch and grow and push upward all in search of the gift of sunshine, of the hope of opening to something more beautiful, something that offers food to something smaller, more fragile. I have watched as both Monarch butterfly and several kinds of bees have feasted on the sweet nectar at its center. All the while it continues to stand tall and hold its precious face toward the light that drew it and nourishes it. 

Sometimes, almost always really, reaching for the light is hard work. It takes being able to stand strong in the winds of storms and the pelting of rain and the hail that batters. I have observed the sunflower doing this. Reaching for the light also takes patience, patience in being still and turning ever so minutely toward the rays that promise something more than we can even imagine.  There is a Maori proverb that says: “Turn your face toward the sun and the shadows fall behind you.” In a time when shadows dance all around us bringing confusion and fear and uncertainty, the opportunity to face the light is a gift.

This week I will continue to bask in the beauty of my solitary sunflower. I will check the progress the feasters have made on its center. And I will turn my own face toward the light of the Sun hoping the shadows that can hover over our days will fall behind me. At least for a little while. 

At least for a little while.

Loss. As humans we are acquainted with loss from a very early age. It is a constant of our growing years…for some more than others. But each of us had the experience of losing our first tooth, an event that was both exciting and traumatic. We have all heard…or maybe experienced…the stories of children who did not want to let go of that smile gem that had traveled with them for five or six years. There was the fear that it might hurt. There was the confusion about what would take its place. There was the sheer terror of the tales of strings and door handles and slamming. In those moments, even the promise of the Tooth Fairy and the cold, hard cash under a pillow could not ease the discomfort felt. 

We are swimming in a sea of loss these days. Since the pandemic hit we find ourselves in an endless cycle of stories of loss. Loss of life. Loss of jobs. Loss of businesses. Loss of the freedom to go to many of the places we normally would if there wasn’t this invisible threat that could make any of us ill while we also become carriers to others. There is also the loss of the rhythm of our days and weeks and the activities that make up what we would be doing this summer. There is the loss of school schedules and work schedules and the predictability of ‘how we live our lives.’And of course, there is the loss of human contact we all lament as we stay closer to home to keep friends and strangers safe. Where the loss exists, other beings ooze in and takes up residence…uncertainty and its byproduct, fear. And I think most of us have realized over the last months that we really, really, really do not like uncertainty.

I have been reflecting a great deal about loss over these last months and observing how I live with this unwelcome companion. What I have been noticing is how intricately woven loss is in our every day lives and in the flow of Creation. We don’t like to recognize this or honor its presence but, since our first, lost tooth made its way into our tiny hand or even before, loss has always walked beside us. We see it reflected in the change of the seasons and in the ebb and flow of the Moon’s round fullness that grows from a tiny sliver and then back again in its glowing orb in the night sky.  And the now there is the ever-increasing loss of light as summer begins to turn toward autumn . Soon the trees will let loose their leaves and the loss of color will give way to the starkness of winter stillness.

Earlier in the summer, as I was walking I came upon this tree whose brilliant pink blossoms struck me with awe for several days in a row. But the tree…through wind and rain and the inevitability of time…had let go its blossoms that now formed this enchanted path of color. Loss, I thought. This was all a part of the life of this tree which I had so enjoyed but through loss was now creating a magical carpet I beheld but could not bring myself to walk on. I just stood and noticed the beauty of this loss. 

Another walking route takes me by the Mississippi River allowing me to stand and watch as pieces of trees, large and small, float slowly downriver. Someplace along the flow of this mighty body of water, an unseen tree has lost a part of itself through storm or erosion and is making its way to another place. Those that veer too close to the tiny Raspberry Island get hung up on a large ever-evolving sculpture of driftwood while others keep flowing to another unseen place. I like to think some make it all the way to New Orleans. This river-made sculpture is made entirely of loss. Something to think about.

The 13th century Sufi poet, Rumi says: ”Anything you lose comes back to you in another form.” I want to believe that and do think that the losses we have experienced and will continue to experience have the potential to teach us something we had not yet imagined we needed to learn. Of course, I say this from the comfort of my home knowing I have all I need. I cannot know nor understand the devastating suffering so many are experiencing through these many losses. My privilege is not lost on me. And neither is the desire to hold this time of loss in open hands, with an open heart in the deep hope of coming to the other side of this somehow honed for living in the world with a more compassionate heart and with a stronger sense of how loss can be more a friend than an enemy. 

There is great joy when that new, permanent tooth breaks through the skin and begins to grow, altering our faces into the more mature ones to come. Unless there is some accident of storm or nature, the beautiful pink blossoms will emerge from the tree in the spring and my awe will once again be stoked. As snow begins to fall and temperatures plummet, ice will form on the sculpture that sits on the cusp of Raspberry Island changing it into a thing of shimmering, frozen magic. Loss will become another form.

May the same be true for each of us as we hold the losses we are experiencing in these strange, life-altering days.