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.