 | The Sunflower by Susan Meeker-Lowryposted by Susan Meeker-Lowry, Exclusive AccessTuesday, September 29th 2009 @ 3:34 PM (not yet rated) |
With plants, as with people, intimacy begins with a chance
meeting. You may hear about a plant and its healing uses from another herbalist and find that you cannot stop thinking of it, see a picture of it in a book and find your attention captured, or encounter it by chance on a walk in the wild and notice that it seems special to you in some way. These chance encounters are the beginning of intimacy. The intimacy deepens when you take time to foster it, when you focus on the plant and take the time to really come to know it.
- Stephen Harrod Buhner
Every summer for the past five or six years, a different plant has made itself known to me and become my teacher. Always my spirit, and sometimes my body, has needed the plant’s medicine. So far I’ve been taught by bee balm, elecampagne, skullcap, and valerian. Sometimes the plant has to go to great lengths to get my attention. For example, bee balm had to literally shout at me. It was a grim rainy June about three years ago (the rainiest June on record, this year came close) and I was not happy. The garden was barely hanging on. One afternoon I was making my daily round looking for rot when I came to the bee balm which was actually thriving. “Look at me, Look at me” it shouted and finally I did and it was amazing. Despite the gray day and the mist in the garden, Bee Balm literally glowed. All summer Bee Balm was my teacher sharing lessons about joy and peace and just being with what is.
So this year I wondered, what plant will it be? I’d walk around the garden, asking, “Is it you? Is it you?” as I greeted the herbs and flowers. Each year it’s been an herb so I expected it would be this year as well. But I didn’t sense anything. Every one was happy and willing to talk and hang out but the teacher remained elusive.
Of course it was there all the time and eventually I figured it out. Sunflower! I’ve always loved sunflowers. They’re so happy and hopeful. They glow with presence regardless of what kind they are or how big or tall they may be. Birds love them, of course, and we feed the birds who in turn plant sunflowers everywhere, especially in the gardens. The birds also have their own garden around the bird feeders; sunflowers, thistle and other seed bearing “weeds” that get planted there one way or another.
After my sister’s accident, when the doctors finally said that her coma was lightening, I got it into my head that I had to find a huge sunflower so that when MJ opened her eyes, with awareness, for the first time it would be there for her to see. On the way to the hospital in Burlington, Vermont we often passed a large garden that had marvelously tall sunflowers with foot-wide blossoms. One of them would be perfect. Somehow we managed to meet the gardener and get one of those sunflowers for MJ’s room. And it was there, albeit a bit wilted, when she finally opened her eyes. I think she appreciated the story more than the sunflower.
Since I’ve been gardening here in Maine I’ve tried, mostly in vain, to grow sunflowers. It’s not me, it’s the birds. Every time a plant sprouts and it gets its first couple of leaves, it gets plucked out of the ground. So for every ten seeds I plant maybe, if I’m lucky, one actually makes it. I have had some minor success with the smaller types, which are cool, but invariably the best sunflowers are those planted by the birds that manage to elude being discovered when they sprout. So for the past couple of years all the sunflowers in my gardens have been gifts from the birds. This year I was given two very special sunflowers (in addition to those in the birds’ garden), one of which made itself known as my teacher.
The story involves another flower, Lisianthus. Lisi is a delicate appearing, rose like flower often found in florist bouquets because it last so long and is so beautiful, which is how I met the flower for the first time and decided to try to grow them. Last year (2005) I planted seeds in February and ended up with eight tiny plants in the flat. When it was time to put them into the garden there were four, only two of which were strong enough to grow. Spring 2005 was cold and wet which didn’t agree with Lisi at all. The stunted plants each bore two buds. As luck would have it just as one of plant was beginning to flower something ate it right off the plant. So now there was only one. Slowly its biggest bud opened. And it was beautiful. Colin came home for a visit and took several pictures of my special flower, getting down on the ground so the sun shone through the petals. One of those photos was on the cover of the last issue.
This year I started my Lisis sooner. At planting time I had eight small, but healthy plants. Rather than put them directly in the garden I decided to plant them in a huge pot that I could move around if necessary, both to protect them from predators and to provide them with the right amount of sun. I set the pot in the front garden at the base of the hummingbird feeder. The plants grew steadily. Then one day I noticed a small sunflower growing in the pot. I thought about pulling it out, but decided to leave it because, after all, it was a gift from the birds. And it grew and grew and grew until it far surpassed the Lisianthus, all the other plants in the garden, and eventually the hummingbird feeder. The strange thing about this large sunflower is it faced the house, rather than the sun, so that every time I looked out the upstairs bathroom window the plant’s cheery yellow face smiled at me.
During the summer just past I often felt blue, as my grandmother would put it. At first I assumed it was the gray, wet weeks of May and June, but even after the sun came out it was hard to shake the mood. I tend to take what’s going on in the world personally, even though I know I shouldn’t, and this is especially true with regard to the Earth. As anyone who pays attention knows, the past few months have brought nothing but bad news when it comes to climate change, energy issues, extinctions, and so on.
Well, that unique sunflower couldn’t have picked a better spot if its intention was for me to see it often. I’m always looking out the window to watch the hummers who used sunflower’s branches as landing pads before delicately perching on the feeder to sip sugar water. When they first arrived this spring, there were two. By summer’s end there were six or seven. They’re fearless, very territorial, and chase one another around in great, sweeping arcs only to come back and light on a sunflower leaf or the top of the feeder or on a nearby bush. They’re so much fun to watch! And the Lisianthus grew and budded and blossomed throughout the summer in beautiful blooms of lavender and soft, pinkish, cream. Between the hummers and my special Lisi’s the sunflower was constantly in my awareness. But it took almost the whole summer before I realized it was also my teacher. One afternoon I just got it. I was almost embarrassed it took me so long to wake up. “How could I be so dense?”, I asked myself. “It was here all along.” My spirits began to lift immediately. Once again when I least expected it Gaia’s magic entered my heart. I needed sunflower energy in my life – the hope and strength and unique beauty of this plant.
As I write this autumn is in full swing. Due to the wet spring and summer the foliage this year is so very gorgeous no words do it justice. Today the sky is deep blue, the trees in varying shades of red, orange, yellow, rust, and deep pine green glow in the sun, and with a bit of snow on the highest mountain peaks – well it just doesn’t get any better than this. The hummers are long gone, the Lisianthus are now stalks in the big pot, but my teacher, the sunflower, still stands tall. Most of the seeds have been eaten and the leaves are dry and olive colored but I can’t imagine not seeing the sunflower each time I look out the window. And even though it’s no longer fresh and (conventionally) beautiful, I still feel joy and hope and strength when I see it. And I’m grateful.
Plants tend to get our attention when we need them most. At least that’s been my experience. You have to remain open, and leave the intellect out of it, at least at first. Me going around the garden trying to figure out which plant would be my teacher this year was using my intellect. Instead, you have to be open to the “voice”, however it comes to you. And you very much must know the communication is possible and when it comes, that it is real. For me, now, there is also trust. Plants are my teachers. Because I garden with a certain awareness of the essence of plants, the devas, the magical energies in the garden, however you want to think of it, I’ve come to understand that my yearly teacher is part of the relationship I have with Gaia.
Last night we ate the last of the green beans. A frost came, finally, and killed the tenderest flowers. Gradually I’m putting the garden to bed, pulling dead plants, cutting back the perennials (leaving those with seed heads for the birds to enjoy), planting next year’s garlic, adding compost, and finally when everything is done, I’ll bring my Greek Goddess into the living room for the winter, as well as some special crystals that, I’ve been told, could crack from freezing and thawing. Then, before I know it, it will be time to order seeds for next year. And once again I’ll wonder, “Who will it be this year? Who will be my special teacher?”
From Volume 4, No. 3 & 4
Colin Lowry photo
