Photo by Pauline
Once, I sat by my window, sharing my worries and watching a sunflower turn its face to the sun. Its gentle movement calmed me. I felt weighed down by chores and plans, wanting time alone. The sunflower slowly turned toward the light, reminding me not to rush.
I realized I could get things done, relax in the garden, and still enjoy dinner with friends. The day felt more manageable, not because anything changed, but because I did.The sunflowers I planted burst forth in buttery yellows, deep golds, and rusty reds. Birds and squirrels feasted on the seeds, and I welcomed them. The garden felt generous and alive, a reminder that abundance is meant to be shared.
My students planted flowers, vegetables, and milkweed, eagerly watching for new buds, bees, and chrysalises. AJ noticed everything. He studied new buds, measured stem growth, and searched for caterpillars and chrysalises. When bees and birds visited the small blue flowers, he ran to tell us.
I wonder what AJ was really watching for. Was he simply noticing the garden’s changes, or was he waiting for the next sign of life, growth, and becoming?
Maybe that’s what I’m watching for too. I imagine my heart as a sunflower, holding a steady sun. I let that light touch others with a smile, a door held open, or an invitation to the garden.
I can’t always solve struggles, but I can meet them with presence and care, like a sunflower turning toward the sun. Sometimes, that’s enough.
Years later, I return to the garden when I need to remember this. One foggy morning, I watched the sun rise as birds stirred and the earth warmed. I breathed in the quiet and felt softened.
I realized I still learn to release the need to fix everything at once. I still hurry, fill my days with tasks, and forget to pause. But now I know the way back. I can step outside, focus on something living, and let its presence bring me into the moment.
The return is rarely dramatic. It might be watering a plant, holding a door, sharing a bench, or noticing a new bud. These small acts remind me that care is a rhythm, not a single decision. I turn toward what gives me life, repeat it, and become more rooted, open, and willing to share my light.
Turn toward what gives you life, again and again. Let your sunflower heart guide you.
