“The sunflower is mine, in a way.” Vincent Van Gogh
My memory has always sucked, which I suppose is a blessing, as I wrestle with my dotage. Then, it comes as no surprise to me that I forgot the exact moment I started thinking about sunflowers. I know it was last Sunday morning, but I swear I don’t know what put them in my head in the first place. I know I was wanting to feel inspired about humankind, a
really dumb, tall order, such is the nature of moving mind.
I was bouncing around a little, being a bit of a neurotic mother hen, before hatching my last story on the joy and sorrow of the current covid configuration, which managed to find me. I got up extra early, giving me around three hours, before I had to do anything at all, which involved preparing for my ritual Sunday motorcycle ride.
In addition to being felled by the beast of the Omicron the week before, Flaming Lips, my motorcycle, had suffered a serious ailment just around the same time. So, this past Sunday, we were both ready to go. Maybe the extra energy of feeling better, accompanied by a newly healed machine, sent my mind into fields of happiness.
I grabbed for a scrawny, school-like notebook that I keep on the shelf under my all purpose table in the living area. Splayed across the couch, I scribbled some notes on the last page of the notebook, all the pages having grown very tired of perilously clinging to the glued spine. I also knew that in a week’s time, when I revisited these scratchings, I’d have no idea what I was trying to say. Oh, by the way, I was right.
During this week that followed, I thought a lot about the sunflower, writing endlessly stories in my head, none worth preserving. Out of the blue, had a conversation with Laura about her planting sunflower seeds with her grand daughter. Trust me, I don’t have many of those serendipitous moments, so they matter to me. To me, it is a given, to stay with whatever causes the sparks of connection with an idea, any idea. Sunflowers clearly was a keeper.
I thought about Van Gogh and Santa Fe, NM. Growing up, as a kid, there was a dreary, framed print of Van Gogh’s most famous painting of sunflowers in a vase. In spite of the incredibly vibrant nature of these flowers, the brilliantly, miserable Dutchmen, forced them to put up with each other, a pall of depression their calling card. The outside comes from within, a forever story of our species.
In 1987, I undertook my own private odyssey to northern Mexico, discovering nature’s ungodly beauty at every turn. I heard a lot about the natural world, while doing hard time in NYC. I hadn’t experienced very much of what she had to share, that feeling of being overwhelmed and speechless, but I made up for lost time, camping pretty often. I don’t remember when I saw my first field of sunflowers in the high desert country.
During the first few days of this week passing, I saw sunflowers everywhere in my mind, but didn’t have the words, let alone the context. Amazingly, Laura brought me around a half dozen of these big, grinning sunflowers to put in a vase, which originally served as the home for my long-dead Betta, friend-for-life. All of a sudden, I had company, with a chorus of these smiling faces always looking at me. I couldn’t believe they decided to hang around with me, while I tried to figure out my story.
I have to tell you how cool they are. When their time has passed, they actually gracefully bow at the waist, lowering their shoulders and face, so they can’t be seen.
OK, the truth is the very first moment I thought about the sunflower, I thought about us, all of us, which I will now attempt to explain. I think that flower is perfect. It is exactly what it is supposed to be and presents itself to the world with complete sincerity and intention.
I thought about Van Gogh, who somehow kept his head just above the emotional cess pool that was his life. In the midst of his tortured darkness, the need to create couldn’t be strangled. Don’t ask me why, but I thought about the Women’s Orchestra of Auschwitz and how they managed to embrace Beethoven in the midst of an unimaginable nightmare.
Blame the goddamn sunflower for what’s to come. I don’t know if I’ve ever heard anyone talk about how incredible we are, just the way we are. Look at what we have accomplished over the millennia? Try as we might, attempts to extinguish the spirit of one group because of another, has never worked. My God, the art we have created is truly stupefying.
I think so many of us have such a low opinion of ourselves, we never take the time to see how truly extraordinary we have been over time, a freakin’ miracle, if you ask me. Believe me, I’m no fucken genius when I say that an empty vessel will fill itself with anything, vulnerable to lies, big lies. There are so many people, empty inside. They have become an army, both here and abroad, vitriolic vessels of venom, loathing others and blind to their truant self-worth.
While I absolutely believe in the futility of attempting to slow the climate steamroller that is headed for us all, that hopelessness has nothing to do with celebrating what it is to be human. It is why I write. It is why some of you actually read these things.
The sunflower is beautiful and so are we.
