STAGES - life, death, grief & sunflowers

Blooming in all stages at Lannon Sunflower Farm

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The answer was right in front of me, but it took a while to come into focus. My mother passed away 12 years ago, on August 27, 2010.  The anniversary of her death was coming again, and I was looking for a way to honor her. Or to connect with her, you might say.  Her wishes were that her remains be scattered in the St. Croix River, almost 6 hours away from here. And we honored those wishes. But since then, I have struggled to come up with a place to go when I'm missing her.

Over the years I have tried a few different things. More than once, when opportunity presented, I made the drive to the St. Croix and stood on the bridge we scattered her ashes from. I talked to her, took pictures. Cried. I've driven through the little town she lived in during the last decade or so of her life. Considered finding a church and a memorial service. Taken walks in nature, of course. Some years I just sat down with a photo book we made for her 70th birthday and paged through memory lane. 

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I've lamented this before. The lack of a physical space to go to in order to feel her presence. And, really, it shouldn't matter. Wherever I go, her memory goes, too. But some days it just seems like having that space would make a difference.

It's been more than a decade, and I miss her every day. And most days, that's fine. It's something you learn to live with. It becomes a part of you, the missing. Just as much as their memory is a part of you, too.  But as the anniversary of her death nears every year, I feel an obligation to find a way to honor her life, and her loss. 

I've been visiting sunflower farms over the past month or so.  I put together a list of Sunflower Farms as a feature on the website. The other day I was remembering how much my mom loved sunflowers. She had a couple large framed sunflower posters in her kitchen. She enjoyed the blooms, and the cheer they spread. And it occurred to me, finally, that I should honor her with a sunflower bouquet. ​

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My husband and I took a drive to Lannon Sunflower Farm, and picked a bouquet of sunflowers. Then brought them home and made an arrangement that included some flowers from our garden, too.
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I put it together with the invitation to, and memory book of, her memorial at the St. Croix. I took some time and read through the book again.

I took a photo of it all and sent it to my sisters, a way to share the day. Seems it was the right thing to do, this year. Next year, well, time will tell.

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Something struck me as we walked the flower farm. There were sunflowers in all stages of life. Barely a bud, ready to bloom, mid-bloom flower heads, wide open blooms bursting in all their glory, blooms missing a few petals, some missing seeds that have already been feeding the birds, drooping flowers, faded blooms in every fashion, some laying finished on the ground. All of these stages with their own beauty. Their own stories. Their own past, present, and future. 

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I'm reminded that every stage of life has its own allure. In spring we sow seeds and watch over them, wait anxiously for them to sprout and grow. We marvel at the magic of it all. Then the buds come, and the flowers, and we smile as we admire their colors blowing in the breeze, beneath a summer sky. We preen them, hoping for a second bloom, and on and on, until, as the summer fades, the petals fade, too. A little straggly, worn, crisp on the edges. But the seedheads, now, are teeming with potential. The birds know it and they will feast on them. 

Then autumn comes, and the leaves become the flowers, their colors bold and warm. Until they, too, fall, and decorate the ground. Leaving the trees to stand naked, branches making room for snow to settle.
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Yes, then winter arrives. And we are enamored of the crisp white artistry of it. The way it sparkles over everything.  At least in the early days. Like the blooms of summer, the glory of winter fades, too. And our thoughts turn towards spring. Anticipating the melting of the snow, spring rains, the greening, again. 

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Living here in Wisconsin, we are accustomed to these stages. We anticipate them. It's an innate feeling. Even though we long for summer to linger, we are drawn towards fall, and so on.  There's a reason writers liken the seasons of the year to the seasons of our lives.

​We are born, we grow, we bloom, we struggle, we love, we laugh, we lose, we start over again. And if we are lucky, we can recognize the beauty in all of these stages, though sometimes it takes looking back to do so. 

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I look through my mother's 70th birthday photo book, and find all the seasons there. Some more colorful than others. But all part of her story. Her final season was too short, if you ask me.

​But it was still beautiful. She was surrounded by the love of her daughters, family, and friends. Laughter was shared. Tears, too. But her impression was indelible, like the beauty and cheer of a sunflower in bloom.