Sunflower Blues

To me, the height of summer and its joy and energy is symbolized by the sunflower. We grow them every year from seeds, that get transplanted from our green house when the seedlings are about a foot tall. This summer we have 33 of these gentle giants all over our garden, swaying in the soft August breezes holding their beautiful golden petaled heads into the reaches of the turquoise sky above. Their sight thrills me with an almost intoxicating delight. The bees love the sunflowers generous heads allowing them to gorge themselves on their honey scented richness. And then, as happens each year, that morning arrives, when the scent on the wind announces that first musty chill, letting us know summer is about to end. The sunflowers magnificent heads and bright yellow petals start to look brittle and hang slightly downward. It is a sight that always breaks my heart. I can hardly bear to see these proud and beautiful giants that tower 3 feet above my 5 foot 8 inches height become weighted down like exhausted guardians. Because as they fade, they take on an air of spiritual sentinels, watching with a measure of wisdom and acceptance their inevitable demise in the nature of things. It feels like I am watching friends die slowly, kind friends who seem to symbolize the mystery of existence. I love all flowers, and we have a great variety of them : roses, petunias, begonias, pansies, viola, Morning Glory, Mirabilis, sweet peas, fuchsia. I accept them being temporary without any problem, or sadness, but then there are the sunflowers. I physically feel a pain of loss every late August as they start to fade. When they are almost completely down, the Blue Jays and crows start to pick their seeds and leave them blind, helpless, but still proud and strong. I have no idea why sunflowers affect me that way. Maybe it is because they are so tall, and their heads are so big and strong, which makes them look like they are standing on feet like people. Maybe the fact that their stature is so human like and they stand so proud, like guards on duty, or soldiers on a battlefield, makes it so hard to say good bye to them each year. Because I know I won't see them again, unlike a tulip or a lily, or a rose, that at least makes us feel there is a permanence in their appearance each year. It is almost like the sunflowers know they only have one chance, regardless of their height or strength. It sunflowers weren't so tall, it would be easier,too. When I walk among them, I feel strangely secure in a delightful, whimsical Alice in Wonderland way. Walking among them is a bit of retrieved childhood magic coming to life. It is wonderful. So, yes, by the end of summer, I get the sunflower blues, and I have not found a cure. It is just going to hurt through the melancholy of the shift from summer to autumn. Mysteries are beautiful, and they apparently can also hurt quite a bit. I think of the song " We had fun,... we had seasons in the sun... Good bye , my friend , it is hard to die, when all the birds are singing in the sky..." sung originally by Jacques Brel in 1961, under the title " Le Moribond", the "Dying Man". The English version " Seasons in the Sun " was written by the poet and singer Rod McKuen. To me, watching sunflowers die is hard and painful, I am not sure why. Maybe because I had two younger sisters die young of horrible diseases, or because I lost my father to Alzheimer's and I was cut off from being there for him. Maybe they are a reminder of my own mortality, I do not know. Or a reminder of how much I love summer and hate to see it go. Sunflower Blues, no treatment, no cure.