Sunflowers

“The sunflower is mine, in a way.”
– Vincent van Gogh

Isn’t it remarkable how nature offers us gentle reminders to pay attention? A quiet nudge, asking us to stop and see—to notice the lessons hiding in plain sight. Often, what we fail to recognize has been there all along, waiting for that small tap on the shoulder. In Zen practice, a monk uses an awakening stick to bring a meditating student back to the present moment.

Imagine seeing a stadium of 50,000 people for the first time. From a distance, the sea of faces might seem indistinguishable, each blending into the next. But up close, the individuality becomes unmistakable. My relationship with sunflowers began much the same way. From afar—whizzing past a field at 55 mph or admiring a vibrant bouquet—they seemed beautiful, yes, but similar. The familiar mindset of, “You’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all,” crept in—an easy refuge of the neglectful.

Then, on a whim, I started growing sunflowers on my farm. I struck a deal with my neighbor: he could work my 60 tillable acres rent-free, in exchange for planting a 12-by-1800-foot stretch of sunflowers along my road frontage. My part? Simply providing the seeds.

As the sunflowers bloomed, my education began. Walking through their rows each day, I discovered their silent, understated elegance. The camera became my companion, helping me see them as individuals—each unique, each extraordinary. Architect Le Corbusier once said, “God lives in the details,” and with sunflowers, that couldn’t be truer. Their remarkable details— intricate and subtle—hold the truth of their beauty and character.

This was nature’s awakening stick, tapping me with its quiet wisdom.

If you’re ever driving along and see a field of sunflowers, stop the car. Step into the rows. Look closely. You might just feel that tap, too.

But for now, Walk with me.