The cool temperatures, steady rain, and blowing leaves meant I grabbed jeans and a sweatshirt over the weekend for the first time in ages as I lazed about the house. In the midst of autumn's unexpected preview, I found myself returning and holding on to an image from early August.
My daughters spent a week as counselors at a camp in the neighboring town, meaning an early a.m. drop off and mid-afternoon pick up for five days straight. To our delight, we passed two fields of sunflowers in full bloom each way. In the morning, their heads awakened with the sun to the east. By 3:30, the west beckoned the heavy blooms as daylight bent over the horizon in its slow but steady decline.
Motorists stopped to take photos or, at a minimum, slowed to prolong the view of each field bursting in yellow, and I understood why completely. The view was breathtaking in its beauty and provoked deep joy with each encounter. I began to look forward to driving back and forth each day, anticipating the fields of sunflowers just up the hill and around the bend.
Last week, I passed the fields again. Only this time, the sunflowers were brown and brittle, the blooms bent under the weight of seeds ready to let go, succumbing to their true calling. Perhaps, the sunflower seeds will be pressed into oil by the local farmer. Or, they may provide sustenance to rodents and birds of all sorts as they feed for migration or hibernation with the coming cold. Or, the seeds might find fertile soil close by or far afield to begin the cycle of life once again next spring.
I did not want to let go of my memory of August, of fields in full bloom. I didn't want to appreciate gifts of sunflower seeds dried and shared freely, nature's abundance and cycle. And, I realized I feel the same of one phase of life now passing to the next. I still retain the photo on my screen saver of my girls not yet one and four, sitting on the bed with the younger in the arms of the older, their personalities already fully formed and jumping out from their angelic faces.
Yet, last week I took their first day of school photos, alone and together, one in the last year of high school and one in the last year of middle school. I felt a mixture of yearning for the years so quickly passed, pride in the young women standing before me, and excitement for the futures they both are yet to build.
All too soon, my daughters will move on. I will move onto the next phase of my life, too. And, I need to remind myself that the moving on is exceedingly good; only stagnation would be toxic. We will move on together not away from the core of who we are and the tie that binds us together always. I will be in awe of their beauty as their lives bloom, only the type of blossom remains unknown. In the meantime, I will appreciate the sunflower and keep memories of August close at hand.
***
In the Community Garden
Mark Doty
It's almost over now,
late summer's accomplishment,
and I can stand face to face
with this music,
eye to seed-paved eye
with the sunflowers' architecture:
such muscular leaves,
the thick stems' surge.
Though some are still
shiningly confident,
others can barely
hold their heads up;
their great leaves wrap the stalks
like lowered shields. This one
shrugs its shoulders;
this one's in a rush
to be nothing but form.
Even at their zenith,
you could see beneath the gold
the end they'd come to.
So what's the use of elegy?
If their work
is this skyrocket passage
through the world,
is it mine to lament them?
Do you think they'd want
to bloom forever?
It's the trajectory they desire—
believe me, they do
desire, you could say they are
to be this leaping
green, this bronze haze
bending down. How could they stand
apart from themselves
and regret their passing,
when they are a field
of lifting and bowing faces,
faces ringed in flames?
late summer's accomplishment,
and I can stand face to face
with this music,
eye to seed-paved eye
with the sunflowers' architecture:
such muscular leaves,
the thick stems' surge.
Though some are still
shiningly confident,
others can barely
hold their heads up;
their great leaves wrap the stalks
like lowered shields. This one
shrugs its shoulders;
this one's in a rush
to be nothing but form.
Even at their zenith,
you could see beneath the gold
the end they'd come to.
So what's the use of elegy?
If their work
is this skyrocket passage
through the world,
is it mine to lament them?
Do you think they'd want
to bloom forever?
It's the trajectory they desire—
believe me, they do
desire, you could say they are
to be this leaping
green, this bronze haze
bending down. How could they stand
apart from themselves
and regret their passing,
when they are a field
of lifting and bowing faces,
faces ringed in flames?
