Where the Sunflowers Still Remember

Every year around this time, something golden starts happening. Even while days turn slightly shorter, the sun lingers just a little longer, the air thickens with August weight, and—like clockwork—my favorite flowers return: sunflowers! These gentle giants even have their own day, and today—the second Saturday in August—is National Sunflower Day in the USA.

Those who know me understand that I plant them every year. But not this one.

And yet, they came anyway.

Sunflowers—bold, defiant, joyful things—pushed through cracked earth and unwatered corners. Volunteers, every one of them. I’ve always grown sunflowers intentionally, scattering seeds with care in spring, choosing varieties by height or hue. But this August, the sunflowers chose me. They rose up where the soil remembered. Where last year’s roots left hope.

And then, right on cue, Facebook served up a memory from years ago. A photo of one of our tallest sunflowers—so tall we couldn’t even measure it properly. We estimate it was around 17 feet. A single stalk stretching skyward like it had somewhere urgent to be.

That photo stopped me. Not just for the height, but for what it meant. That year, we nurtured those giants. We watched them tower over rooftops, defying gravity, catching the light before anything else could.

Now, years later, I have only volunteers—scattered, a bit smaller, untamed. But somehow, that makes them feel even more powerful. Because this year, I didn't water or plan or prune. I simply survived. And still, the sunflowers came.

That old photo is more than nostalgia. It’s a symbol. A reminder that even when your current season feels smaller, your roots are still strong. That there were days you grew giants. And maybe those days will come again. But for now, the volunteers are enough. More than enough.

So, this August, I’m celebrating both the memory and the miracle—the towering stalks of yesterday and the quiet return of golden resilience today. I’ll let the tall ones remind me of what’s possible. And I’ll let the volunteers teach me that joy doesn’t always have to be cultivated. Sometimes, it just shows up.