A Summer Saved By Sunflowers

 

Tom and I are summer people. We live for that moment when everything wakes up, stretches, and bursts into color. Technically, that’s spring—but spring here has a way of being moody, unreliable, and often still wrapped in its winter coat. So, summer is when we truly exhale and wander back out into the world.

Except this year, we didn’t.

Not once.

No alpaca farm.

No farmers market.

No sandwiches tucked away in the woods.

No lakeside strolls, no car shows, no baseball games.

And—perhaps the saddest of them all—no sunflower farm… until yesterday.

A Late-Season Pilgrimage

We’ve been making the sunflower pilgrimage once a year for about five seasons now. The farm is 75 miles away, which makes it a once-a-summer treat. We chose yesterday because, for the first time since June, the humidity dropped low enough that our AC-less car ride felt survivable.

The trip itself was a trial—two hours longer than usual, enough to test anyone’s patience. But nature has a way of paying back persistence.

Drooping Reflections

At first, I wasn’t sure it would. The fields near the entrance were tired. Low-hanging heads, spotted with fungus, drooping like they’d given their all. And honestly? It matched how we’ve felt this summer—spent, wilted, worn out.

But deeper in, there it was: one glorious last field of the season.

Tall sunflowers, golden faces lifted high, defiant against the season’s end. And thousands—literally thousands—of bees. Usually, when we visit earlier in the year, the bees are scattered and the crowds are thick. Yesterday, with cooler weather and end-of-season timing, we had the field almost to ourselves. Just wind, buzzing bees, and the occasional bird song. I always try to bottle that sound in my mind. This year, it was even sweeter in the quiet.

An Unexpected Visitor

Just as I was thinking of heading back, I felt a sensation on my hand. A monarch butterfly had landed. I startled and it lifted—but only to perch on a nearby leaf, waiting patiently as I fumbled out my humble cell phone.

For five magical minutes, it danced for me, wings glowing orange against the fading green of leaves. Monarchs, fragile-looking yet fierce enough to travel thousands of miles, reminded me of us: tired, but tougher than we give ourselves credit for.

A Familiar Friend

On the way out, there was one more gift. A fluffy farm cat lounging in the shade, pretending not to notice us. I nearly walked past, but at the last second, I knelt to say hello.

He leapt up immediately—purring, rubbing, bumping against my hand as if we were old friends. Tom joined in, and the cat doubled his affection, meowing like a friend who was catching up with us after a long year. 

“Happy shiny animal aura people,” Tom calls us. And maybe he’s right.

Summer, Redeemed

We didn’t check off the usual list this summer. No festivals, no lake days, no car shows. But in one late-season trip—bees humming, monarchs dancing, sunflowers blazing, and a cat’s purr vibrating against our hands—we got our summer after all.  (scroll all the way down for all pictures)

Bees, Biofeedback, and the Living Warning System

This summer didn’t just bring heat. It brought a sauna cranked to “hellfire” with no one left to turn the dial back down. The air didn’t just hang heavy — it pressed in, corn sweat sticking to skin like a clingy ex who doesn’t get the hint.

That’s where this book began.

I couldn’t walk outside without feeling the edge of collapse. My body — the same one that’s already juggling chronic conditions like a circus clown on two hours of sleep — was sending signals. And they all seemed to translate to fried nerves. After watching a timely documentary on PBS about bees, I realized: the bees were doing the same. Their collapse wasn’t abstract news. It was feedback. A warning.

Why bees? Why now?

Because when an ecosystem gasps, so do the creatures inside it. And whether we want to admit it or not, we’re just bigger, sweatier bees in the same overheating hive.

The funny thing is, bees don’t collapse quietly. They buzz, they swarm, they disappear. They send messages with their very survival. We’re just not great at listening — at least not until the shelves are empty and the pollen trails are gone.

Who this book is (and isn’t) for

And look — if you’re one of those lucky souls who never minds the heat, who calls 95 degrees “just summer” and thrives in weather that makes the rest of us wilt? This book probably isn’t for you. Nothing to see here — move along, enjoy your iced tea in the sun.

For the rest of us — the ones whose bodies keep the score, who feel every pressure change, every scorch of humidity — this book is the conversation we’ve been missing.

Different from the gnomes

Some of you know me from the gnome books. Those are playful, punny, moss-capped little adventures — whimsical escapes where a goat or a cat might deliver a line better than most politicians.

This book isn’t that.

It’s not whimsical, though my wit still slips through the cracks (I can’t help it). This one is heavier. It’s heart and nerve endings, it’s the body screaming in chorus with the climate. It’s me pulling the threads between collapsing hives, chronic illness, and the way our systems — personal and planetary — are wired to warn us before they break.

An invitation

This isn’t a manifesto, and it’s not a self-help book with “10 Easy Steps to Save the Bees and Your Gut.” It’s a conversation. A reflection. A nudge to pay attention to what your body, and the world, are already telling you.

Because the bees aren’t just collapsing “out there.” They’re buzzing the same alarm we carry in our cells.

And maybe, just maybe, listening is the first step to healing — both kinds.

And if you’re still reading this far? Maybe you’re already part of the hive. 🐝

Bees, Biofeedback, and the Living Warning System - now available on Amazon.

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.