I started getting texts and Facebook messages from people recently, telling me that the flowers were blooming. And a good thing, too. They're a little early this year, just like everything else. And I've been so distracted by bible school and paying photo gigs that I might not have realized it until they had begun to wilt, were it not for those people who care enough about me to make sure I knew. Although, it's a bit like buying crack for a drug addict. Enablers, that's what they are. Sunflower enablers! Ha! God bless them, there are worse things to be.
I drove by those fields a week or so ago when I heard they were blooming, just to see for myself. And since then I've thought about them almost every day. And as exhausted as I was Sunday afternoon, and as behind as I was in household chores, I dropped everything for a half hour or so (okay, maybe an hour) to take a few pictures. I was afraid they would start wilting before I had another chance to go there, and that would be unacceptable. Simply. Unacceptable. This window of opportunity comes just once a year.
It's hard to explain how much joy I get from sitting on the ground in the middle of those blooms, snapping away and listening to the hum of all the bees buzzing around the pollen filled blooms. Just me and the bees, and the occasional bird. If I'm lucky, no one else shows up, and I can get lost in my solitude. A good friend drove by Sunday and saw me out there. She teased me via text about it, and I got a good chuckle out of it. I supposed I could be a little embarrassed at my addiction, but I'm not. Unless you travel to remote corners of the world, there aren't many places in your own backyard these days where you can hide in plain sight and enjoy God's handiwork without being bothered. I don't think deep thoughts when I'm there. I just absorb and create. And renew my soul.
When we were in Paris last year, we got to see some of Van Gogh's paintings, including one Sunflower painting. As I stood there, looking at his work, I felt like I understood his fascination with them. After all these years of seeing them in print and not giving them a second thought, I finally pondered what he was thinking when he painted those flowers. Was he as fascinated by their form and brightness as I am? Did they give him, a man torn by depression, the same kind of joy they give me? Standing in the Orsay Museum, I wished I could see him in person and shout to him, "Dude, I get it! I totally get it!"
Pictures to come soon.