Growing sunflowers in Portugal: 2024

I grew sunflowers this year. From a seed to a bloom, tall enough to get tangled into my hair. Although that is not quite right, it started before the seed, it started with an idea. So let me walk you through the steps of growing sunflowers. I cannot promise it is not just a metaphor, celebrating yet another turn around the sun.

Step one: Dreaming that it is possible. I travelled around for years, imagining my home once I settle somewhere, and I knew that there would be sunflowers growing next to my windows. So when I finally moved, the first IKEA quest list had not only light bulbs and cutlery, but also a flowerpot for sunflowers. I could see it in my mind, until I carried it in my hands. Arms around it. Hugging my dream into reality.

Step two: Making a home. The flowerpot had to be just right. Not too small, as I do not have the right to limit the growth potential of the sunflowers. But not too big, as the sunflowers would share the limited space of our home, with walls, windows and ceilings measuring its limits. I found the corner next to the windows, that could shower it with light throughout the summer, and autumn as well. In July, a flowerpot the size of a solid bucket stood there empty, awaiting.

Step three: Sourcing the seeds. I could not find sunflower seeds mid-July in the stores of Lisbon, but my dad found some seeds in the stores of Vilnius, and so my sunflower seeds flew with me almost four thousand kilometers. I landed at night, and as soon as the morning dawned, I dragged two bags of soil from a store - overestimating my ability to do so, needless to say - and pushed the seeds into the soil.

Step four: Planting the seeds. The lesson of balance reappears here as well. I cannot push the seeds too deep, as they will not be able to emerge from the depths of darkness. But I cannot leave them too close to the surface either, they cannot have it as easy, because their roots would not develop as strongly. Making the seeds go through the challenge of sprouting makes them stronger, strong enough to handle anything their life above the ground may present.

Step five: Nourishing. The seeds need enough water to allow the seedlings grow and push through the shell of the seed, shooting straight through the crumbs of the soil into the bright air. But water too much and they will rot. Then, if the sun is hot, they might dry out faster, but during rain typical watering may be too much. And even once you pay attention to the uncontrollable weather, the life stage matters as well, with seedlings craving water more than more mature sunflower stems. It is about the balance, about knowledge, but most importantly, it is about the observation, trying and seeing what happens. Repeating that. Failing and getting a fly infestation.

Step six: Meeting the challenges. The observation is meditative and rewarding, but it is not a fool-proof way to grow healthy sunflowers, not always, as I still end up overwatering them and hence inviting, unwillingly, a fly infestation, with tiny icky winged creatures flooding the living room, making their way into the shower and even bedroom. Not great. More reading follows. I sprinkle the soil with cinnamon, as advised, I put tiny bowls of apple cider vinegar around it, feeling more like a witch than a gardener. The soil dries, the flies get less determined. But witchcraft does not always work, so all corners of the house end up being sprayed with insecticide, and I do not really like how this sounds, this ain't beautiful or poetic, it is not about living in harmony in nature. I guess the point here is that sometimes you have to prioritise, and the wellbeing of the sunflowers may clash with wellbeing of the flies, which may also clash with the wellbeing of the humans living in that space. Maybe another lesson is that we cannot reconcile nature and domestication without running into signs that it is not supposed to be so, that, in fact, sunflowers belong outdoors and my whim of seeing them in my living room is not too healthy for anyone involved. Or maybe it is an invitation to observe closer, not only by remembering to water the sunflowers at the said intervals, but burying fingers into the soil to see if it actually needs water. Sometimes I want to help, failing to ask if the help is needed.

Step seven: Rejoicing. This is my favourite step. Because there is deep rejoicing when the first sprout rises above the soil, with the shell and bits of soil still sticking to it, fresh to this world, and then I squat down and look closer, and I can see other seedlings fighting their way through, and it feels like the moment of birth, such effort, and at the same time, inevitability. Then there is rejoicing when the first leaves come, tiny symmetrical wings. And rejoicing when the second crown of leaves appear. Rejoicing for the whole family of sunflowers growing each day, recognising each of them, so similar, and yet different, some having strong stems from the get-go, some fragile, making me worried how they will ever be able to carry their big blooms. Some with more shades of yellow, some with the darker green. Some taller, some in no rush to catch up with the others. And, of course, there is rejoicing when the first flower bud appears. You can see it weeks ahead. A tiny bump peaking from the crown of the leaves. And then the day comes when it develops enough to see tiny threads of petals-to-be. And then they turn yellow, soft shades at first, and then full-on familiar colour of sunshine. There is rejoicing in fully developed blooms. There is rejoicing when more blooms join in. But most joy comes from unexpected turns, when stems decide to release new flower buds into the world, as the older ones near their end, extending their life, doing their best to cling to life, without striving at all, without clinging. How buddhist of them.

Step eight: Knowing when to say goodbye. Four months pass like no time at all, and while things change, some things do not, as I look at the same flowerpot, in the same corner. Though some changes are less visible, like the soil drained of nutrients by a hungry sunflower. Like the skies outside the window turning from the bold August brightness, to much gentler, but also somehow more adventurous, glow of December. The leaves have left the sunflower, some too dry, some turning mouldy, sickly dusting appearing on the dried up blooms. There was one bloom left, and I cut it to put it into a vase, but a moment later realised, that it would be a perfect gift to a friend, so one bloom left my house, its almost natural habitat, to befriend another home before its inevitable end. The Christmas tree pushed the sunflower out of this space, what is left of it pushed into a kitchen corner until I gathered time and strength to take the scissors, a bag, and surgically remove it from the flowerpot. I really do not like this part of the story as well, there should be a beautiful garden where I could sprinkle the soil and compost the remains of the sunflower, there should be a ritual - maybe the return of some more witchcraft - but that was not the reality. There is no garden to bury it, and there was no ritual as I packed it away with my mood hit by the fluey blues. It lasted longer than I thought it would. It released more blooms than I thought it would. It ended up visiting more homes than I thought it would. But before this story turns too morbid, there is, of course, more steps left.

Step nine: Dreaming about the spring. The brightest hope in depths of winter is the promise of renewal, and it is easier to let the sunflower go as I know that in the spring I will reopen the bag of seeds, drag some more soil in my ambitious arms and refill the flowerpot, stained by soil, suggesting a continuation rather than the brand new start. A perpetual continuation. Sunflowers are much more buddhist than me, as I cling to the idea of renewal, without being quite able to thank and let them go where the no-longer-alive sunflowers get to go.

Step ten: Appreciating without longing. Maybe I will never grow the sunflowers again (who knows, at the rate that the world is going). Maybe growing sunflowers will inspire me pick other seeds of other plants. Maybe beautiful things do not have to be repeated and longed for, but just appreciated, enjoying the quiet contentment that they happened. Ah, they were there. Right in this corner. Ah, I was there. Tending to the sunflowers. It was all here. We were all here. And we still are. Maybe I am just as buddhist as my sunflowers after all.

Maybe the greatest teaching of the sunflowers is that there are no steps. I was not quite sure when my sunflower growing has reached its peak. Was it the first flower bud? Maybe not yet. Was it the first full bloom? But what about the others. I kept waiting for the grand outcome, to take the conclusive photo of my thriving plant, until I realised that my sunflower is already wilting away. It was a continuous process, each step as significant as the one before. As important. As beautiful. And there is definitely a metaphor in there as well.