This all started in November. A tray of seeds. Some borrowed heat from a grow mat. A vague plan to grow something taller than me. I didn’t have a strategy. I just had the seeds, the space, and the feeling that something good could come from planting something on purpose.
I picked up the seeds from a local farm store where the shelves lean slightly and the bags of soil are already torn open. The kind of place where no one tries to upsell you anything. I came home, loaded the seed tray, pressed each one in with my thumb, and set the whole thing near the window like it belonged there.
At first, nothing. Just damp soil and the sound of me explaining to my dog what photosynthesis was. But after a couple of weeks, tiny green stems pushed through. The kind of green you only get from something brand new. That first sprout had the energy of a question mark. Small, but trying.
I checked them every morning. I rotated the tray to face the sun. I whispered encouraging things. Not because I thought it helped. Just because it felt right. Eventually, the stems got strong enough to handle the outside world. So I gave them twenty spots around the house. Some in the ground. Some in big containers. Some probably too close to a fence. I didn’t measure. I didn’t map it. I just planted where it felt right.
The first few weeks outside, they looked lost. Thin stems, floppy leaves, the occasional visit from something trying to chew on them. But they held on. And then they took off.
By January, they were stretching. By early February, they were impossible to ignore. Thick stalks. Leaves wide enough to shade a squirrel. Buds that looked like they were plotting something. I didn’t know flowers could have presence, but these did.
Every morning I stepped out with coffee and walked the perimeter like I had a farm. I stopped calling them “the sunflowers” and started calling them “my sunflowers,” which is when you know something has crossed the line from project to problem.
And then the neighbors started noticing. People slowed their cars. Some waved. One guy yelled out the window asking if they were real. Another said they looked like something from a movie. Kids on scooters pointed. Even my mail carrier gave them a nod. You could tell they had become a thing.
I started showing them in the vlogs. At first just a shot here or there. But viewers caught on. They asked for updates. They commented on the height, the color, the way they curved toward the sun. It became a small series within the series. Quiet, but consistent. Just like the flowers.
Eventually, the color started to drain. The petals got tired. The heads drooped. The leaves turned brittle. That was when I knew they were done.
Sometime between late February and early April, I cut them down. Not all at once. One by one. A slow walk with a pair of shears and a weird sense of appreciation. I stacked the heads in the garage and let them dry. No system. No hangers. Just tables, hooks, and corners. For two months, they sat. Shedding pollen. Curling in on themselves. Holding the next generation quietly.
And now they are ready.
The seeds are coming out easily now. Some just need a shake. Others fall apart in my hands. There are thousands. More than I could ever plant. They spill into buckets, onto the floor, somehow into my boots. I collect them all. It feels like harvesting a secret. Dusty, quiet, and somehow rewarding in a way that’s hard to explain.
I kept a few for next season. Just enough to start over. The rest? I’m giving them away.
If you’ve been here since November, if you watched the trays sprout, the blooms stretch, the heads bow, and the garage fill with dry petals, then this is for you. These seeds are the product of patience. Of trial and error. Of letting something have time and space to figure itself out.
No forms. No gimmicks. Just message me. I’ll send you a handful.
You’ll need sunlight. Some soil. And more patience than you think. But I promise, something will grow. And when it does, you’ll understand why I cared so much in the first place.
Because this was never about flowers. Not really. It was about doing something slow. About making room. About finishing a story, then choosing to start it again.
The flowers are gone. But they left something behind. That part feels right.
The fruit of this work is in the giving.
Do not waste what remains of your life on what does not matter
Marcus Aurelius
You are always welcome in this space
Christopher
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