Anatomy of Becoming

Cross-section of a sunflower, August 2025. Curiosity meets anatomy.

I cut open a sunflower in August, just to see how it worked.
It felt like high school biology — part curiosity, part cruelty.
I didn’t mean to hurt it. I just wanted to understand.

Inside, it looked a lot like an artichoke heart.
The geometry of nature is reassuring — its imperfection disguised by its bravado.

Lately I’ve been thinking about that sunflower.
How exposing something — a plant, a thought, a feeling — can feel brutal and beautiful at once. Last week’s post left me feeling that way: raw, vulnerable, powerful. I bisected myself in public.

Where does our power come from?
What is the anatomy of strength?
Do we still feel strong when we write about weakness?

I’ve been casting a lot of resin lately. It’s a good counterbalance to gardening. There’s vision, skill, luck, and environment at play — and the process demands patience. You see potential in something unfinished and help it reveal itself. Sometimes other people see that in us too. They see our direction before we do.

And yet, we often strive to be seen by those who don’t see us — while doubting the ones who already believe.

A sunflower, like a person, is built on partnership. A seed is pure potential — inert until dirt, water, and sunlight join in. Once they do, the inevitability begins. Without those collaborators, a seed is just an echo of what it could be.

Fall is the season of seeds.
Each one, a tiny blueprint waiting for the right conditions to manifest.

Sometimes I feel like an isolated seed.
Sometimes I feel germinated.
But mostly, I think I’m a landscape — made of many seasons, still learning where the sun comes from.