Have you ever found yourself fretting over a flower? Not in the way of a horticulturist tending their prized roses, but in the manner of a parent awaiting a child's first steps? This site is a testament that I have.
It began in early July, a beautiful gift that grew in a Swiss valley—a single seed nestled in soil, a promise of golden petals and dark eyes yet to unfurl. As it pushed through the earth, stretching towards the light, it took a train ride towards Copenhagen. And on the first days in its new home, I felt a kinship growing alongside it. For days and weeks I felt like each new leaf was a celebration, each inch of height a triumph we shared.
Towards the end of September, a trip came up that would take me far from my green companion just as it approached its grand debut. The flowering, that magnificent transformation from bud to bloom, was imminent. And I, the doting plant parent, was to be absent for the main event.
I couldn't understand my feelings. To feel FOMO—that modern unpleasant affliction—for a flower. As if this sunflower, in all its chlorophyll-infused wisdom, had marked its calendar and whispered, "Two weeks from your birthday, I'll put on a show!" And I, ever the eager audience, had been so silly to double-book myself.
But necessity (and some free time) birthed invention. A tiny computer with a camera (raspberry pi), and a dash of coding magic became my eyes and ears (though mostly eyes—sunflowers, as it turns out, are not known for their riveting melodies). Every half hour, click and whir, my faraway companion would pose for a portrait, beaming its progress across the digital ether.
And so, this site was born. A window into a world where time is measured in unfurling petals and lengthening stems. What a joy to witness this unfolding. To see the sun's path traced in the slowly opening bud (and hopefully soon yellow petals), to watch its body contort towards the window. Somehow a reminder that life persists, gloriously and un-self-consciously, whether we are there to observe it or not.
But how sweet it is to observe! To wake up every morning and come to this site. To find in these photographs a peculiar sort of companionship. A reassurance that growth continues, that beauty unfolds, that miracles occur even in a quite corner in Østerbro.
So here's to the sunflower, my patient teacher of presence and absence. Here's to small, homegrown technologies, which in their best version can shrink distance and stop time. And here's to you, dear viewer, for pausing in your day to watch a flower turn its face to the sun.