The Daffodil Garden
Several times my daughter had telephoned to say,
"Mother, you must come see the daffodils before they are over." I wanted
to go, but it was a two-hour drive from Laguna to Lake Arrowhead. "I will
come next Tuesday," I promised, a little reluctantly, on her third call.
Next Tuesday dawned cold and rainy. Still, I had promised, and so I
drove there. When I finally walked into Carolyn's house and hugged and
greeted my grandchildren, I said, "Forget the daffodils, Carolyn! The road
is invisible in the clouds and fog, and there is nothing in the world
except you and these children that I want to see bad enough to drive
another inch!" My daughter smiled calmly and said, "We drive in this all
the time, Mother." "Well, you won't get me back on the road until it
clears, and then I'm heading for home!" I assured her. "I was hoping you'd
take me over to the garage to pick up my car." "How far will we have to
drive?" "Just a few blocks," Carolyn said. "I'll drive. I'm used to this."
After several minutes, I had to ask, "Where are we going? This isn't the
way to the garage!"
"We're going to my garage the long way," Carolyn smiled, "by way of the
daffodils." "Carolyn," I said sternly, "please turn around." "It's all
right, Mother, I promise. You will never forgive yourself if you miss this
experience."
After about twenty minutes, we turned onto a small gravel road and I
saw a small church. On the far side of the church, I saw a hand-lettered
sign that read, "Daffodil Garden." We got out of the car and each took a
child's hand, and I followed Carolyn down the path. Then, we turned a
corner of the path, and I looked up and gasped. Before me lay the most
glorious sight. It looked as though someone had taken a great vat of gold
and poured it down over the mountain peak and slopes. The flowers were
planted in majestic, swirling patterns � great ribbons and swaths of deep
orange, white, lemon yellow, salmon pink, saffron, and butter yellow. Each
different-colored variety was planted as a group so that it swirled and
flowed like its own river with its own unique hue.
There were five acres of flowers. "But who has done this?" I asked
Carolyn. "It's just one woman," Carolyn answered. "She lives on the
property. That's her home." Carolyn pointed to a well kept A-frame house
that looked small and modest in the midst of all that glory. We walked up
to the house.
On the patio, we saw a poster. "Answers to the Questions I Know You Are
Asking" was the headline.
The first answer was a simple one. "50,000 bulbs," it read.
The
second answer was, "One at a time, by one woman. Two hands, two feet, and
very little brain."
The third answer was, "Began in 1958."
There
it was, The Daffodil Principle. For me, that moment was a life-changing
experience.
I thought of this woman whom I had never met, who, more than forty
years before, had begun-one bulb at a time-to bring her vision of beauty
and joy to an obscure mountaintop. Still, just planting one bulb at a
time, year after year, had changed the world. This unknown woman had
forever changed the world in which she lived. She had created something of
ineffable (indescribable) magnificence, beauty, and inspiration.
The principle her daffodil garden taught is one of the greatest
principles of celebration. That is, learning to move toward our goals and
desires one step at a time-often just one baby-step at a time-and learning
to love the doing, learning to use the accumulation of time. When we
multiply tiny pieces of time with small increments of daily effort, we too
will find we can accomplish magnificent things. We can change the world.
"It makes me sad in a way," I admitted to Carolyn. "What might I have
accomplished if I had thought of a wonderful goal thirty-five or forty
years ago and had worked away at it 'one bulb at a time' through all those
years.
Just think what I might have been able to achieve!" My daughter summed
up the message of the day in her usual direct way. "Start tomorrow," she
said. It's so pointless to think of the lost hours of yesterdays.
The way to make learning a lesson of celebration instead of a cause for
regret is to only ask, "How can I put this to use today?"
� Author Unknown
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