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
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, “
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 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 mountain top. 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.
Then 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?”
© Jaroldeen Edwards
