Daffodil's

"The Daffodil Principle"

Several times my daughter had telephoned to say, "Mother, you
must come and see the daffodils before they are over." I wanted
to go, but it was a two-hour drive from Laguna to Lake Arrowhead.
Going and coming took most of a day--and I honestly did not have
a free day until the following week. "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 the length of Route 91, continued on I-215, and finally
turned onto Route 18 and began to drive up the mountain highway.
The tops of the mountains were sheathed in clouds, and I had gone
only a few miles when the road was completely covered with a wet,
gray blanket of fog. I slowed to a crawl, my heart pounding. The
road becomes narrow and winding toward the top of the mountain.
As I executed the hazardous turns at a snail's pace, I was
praying to reach the turnoff at Blue Jay that would signify I had
arrived.

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 darling children that I want to see
bad enough to drive another inch!" My daughter smiled calmly, "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. The mechanic just called, and they've finished
repairing the engine," she answered. "How far will we have to
drive?" I asked cautiously. "Just a few blocks," Carolyn said
cheerfully.

So we buckled up the children and went out to my car. "I'll
drive," Carolyn offered. "I'm used to this." We got into the car,
and she began driving. In a few minutes I was aware that we were
back on Rim-of-the-World Road heading over the top of the
mountain. "Where are we going?" I exclaimed, distressed to be
back on the mountain road in the fog. "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, trying to sound as if I was still the
mother and in charge of the situation, "please turn around. There
is nothing in the world that I want to see enough to drive on
this road in this weather." "It's all right, Mother," She replied
with a knowing grin. "I know what I'm doing. I promise, you will
never forgive yourself if you miss this experience."

And so my sweet, darling daughter who had never given me a minute
of difficulty in her whole life was suddenly in charge--and she
was kidnapping me! I couldn't believe it. Like it or not, I was
on the way to see some ridiculous daffodils--driving through the
thick, gray silence of the mist-wrapped mountaintop at what I
thought was risk to life and limb. I muttered all the way.

After about 20 minutes we turned onto a small gravel road that
branched down into an oak-filled hollow on the side of the
mountain. The fog had lifted a little, but the sky was lowering,
gray and heavy with clouds. We parked in a small parking lot
adjoining a little stone church. From our vantage point at the
top of the mountain we could see beyond us, in the mist, the
crests of the San Bernardino range like the dark, humped backs of
a herd of elephants. Far below us the fog-shrouded valleys,
hills, and flatlands stretched away to the desert. On the far
side of the church I saw a pine needle-covered path, with
towering evergreens and manzanita bushes and an inconspicuous,
hand-lettered sign, "Daffodil Garden." We each took a child's
hand, and I followed Carolyn down the path as it wound through
the trees. The mountain sloped away from the side of the path in
irregular dips, folds, and valleys, like a deeply creased skirt.
Live oaks, mountain laurel, shrubs, and bushes clustered in the
folds, and in the gray, drizzling air, the green foliage looked
dark and monochromatic. I shivered. Then we turned a corner of
the path, and I looked up and gasped.

Before me lay the most glorious sight, unexpectedly and
completely splendid. It looked as though someone had taken a
great vat of gold and poured it down over the mountain peak and
slopes where it had run into every crevice and over every rise.
Even in the mist-filled air, the mountainside was radiant,
clothed in massive drifts and waterfalls of daffodils. 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
(I learned later that there were more than 35 varieties of
daffodils in the vast display) was planted as a group so that it
swirled and flowed like its own river with its own unique hue. In
the center of this incredible and dazzling display of gold, a
great cascade of purple grape hyacinth flowed down like a
waterfall of blossoms framed in its own rock-lined basin, weaving
through the brilliant daffodils. A charming path wound throughout
the garden. There were several resting stations, paved with stone
and furnished with Victorian wooden benches and great tubs of
coral and carmine tulips.

As though this were not magnificent enough, Mother Nature had to
add her own grace note--above the daffodils, a bevy of western
bluebirds flitted and darted, flashing their brilliance. These
charming little birds are the color of sapphires with breasts of
magenta red. As they dance in the air, their colors are truly
like jewels above the blowing, glowing daffodils. The effect was
spectacular. It did not matter that the sun was not shining. The
brilliance of the daffodils was like the glow of the brightest
sunlit day.

Words, wonderful as they are, simply cannot describe the
incredible beauty of that flower-bedecked mountain top. Five
acres of flowers! (This too I discovered later when some of my
questions were answered.)

"But who has done this?" I asked Carolyn. I was overflowing with
gratitude that she brought me, even against my will. This was a
once-in-a-lifetime experience. "Who?" I asked again, almost
speechless with wonder, "and how, and why, and when?"

"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, my mind buzzing with questions. 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 35 years before, had begun--one bulb at a time--to
bring her vision of beauty and joy to an obscure mountain top.
One bulb at a time. There was no other way to do it. One bulb at
a time. No shortcuts--simply loving the slow process of planting.
Loving the work as it unfolded. Loving an achievement that grew
so slowly and that bloomed for only three weeks of each year.
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
magnificence, beauty, and inspiration.

The principle her daffodil garden taught is one of the greatest
principles of celebration: learning to move toward our goals and
desires one step at a time--often just one baby-step at a time--
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.

"Carolyn," I said that morning on the top of the mountain as we
left the haven of daffodils, our minds and hearts still bathed
and bemused by the splendors we had seen, "it's as though that
remarkable woman has needlepointed the earth! Decorated it. Just
think of it, she planted every single bulb for more than 30
years. One bulb at a time! And that's the only way this garden
could be created. Every individual bulb had to be planted. There
was no way of short-circuiting that process. Five acres of
blooms. That magnificent cascade of hyacinth! All, all, just one
bulb at a time."

The thought of it filled my mind. I was suddenly overwhelmed with
the implications of what I had seen. "It makes me sad in a way,"
I admitted to Carolyn. "What might I have accomplished if I had
thought of a wonderful goal 35 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 wise daughter put the car into gear and summed up the message
of the day in her direct way. "Start tomorrow," she said with the
same knowing smile she had worn for most of the morning.

Oh, profound wisdom! It is pointless to think of the lost hours
of yesterdays. The way to make learning a lesson a celebration
instead of a cause for regret is to only ask, "How can I put this
to use tomorrow?"

-- Author Unknown