Many of you may know it--The Daffodil Principle.
I can't remember when it was introduced to me, but it's been
years. The principle behind the story has stayed with me,
kept me going through the rough spots, not just in writing,
but in life.
For those of you who haven't been introduced to the Daffodil
Principle, here it is...
The writing is not mine and leaves a bit to be desired (torturous
for me not to edit), but the message is worth slogging
through the awkward prose. (And there are some great
metaphores and descriptions in here, too.)
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 the 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 twenty 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,
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 thirty-five 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 magnificence 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
thirty-five 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 principle 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 needle-pointed the earth!
Decorated it. Just think of it, she planted every single
bulb for more than thirty 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 thirty-five 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.
