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. 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 were 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, 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 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
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 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.
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?" I also learned on that
gray and golden morning what a blessing it is to have a
child who is not a child anymore but a woman perceptive
and loving beyond her years -- and to be humble in that
awareness.
Thank you, Carolyn. Thank you for lessons of that unforgettable
morning. Thank you for the gift of the daffodils.
