Several times my daughter had telephoned to say, "Mother, you must come
to see the daffodils( [daf·fo·dil || 'dæfədɪl
]
n.
水仙花) 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 reluctantly I
drove there. When I finally walked into Carolyn's house I was welcomed
by the joyful sounds of happy children. I delightedly hugged and
greeted my grandchildren.
"Forget the daffodils, Carolyn! The
road is invisible in these clouds and fog, and there is nothing in the
world except you and these children that I want to see badly 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.
"But first we're going to see the daffodils. It's just a few blocks," Carolyn said. "I'll drive. I'm used to this."
"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(gravel
[grav·el || 'grævl
]
n.
砂砾; 砂砾层) road and I saw a
small church. On the far side of the church, I saw a hand lettered sign
with an arrow that read, "Daffodil Garden." We got out of the car, each
took a child's hand, and I follow wed Carolyn down the path. Then, as
we turned a corner, 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
over the mountain peak and its surrounding slopes. The flowers were
planted in majestic( [ma·jes·tic || mə'dʒestɪk
]
adj.
宏伟的;
庄严的), swirling patterns, great ribbons and swaths( [swɔːθ
]
n.
长而宽的一长条) of
deep orange, creamy white, lemon yellow, salmon pink, and saffron(saffron
[saf·fron || 'sæfrən
]
n.
藏红花, 番红花; 橙黄色;) and
butter yellow. Each different-colored variety was planted in large
groups so that it swirled and flowed like its own river with its own
unique hue. There were five acres of flowers.
"Who did this?" I
asked Carolyn. "Just one woman," Carolyn answered. "She lives on the
property. That's her home." Carolyn pointed to a well-kept A-frame
house, small and modestly sitting 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 one
brain." The third answer was, "Began in 1958."
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(
[bʌlb
]
n.
球茎) at a time, to bring her vision of beauty
and joy to an obscure mountaintop. Planting one bulb at a time, year
after year, this unknown woman had forever changed the world in which
she lived. One day at a time, she had created something of
extraordinary 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 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.