Daffodil cream pie.
Imagine that!
Daffodil cream pie.
Long for it.
Sing of it.
Eat it.
The trap is sprung!
Daffodil scream die.
Imagine that.
In a flowerbed beside his driveway, there stood a beautiful clump of daffodils. He had inherited them when his wife moved out during the divorce. She had planted them years before. Faithfully every February, they pushed up out of the ground and nodded their heads in favor of the new Spring. They were a mixture of singles and fancy doubles with a few jonquils in the clump to add a little drama. In their season, the daffodils stood nearly two feet tall. The clump was about that wide as well, and probably was due to be thinned and divided after this season. The blooms came on strong, and close to a dozen at a time.
Being the sole guardian and keeper of the daffodils now, he had found that they made wonderful bouquets to take to his girl. She loved them and appreciated him all the more because they were from his own yard. But then, suddenly and mysteriously, she had turned her affections away from him and there was no one to give the daffodils to. Stories have been told already about the devastation and trauma he experienced over the loss of her company and intimate conversation. But in the telling, the daffodils were at first overlooked. Now daffodils are hard to overlook for long, and these daffodils were engaged in a drama all their own.
During the first week after she left him, he could hardly bear to look at the clump of daffodils. He had picked all that were open or nearly so a few days before, and left them on her kitchen counter with a Hallmark card for her to find upon her return from work that evening. Now, a fresh set of buds were plump and ready to open. Whenever he saw them, a wave of bitter grief overtook him and he cursed them and spoke his heart to them as if they were responsible for this horrid tragedy. But gradually, he regained the composure of his heart and mind, and found a safe place to hold his sorrow. He had stopped looking at the clump of daffodils altogether.
Then one day, after more than two weeks had passed, he looked at the daffodil clump, and noticed that something was not right. The leaves and flower stalks were vigorous and vibrant and strong. Exactly a dozen buds remained on the stalks. But all of them were withered and shriveled. Not a single one had opened. As he looked carefully, he realized that these were the same buds that had looked so plump and full of life two weeks before. No daffodil had opened and reached maturity in the entire clump since he had cursed them so vehemently for their role in his heartbreak. In disbelief, he glanced around his and his neighbors’ front yards, and all the other daffodils were doing fine. They continued to bud and bloom vigorously. Another clump less than ten feet away was doing exceptionally well. He was dumbstruck! He had cursed the very life force of these delightful beauties in his careless agony.
How could he possibly have had such an impact? He was a modern man. There was surely some rational horticultural explanation for what had happened to the daffodils. But slowly, he realized that it didn’t matter whether or not science could answer the mystery. The daffodils were a parable. He had cursed the daffodils, and they had withered. During the days when he had those bitter, fateful encounters with the daffodils, he had been utterly vulnerable. His core was exposed, and his energy was intense and powerful. He had recognized this at the time. It had seemed that he was a volcano in full eruption, and he had been in awe of what was happening to him. Now he saw the potential of such deep openness and vulnerability to affect his world. Now he realized how gravely serious it is to vent such energy upon others, even upon simple beings such as the daffodils. And now, he was changed once again.
A deep reverence and awe crept over him as he slowly understood the meaning of what had happened. He had never grasped the wonder of his presence in the world. He had never felt the importance of being present to creation with compassion and sensitive care. He had not understood his own potential for blessing and cursing at such a vital level. His upbringing and experience had not taught him these things, even though the theology and philosophy of it had been encapsulated there. He had simply not seen anything, nor experienced any depth, that could reveal this to him.
The daffodils had been messengers—angels from a deeper layer of integrity in the fabric of being. They had spoken to him of love. They had shuddered with his pain and lost their own glory and joy. He hoped that he had done them no permanent harm. He blessed them now, and prayed that they would rise up in their glory next Spring.
Being the sole guardian and keeper of the daffodils now, he had found that they made wonderful bouquets to take to his girl. She loved them and appreciated him all the more because they were from his own yard. But then, suddenly and mysteriously, she had turned her affections away from him and there was no one to give the daffodils to. Stories have been told already about the devastation and trauma he experienced over the loss of her company and intimate conversation. But in the telling, the daffodils were at first overlooked. Now daffodils are hard to overlook for long, and these daffodils were engaged in a drama all their own.
During the first week after she left him, he could hardly bear to look at the clump of daffodils. He had picked all that were open or nearly so a few days before, and left them on her kitchen counter with a Hallmark card for her to find upon her return from work that evening. Now, a fresh set of buds were plump and ready to open. Whenever he saw them, a wave of bitter grief overtook him and he cursed them and spoke his heart to them as if they were responsible for this horrid tragedy. But gradually, he regained the composure of his heart and mind, and found a safe place to hold his sorrow. He had stopped looking at the clump of daffodils altogether.
Then one day, after more than two weeks had passed, he looked at the daffodil clump, and noticed that something was not right. The leaves and flower stalks were vigorous and vibrant and strong. Exactly a dozen buds remained on the stalks. But all of them were withered and shriveled. Not a single one had opened. As he looked carefully, he realized that these were the same buds that had looked so plump and full of life two weeks before. No daffodil had opened and reached maturity in the entire clump since he had cursed them so vehemently for their role in his heartbreak. In disbelief, he glanced around his and his neighbors’ front yards, and all the other daffodils were doing fine. They continued to bud and bloom vigorously. Another clump less than ten feet away was doing exceptionally well. He was dumbstruck! He had cursed the very life force of these delightful beauties in his careless agony.
How could he possibly have had such an impact? He was a modern man. There was surely some rational horticultural explanation for what had happened to the daffodils. But slowly, he realized that it didn’t matter whether or not science could answer the mystery. The daffodils were a parable. He had cursed the daffodils, and they had withered. During the days when he had those bitter, fateful encounters with the daffodils, he had been utterly vulnerable. His core was exposed, and his energy was intense and powerful. He had recognized this at the time. It had seemed that he was a volcano in full eruption, and he had been in awe of what was happening to him. Now he saw the potential of such deep openness and vulnerability to affect his world. Now he realized how gravely serious it is to vent such energy upon others, even upon simple beings such as the daffodils. And now, he was changed once again.
A deep reverence and awe crept over him as he slowly understood the meaning of what had happened. He had never grasped the wonder of his presence in the world. He had never felt the importance of being present to creation with compassion and sensitive care. He had not understood his own potential for blessing and cursing at such a vital level. His upbringing and experience had not taught him these things, even though the theology and philosophy of it had been encapsulated there. He had simply not seen anything, nor experienced any depth, that could reveal this to him.
The daffodils had been messengers—angels from a deeper layer of integrity in the fabric of being. They had spoken to him of love. They had shuddered with his pain and lost their own glory and joy. He hoped that he had done them no permanent harm. He blessed them now, and prayed that they would rise up in their glory next Spring.
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