This year, the daffodils in the garden were ready for action ahead of schedule. We had that mild and rather warm winter and they just couldn't wait to re-emerge. Then Old Man Winter let us know he was only on hiatus, not gone for the season, and he dumped 18 inches of snow on us. My elbow still hurts from how heavy that was to shovel. It warmed up pretty quickly and those daffodils were undeterred. When the snow melted, the flowers that had already bloomed were still in their yellow glory and new flowers were playing peekaboo before opening into their own brilliance.
'There's a lesson here,' I thought: Be the daffodil.
An acquaintance, who we'll call Charlie, is being the daffodil in the Intensive Care Unit as I write this. Bullets seared through his gut like the snow had pummeled the daffodils, yet each day he gets better. You might say he's showing off being an overachiever, reaching levels with the respiratory blow tube beyond where the doctors want him to reach. In physical therapy, he does more reps than he's asked. He IS the daffodil.
He's expected to have a longer than normal "growing season" that may extend into summer, but at the end of it, he'll be that bloom that stands out among all the rest, the one that is so magnificent and resplendent that it makes one wonder why can't they all be like that.
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