Daffodils On My Mind

Yes seven pretty daffodils

are shining in the sun

To light our way to evening

and when the day is done

- Joni Mitchell

Daffodils are on my mind.

In our log cabin in the woods, we have deer. Deer will eat practically every plant they find.

Except for daffodils.

Daffodils are not tasty to them. Next time you are in the woods during spring, look around and see what flowers are blooming. The yellow and sometimes white petals will be easy to spot amidst the brown ground and budding trees. No other flower will be visible.

In my first year in the north Georgia mountains, I planted all kinds of flowers. If anything grew, the deer ate it within a few days of blooming. Hostas, a plant I have come to love because of its perennial, low-maintenance nature, is deer candy.

Over time, I figured out only daffodils - not tulips, not Japanese magnolias, not peony bushes, not caladium – would be allowed to grow. Or last long enough for a person or bees or butterflies to enjoy.

Last year my husband and I planted 100 daffodils bulbs. If I only got one flower to enjoy out here in the woods, I want a lot of them!

This March the daffodils popped out. Despite moles, voles, and squirrels, virtually all the bulbs erupt with growth. I counted 98 flowers sprouting.

The flowers are gorgeous and several kinds. The usual type - yellow with a yellow trumpet inside. White ones with yellow trumpets. Yellow with orange trumpets.

But my favorite is the yellow daffodils with no trumpets - the double daffodils. Large ripe buds explode, seemingly overnight, into considerable globes of creamy yellow petals, one after another, after another.

Utterly gorgeous.

The warm, sunshine color stuns you into stopping to look, play paparazzo and take pictures. Many, many pictures because you want to capture the incredible sight before you. You want to share this beauty that has drawn you so close that you are surprised by the tiny white tips on the many petals you finally notice.

It crosses my mind to pluck the flowers and bring them inside—a quixotic attempt on my part to possess such natural elegance and beauty.

Leaving them where they were born is the correct thing to do. The ground, the sun, the rain, the bees will nourish them better than I can, a novice gardener. I relish their exquisiteness every time I go outside.

Then a storm comes through. An April shower in early March. They forecast thunder and lightning. Only rain and a strong wind come. But it’s enough.

Most of those big blooming flowers are now lying on the ground. Their stalks bent by the wind or the pouring rain.

There is no grass outside. Thick raindrops smacked the ground, flicking mud up onto the flower’s faces.

I crouch down to lift the fallen soldiers. Their bright yellow petals speckled with brown spots. Some are orange freckles because of the red Georgia clay.

The blemishes startle in the flawlessness of these blooms that I had taken such pleasure in beholding. These imperfections grieve me.

I should have brought them inside. That which nourishes you can also put you through hell. You can survive the deer, but enemies are a multitude.

I leave them on the ground for a few days. Hoping they would resurrect in the sun after the storm. I ponder how imperfect the double daffodils are now. There is no desire on my part to cut and gather them to put in a vase. In our cabin.

The flowers are marred. Tiny imperfections are all over their beautiful faces.

Much like my own. Dark patches that appear as I get older or spend time in the sun. It’s inherited from my mother. She regularly sends me creams to “eliminate” these imperfections. My mom has made peace with the brown skin I inherited from my Latino father, but she took these dark spots she handed down to me personally. As a Korean mother and woman, it is her duty to help me eradicate these blemishes on my character—face, I mean.

Daffodils are on my mind.

I think I know why.

Today, I cut the still bent-over beauties, to gather them into a bouquet. One I give to myself.

There are several daffodils that are not blemished. Some have little dirt on them. Some a lot of dirt.

Staring at them now, I realize the blooms are still fully intact.

The blooms are exactly as they were before the storm, their beauty preserved.

Except for those…

I could shake them clean. But I didn't want to chance destroying them.

Despite how I might feel, the daffodils lost nothing in the storm. I wasn’t about to do it to them, either.

in time of daffodils (who know the goal of living is to grow)

forgetting why, remember how

- e.e. cummings