I owe this to Arina.. Thanks you Arina..!! Sh is a motivational consultant and have posted this in my mail.. wanted to share this with you .. here is the first part of it.. Hope you enjoy it.!!



The Daffodil Principle Part I


Several times my daughter had telephoned to say, "Mother, you
must come and 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 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 was 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 20 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 35 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.