Narcissus

Since I became a father, and a teacher, I have had countless opportunities to plant things and watch them grow. My proudest accomplishment in this vein is the magnolia tree that stands in our front yard. We planted it when my son was born, and it was small enough to be pulled around in what would become his little red wagon. That tree is now well over fifteen feet tall, and stands as a monument to my green thumb. Well, that and the hearty nature of the magnolia tree.
The other happy surprise of my horticulture experience has been the daffodil bulbs that I helped plant around my son's school. A couple years ago, in a fierce wind and cold rain, my son and I braved the elements and spent three hours digging holes and planting bulbs. Sure enough, at the first sign of spring, little green sprouts began to show. Not too long after that, sturdy yellow blooms appeared. Last year, an even bigger effort was made in our neighborhood to plant still more bulbs and now as the days allow a little more sun to reach the soil, we are treated to an explosion of golden trumpets, heralding the change of seasons.
The joy of the daffodils is the way they hide away for months at a time, then show up when you'd almost forgotten them. This is how I felt today as I sat at my desk, as my students were packing up their books and heading for the door, and this one girl came up to me with a smile. This was the bulb I had planted months ago. She had been having a very hard time getting along with her classmates, and I have spent hours and hours talking and cajoling and exhorting, and she has been on a strict behavior contract for more than a month. For the past couple weeks I have been able to focus less and less of my energy on her outbursts, and though she still needs a reminder or two about her surly attitude, she has become more self-controlled. I looked up from the pile of paper on my desk, "Yes?"
"Can I give you a hug, Mr. Caven?"
There's my daffodil.

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
By William Wordsworth