A few nights ago I crept by moonlight into the forgotten corner of the garden where last November I had buried, without much hope, the twelve Amos Pettingill narcissus bulbs that should have been planted a year earlier. Once I had reached the shadowy corner by the old greenhouse, I discovered something amazing. One small but healthy narcissus stood bravely alone, its little bud of a head bowed reverently to the soil from which it had so recently sprung. I marvelled at the tenacity of the one wee bulb that had birthed this plant. Somehow, despite my negligence, it had found enough inside of itself to take root and make its way through the moist, black earth toward the sun.
Every night since, I have made a short pilgrimage to visit this astonishing narcissus. Its bud has now opened to a stunning white, papery bloom. Even in full flower, its delicate face remains directed slightly toward the ground, as if in meditation or prayer.
As I take the time to just be with this tiny life force, it occurs to me that a narcissus is a fragile, mute trumpet. Its silent music softens the words in my head that too often drown out the hum of the universe which is the voice of God.
Had I planted the bulbs when they were meant to be planted and not let them languish in a mesh bag in the entryway for months, I could have had a dozen Amos Pettingills right now. But this lone testament to spring is all the miracle that one could ever need. It will multiply as bulbs do, for future springs in a place we do not see, in the dark and quiet space where all true miracles are born.