Couples Communication by Darylynn Starr Rank

It's spring.The hyacinths are blooming, dark purples and lavenders. My periwinkles reflect the bright blue of the sky.  Cherry blossoms fill the twilight with their glowing pinks and a sweet fresh scent. Azaleas and rhodos are just beginning. And tulips, of course, arrive in their amazing array of colours and shapes and sizes.

But somehow it's the blooming daffodils (no pun intended) that capture my attention. Clumps of bright yellow blossoms in so many gardens, or growing wild on the verge of so many major routes. Two days ago I saw a man bending over in the grass median between the two sides of Highway 1, gathering up bunches of the flowers bobbling in the wind of the weekend traffic rushing by. I'm not sure he was supposed to be there, but who could blame him? Their joyful flower faces stretching to the sun are one of the happiest aspects of spring.

I didn't always used to think that way. I didn't actually have much of a relationship with daffodils. I grew up in Miami Beach. Spring just isn't the same down there. Daffodils didn't have much of a place. 

But my husband always loved them. He's born and bred Vancouver. For him they spoke of sun and warmth, of the natural world happily coming awake and alive. Of the first hints of the coming of  summer. Of colours returning, grass growing, birds coming back.

For me they were yellow flowers…

So every year my birthday would arrive in the beginning of April. And daffodils would appear in my home. And my husband would look so happy. All pleased with himself that he'd brought me the most wonderful gift he could. To him he was bringing me the gift of spring.

For me they were yellow flowers…

But he was my husband bringing me a lovely gift. And they were lovely. And he was sweet. And very very happy. So I thanked him affectionately and loved the flowers. For the first couple of years. 

But every year it was the same. For him he was bringing me spring. For me it was yellow flowers. 

What about the tulips, I'd think. They're all so different. Those gorgeous scarlet ones that grow so tall. Or maybe the lovely salmon jagged-edged blooms. But he looked so happy. So I thanked him.

And it went on. After a few years I'd grit my teeth when I saw them on my dresser. Thank him a bit, then focus on enjoying the rest of my birthday. 

My thoughts on the topic became resentful. 'It doesn't matter to him what I like.'  'He's lazy.'  'He always takes the easy way out.'  'Never makes any effort to buy me something interesting.'  And every once in a while, 'He doesn't really care.  If he cared he would buy me flowers I love.'

I felt stupid and childish for feeling that way. Ungrateful. Spoiled. Even mean. So, of course, I never said a word. But in my heart I'd think about the SOOOOO many other beautiful flowers out there. 

Then finally one day I admitted my feelings/failings to a close family friend. She gasped and looked really really sad.  "What?" I asked. "What!?" I repeated. 

"He thinks daffodils are your favourite flowers in the world! He even complained to me once that he got tired of buying them all the time. That he'd like to get you something more exotic, but he doesn't want to hurt your feelings or disappoint you! That it's your favourite part of spring."

I'll never know where he got the idea that I felt that way about daffodils. By the time we talked about it, so many years later, he couldn't remember. 

By the time we talked about it.

Take care, all.

Darylynn Starr Rank (psychologist/writer) works part-time for Family Services of Greater Vancouver as a group facilitator. Her articles appear bi-weekly in The Record (New Westminster) and the Richmond Review.

Back to Article Index