I once wrote a dis of daffodils. Called them a cliché, seasonal commonplace, too easily grown.

Daffodils’ defenders came back hard. Spring’s harbingers! God’s handiwork! Exquisite! Hardy and courageous in their defiance of tardily relenting frost! The nerve of me!

I hereby recant my daffodil discourtesy. I was only half-kidding in the first place, poking readers to check they were awake. High-minded sentiments may elicit nods but no noise – preaching to the choir. Prick a darling and you’d better duck. Deer harvesting, abolishing Halloween, and the dubious paternity of Jesus evoked comparable yelps.

Older and quieter now, I discern the error of my ways. I’d measured daffodils not on their merits but mystique, on extrinsic not intrinsic attributes. Every Tom, Dick, and Gretchen displayed daffodils – how could they be special? I’d mistaken flare for fire, wow for worth.

Among the manifold gifts of retirement is freedom to see with one’s own eyes. All my writing life, nearly sixty years now, I spoke from a podium. What I said would reflect on the outfit I was representing. Though I never lied, best I know, I bent my words in a direction favorable to my boss. If you’re on someone’s payroll, you speak for them – or else. Your license may be liberal, but none is limitless.

These days I speak for no-one. No need to impress neighbors, advertisers, employers – no one. I’d hate to displease you, but my operative principle is that you and I are one. What entertains me should entertain you – that’s the theory anyway.

This week, daffodils erupted out of earth, joined by forsythia, andromeda, vinca, crocuses, quince, as punctually as if at a conductor’s downbeat: boom! If flowers were orchestral instruments, daffodils would be trumpets, blatant to the verge of blaring, bold, confident, fearless. Many instruments – and flowers – blend in, accommodating themselves to their neighbors; trumpets and daffodils proclaim.

Have you studied the daffodil’s splendor, its hexagram of lower petals topped by a frilly cup like an upside-down antebellum petticoat centered by a suggestive stamen eagerly erect? I mean, really studied it. And those colors! One might almost say strident, only nature rarely errs. The daffodils’ perfection proclaims – at the instant of Easter and Passover – Begone, winter, we’ve arrived, once more the audacity of life!

Gazing at the daffodil – while puppy Henry sniffed, a flower admirer – I cringed recalling my snark about this breathtaking bloom. So what that it’s ubiquitous! Rarity does not equal quality. Giant gems are rare – but so are three-headed calves.

The daffodil reminds me – what every hour reminds me these days – nothing’s what we think. Look and you’ll be surprised. Look deeper, more surprise. Zero-base your verdicts – about everything. (I hate that business verb “zero-base,” but it fits here.) True, it’s hard to impress your neighbors with daffodils – they’ve likely got more than you do – but who cares about impressing neighbors? A daffodil is a cliché only if you deem it so. “Same old, same old” depicts the sigher, not the scene.

These days the news disheartens; meanwhile, my daily views make my heart glad. That’s the paradox of our moment. Life in America could hardly be better – or worse.

If we are responsible for our outlook, as I believe, do we have a responsibility to brighten it, to “turn that frown upside down”? Yes, if we can – and mostly we can. The clamorous rancor of too many Americans, including one candidate for President, is selfish self-indulgence, like farting in an elevator. I hereby proclaim my allegiance to the pro-daffodil, pro-goodness, pro-spring party. Life is glorious – if we make it so.