One night, a young woman wandered into a garden of flowers. She approached a lovely butter-colored flower and reached out to pluck it--but as if sensing her presence, it closed up tight. "Oh, how I wish I could have used you," she mourned. "How I wish I knew your secrets. You were so beautiful, so bright. I saw you from a distance and walked a long way to reach you here where you are growing among the red clover and the buttercups and the yarrow. But now you're gone."
The flower said nothing. It stayed closed up tight. The young woman lay down beneath the tall stalk of the primrose and fell asleep, dreaming of wine and future husbands and tormented bleeding times. "I just want to be clear," she cried in her sleep. "I promise to listen, to be receptive, to open myself to learning. I'm ready."
When she awoke, she looked up. Above her seemed to be a tiny sun, beaming down at her. But the sun was just rising on the horizon. She looked closer: the blossom of the Primrose was opening, the same blossom she was sure was going to die and fall the night before. It was full and yellow, and had decided to open again--just for her. The blossom smiled at her, and revealed its secrets.
A strange and perhaps silly story; a belief in the timing of miracles; a love for the flowers; a certainty that what you ask for will be answered, in one way or another. Be patient. Be persistent.