We do not bury a flower to get another flower. We do not expect happiness to grow from happiness -- only complication grows from happiness. We bury a bulb to get a flower. We take the ugliest part of our lives, the diseased yams and scarred flesh and broken dreams, and we throw them into a pit, taking care to pay attention to every step, and then we wait out the winter.
And then, against all logic: dumb old daffodils, with their eternal message: "You did your best. That's the important thing."