A day in nature, the Japanese way

In my childhood home, we had two items that my mother put on display every spring. They were a pair of trees. The stems were made of twisted silver fibers, while the blossoms were of transparent pink glass. The light shimmering through those weeping branches created an aura of mystery and magical beauty. My mother explained they came from far away Japan, which made them all the more special for us small-town children in that era before Internet and easy world travel.

Years later, I ended up living in that Far Eastern culture, whose seeds had been planted in my psyche at such an early age. And every spring when I see the gracious weeping cherries here, I remember my family’s lovely glass trees.

For centuries, cherry blossom viewing has been an integral part of this culture. And even today, as warmer weather emerges out of winter, evening news casts report on the path of the “sakura” as it delicately works its way up this long and varied archipelago.

The usual pattern of blooms goes from plum to cherry, then peach and finally apple. Blossoms last a few days at most. So, when they are at their peak, parks are filled with revelers from early to late. That is because it is a custom here to picnic under the trees. For older folks and families that means a time to enjoy the flowers and fresh air. But for the younger set or company people, it is a time to be with friends or colleagues and to get roaring drunk. Japanese reverence for nature takes many forms indeed!

This year, a friend took a day off from work and invited me to join her in order to wander up a hill famous for its spring flowers. I had seen pictures of the place and had longed to experience the actual sight first hand. So, I cancelled other engagements and off we set.

The location was a hill owned by a flower company. That operation started just after WW II, when the country was struggling to get back on its feet after years of devastation. I found that choice decidedly Japanese: a flower company when people were living in dire poverty, barely able to survive. But Japanese have always known that flowers are very important for the soul. And so, they have honored that need for centuries. Ikebana is connected to Zen, for example. And it has followed many other routes as well. There are Ikebana schools and clubs in every town and city here. And flower arrangements, too, can be found in department stores, in the entrance ways of homes and in such unexpected places as over rubbish collections sites and public bathrooms. In addition, streets are lined with carefully attended flowerbeds and many apartment balconies have colorful blooms that give a sense of refreshment and calm in the midst of hectic city life.

At the hill where we were, the flowering trees and shrubs had been planted in such a way as to give the impression of being entirely natural, having nothing to do with humans. At the base was a very bold, vibrant field of yellow rape blossoms. But as the eye climbed higher, bright, solid colors subsided, giving way to soft sprinklings of pastels that the Japanese so love.

There was a large variety of cherry trees, each bearing a different sort of blossom, white to gentle then sturdy pinks. There were deep red-pink peach blossoms and red camellias. There were soft orange-brown new maple leaves. And here and there were small patches of forsythia for contrast against the powder soft whites, violets, pinks, and oranges. In the distance was a rim of blue, snow-capped peaks, making a breathtaking background and container for the ethereal beauty of the flowers.

Of course, a place like that does not go unannounced. So, busloads of people were there, coming from as far away as Tokyo in the south and Akita in the north. I really dislike crowds. However, since my friend and I were there on a weekday, the hordes were mostly oldsters. Most had gnarled knees and backs bent double. They wobbled with rickety canes. But even those frail souls found it in them to get to the first level of the climb in order to open their hearts and minds to their love of “Sakura” and all that implied.

And indeed the reverence for “Sakura” runs too deep for full, conscious awareness as to why. Old, young, and everyone in between makes a pilgrimage to pay homage to the delicate, exquisitely beautiful blossoms of the cherry. They symbolize, among other things, the Samurai spirit with their intense fragility, short-lived beauty, and quick, often unexpected, death.

The older crowd that day was decidedly Japanese in other ways, too. They spoke softly and focused their attention on the views before them. No loud voices or boom boxes. No talking about other things. No self separate from the surroundings. Everyone was there to erase their personal egos and to honor the spring with hearts not focused on themselves.

This ceaseless effort to eradicate the ego was also reflected in the colors people wore. When I first came here, I found it curious that people often selected colors that to my eye appeared unbecoming to them. Later I learned that traditionally Japanese did not dress to enhance their individual selves. Rather they tried to do away with any indication of a separate ego, and to blend in with the season and the occasion. Even magnificently adorned geisha were following set patterns of archetypical beauty.

“We are part of nature, after all. So, we try to adjust ourselves to whatever situation we are in. We want to show respect. We want to honor the occasion by not standing out, but by blending in. Harmony is very important in our culture. And dressing to fit in with nature is one way we attempt to create harmony with what is around us.”

So the oldsters that day were in soft pinks and subtle blue-grays, delicate violets and gentle whites. They did indeed blend in with the world of blossoms we were in.

My friend and I climbed to the top. I noticed that narrow trails off the main route were virtually empty. So, I encouraged my friend to join me as I tucked into one of them. Within a few steps we were alone. We heard birds and saw hill after hill of flowering trees stretching as far as the snow-capped mountains in the distance.

Yet, even when we had been with the crowds, we were able to center our attention on the fresh air and flowers. One skill, among many, that I have learned here is how to find my own quiet space within, no matter what is going on around me. I learned that by observing. On buses, trains, or subways, no matter how crowded, chaotic, or confusing, Japanese commuters most often focus inwardly, forming a circle of privacy around themselves. At least I find that true in the city where I live. I hear Tokyo is quite another story, however.

In so many ways, living here I feel like a pot on a potter’s wheel. I sense that slowly and consistently this culture is reworking the rigid structure of my psyche, molding me into someone a bit more flexible, a bit less defensive, and a bit more open to what arrives day by precious day.

And my day’s outing to Hanami Yama (Flower Viewing Mountain) was another step in that ongoing work of seeking harmony, both within my soul and within the outer world, both east and west.