Arch Of Cherry Blossoms

Pathways

Time flies on and follows, flies, and follows. Always, forever and new.

What was before is left behind; what never was is now. – Ovid

I’m smitten.

From blossoms that are nearly pure white tinged with the palest pink, some dark pink, yellow and even green, a delicate, very faint and sheer lilac and rose scent is wafting in the air.

It's the season for sakura (which is what the cherry blossom tree is called in this island country in east Asia).

Loveliest of trees, it is now hung with myriad flowerets along the bough. We’re lucky to catch its budding season in the Lake Hamanako region half away from Tokyo and Kyoto.

I feel small, standing under its flower clusters - a sky that is pure white interspersed from every angle with a swath of jubilant blush stretching like a constellation to nowhere.

But no scenery is ever without its discordant note. In this Land of the Rising Sun, the cherry blossom is a symbol of beauty. Alas, it stands for momentariness as well. 

Fragility. 

A reminder that life is almost overwhelmingly beautiful but that it is also tragically short.

A single puffy white cloud has made its way across the sky. I ignore the changing light and the air chilling with it. All I want is to seize the day before I let it go.

To catch the transient hour when this beautiful blossom will look just like this.

To recall how it is to be sheltered on a mountain top under the blooming beauty of flowering trees.

To celebrate the relentless truth of resurrection.

To be reminded that a walk is only a step away from a story, and every path tells.

Dragon Lane

Pathways

At the present moment when travel is restricted, how wonderful that the mind can continue to meander through past pathways spread far and wide.

Let's wander in the forest. The wifi is weak 

but you'll make a better connection. - Anonymous

Thus far, days had been ordinary in this forbidden kingdom in the Himalayas.

You know.

We had butter tea sprinkled on top with crispy rice.

I spun a prayer wheel in the Cheri Monastery.

And listened to lessons on Buddhism.

Nothing really unusual.

Until.

Until our Bhutanese guide announced what was on the schedule that particular day. 

Dragon.Lane.Hike.

My kind of a double whammy adventure. Of course, count me in. (LOL) Nothing like an encounter with fire-spitting creatures with giant teeth. I was eager to channel my inner Hiccup. Remember him in How To Train Your Dragon? 

Let’s go tame a Night Fury Dragon, toothless or otherwise!

The sky that morning in Thimpu was the sweetest shade of robin's-egg blue, cloudless and smooth. Rays of a promising sun were creeping over the tops of scattered dzong houses.

As we left the highway and bounced through a wooded area, our guide had a tease in his voice when he commented with a mischievous grin, It will be exciting.

I shrugged and tried to kick a passing lizard.

There was a point, unmarked, that the road turned into a footpath. Conifers and other woody plants rose on either side, their branches varying shades of green and brown.

The further we walked, oak trees that looked as if they’d been planted a hundred years ago grew thicker and denser. They made rustling sounds and whispered, as if they had stories to tell.

We paused at a bend after hiking for about a half-hour. Hanging apologetically along the trail was a stream of lung ta, a colored bunting that was used to bless the surrounding countryside. I peered at the rectangular prayer flags connected along their top edges to a long string hanging on a diagonal line from low to high between a rock and the tops of tree branches.

I noted their colors arranged from left to right in order: blue, white, red, green, and yellow. 

The five elements and the Five Pure Lights, our guide explained.

Blue symbolized the sky and space. White for air and wind. Red was fire. Green, water; and yellow was earth. All balanced for health and harmony.

As we continued to walk up, we saw a clearing and a patch of sky. In a moment the dark trees had thinned, the nameless shrubs had disappeared, and on either side of us was a wall of color.

Blood-red, reaching far above our heads. 

We were among the rhododendrons.

They were stunning. Even bewildering. A mass of crimson faces in incredible profusion, showing no leaf, no twig. Nothing but red, luscious and fantastic. 

I wish this was the part of the story where I’d tell you that we then heard a powerful inhaling and exhaling reverberating from a dragon’s lair. Then, the scuff of a foot with retractable claws, the drag of a tail knocking over a stalagmite with a crash…

I would have loved an ending like that.  

But, no. Hike over.

Ready for some ema dashi? our guide thoughtfully suggested. (This was a Bhutanese chili peppers and cheese national dish, as you may remember from a past blog).

A convoy of gray clouds scurrying across the sky blurred into the landscape. It felt mysterious.

A thing without being anything.

Air and emptiness.

And nothing and everything.

It was shaping up to be just another spectacularly ordinary day. 

Death On Easter Morning

Today is Easter 2020.

I'm not going to lie.

It feels like Death. 

In a streaming service from our home church, a staunch pastor and organist preside in an empty church where photos of church members had been pasted onto pews where they used to sit. The scent from potted lilies on the altar smells like Death.

On TV, Andrea Bocelli raises his voice to the mother of Jesus, but in vain. Even she couldn't cause a resurrection. The tune of Amazing Grace resonates in a city that looks like a catacomb of Death.

I miss wearing my yellow Swiss-lace dress. I miss the taste of marshmallow Peeps and chocolate-covered eggs. I miss hearing the Hallelujah chorus. I miss hugs from family and friends.

I miss Life.


  

Via Dolorosa

Pathways

I walked today where Jesus walked.

We funneled slowly in companionable silence through Lion’s Gate into the heart of the Old City of Jerusalem. Today, we’d be following the winding half-mile route that Jesus walked on the way to His crucifixion. 

The road known as Via Dolorosa, Latin for 'Sorrowful Way.'

A celebrated place of Christian pilgrimage.

The path was marked by stations of the cross. As we walked, some people moved off the side, like the Red Sea parting for Moses. 

First Station. Jesus is condemned to death.

Everyone seemed collectively to be under a kind of spell. Or maybe so enthralled to be there that they couldn't speak. 

Second Station. Jesus carries His cross.

No soft conversation. Just an ever-building tension and excitement of whatever it was we were about to experience.

Third Station. Jesus falls for the first time.

The street was hushed in reverence. A few whispered quietly and moved slowly through the next stations...

Ninth Station. Jesus falls for the third time.

It seemed that everything had gone quiet around us. No noise came from the busy path. Even the birds seemed to have stopped chirping. There was only the heat. And silence.

The remaining stations were inside the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. The crowd of spectators, stunned silent, were swirling inside like too many cattle forced into a pen...

Eleventh Station. Jesus is nailed to the cross.

I heard a collective intake of breath from the crowd behind me. A muffled groan came from somewhere.

Twelfth Station. Jesus dies on the cross.

Someone uttered a sound that could only be described as lamentation.

Like a death moan...

Fourteenth and Final Station. Jesus is placed in the tomb.

Silence, heavy and thick, filled the room, as if the world had been frozen. No one said much, the mood somber and grim.

We reentered the streets, melting into the crowd just like everyone else, invisible and unnoticed.

Lovers Lane

Pathways

I may not be there yet, but I'm closer than I was yesterday. – Anonymous

Funny, but how different things look when you add a little perspective to the journey. Sometimes you never realize how far you've come until you take a look back.

Like that time in a land far away when as a university freshman I'd pick my way down the campus Sunken Garden on a narrow path that was about one-and-a-half miles long.

The so-called Lovers Lane.

With a pair of color-changing mood earrings bobbing with every skip and a hop, I would traverse my favorite shortcut to my euthenics class.

Can’t be late for Spinster Rafols’ class, I said under my breath.

I had traveled that road over and over and over again.

The air was warm. I caught a faint whiff of cinnamon from the kalingag tree.
The campus, from a story I’ve heard before while having lunch at the Kamia Residence Hall, was located above a fault line. Alas, the Sunken Garden and the main library were slowly sinking two centimeters (roughly .78 inches) every year.

I didn’t care.

From my vantage point, the scenery was great.

I especially loved the kapok trees. Now that summer had started to set in, they were in full bloom, their pods releasing cotton-like balls that looked almost like snow when they fell to the ground. The fires trees were a sight to behold as well, turning the street crimson.

The sky was bright as far as I could see. 

On a far corner of the grassy ground, I spotted a group of coeds hanging out. Someone with a book in hand was sitting under an acacia tree. A few others were cuddling. 

I arrived in a huff. Just in time for the lecture on social graces. Always cross your legs when wearing a skirt. Chew like you have a secret. And what I thought was totally laughable, Ladies don’t eat an ice cream cone while walking on the street.

The clouds had turned pink and golden with the late afternoon sun on my way back on Lovers Lane to the AS Building. I was rushing and huffing and puffing to catch Prof Rao’s Psych 101 class when a sudden startling thought occurred to me, I need to slow down.

And stop.

And breathe.

And savor.

Lovers Lane would be there to cordially invite me each day, each week, and every season of my life.

It wasn't the destination but the journey that mattered. My journey was about to begin. Or had it begun already?

I nodded, blowing out a breath, Buckle up, buttercup. 

And take those mood earrings with you.