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.
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