Cherry Blossom Time in Tokyo
It's cherry blossom time in Tokyo, one of the trickiest stretches of the year weather-wise. A bright morning can become cold and rainy within hours. Years ago, I gave up trying to plan hanami picnics. Instead, I take whatever fair weather I can get and go for a walk.
The blossoms are everywhere. They feel less like an event than a presence woven into the city. At home, I gather friends around the table instead, with rosé wine, gari, and seasonal wagashi such as sakura-mochi bringing touches of pink indoors.
I've often discouraged friends from visiting Japan at this time, suggesting late April or May instead, when azaleas, irises, and wisteria are in bloom, or late autumn, when the maple leaves blaze.
And yet, I know how fortunate I am to live with the blossoms each year.
Here they are not simply ornamental trees, as they often are in parks and gardens elsewhere. They are part of the city itself. Many have grown enormous over the decades, their deeply furrowed bark and sweeping limbs giving them dignity through every season. Then, almost overnight, they flower. Familiar streets become places you want to linger, and ordinary walks become something else.
When friends do visit, I tell them not to worry too much about timing. The season is longer than people imagine. It begins with the graceful shidare-zakura weeping cherries, passes through the familiar Yoshino, and ends weeks later with the bright, clustered blossoms of the yae-zakura.
On clear days, parks and riverbanks fill with people. Families, friends, and colleagues gather beneath the trees. Children run between the trunks, and many remain long into the evening.
For all the writing about the melancholy of cherry blossoms, I have never once seen that mood beneath the trees. Every spring I see families, friends, laughter, picnics, children running, and people lingering long into the evening. If the blossoms remind people that life is precious, they seem to answer by celebrating it.