Cherry blossoms

 Thursday was 80 degrees and our only “no soccer” night. 

“Hey, want to drive downtown to see the cherry blossoms? They’re peaking early but looks like the rain this weekend will ruin them.”

He can’t, someone didn’t show for their shift so he’s gotta go. 

He also reminded me, he doesn’t much care for them, anyway. 

I get it, kind of, only in the way you can understand there are people out there who say things like “I don’t like chocolate” and/or “I’m not really an ice cream person.” Ok. So I don’t really get it. But he’s a man and these are flowers. So, maybe. 

Options roll around in my mind. I could just drive downtown myself! My old stomping grounds! No problem. But actually my familiarity with the area is what snaps me to my senses and talks me out of driving the minivan into tourist central at rush hour with 4 hangry kids. 

No matter, our neighborhood has plenty of cherry trees! Even with the people who complain that we should only be planting native species, whose numbers are not few, we have a substantial showing of Japanese cherry trees lining the thoroughfare of town, and guess what’s at the other end, but the place J had to go! The big boys were invited to go for bingo night, so I decided to make the most of it and walk. A walk!

Along the way, I just consumed the visual of the tree blossoms, pondering what the weather might have in store for them tomorrow. My hands full with making sure children don’t barge into crosswalks in front of Amazon delivery trucks; one slight interlude to clean German shepherd diarrhea surprise (I promise — you’d prefer ice cream) off the sidewalk in front of someone’s home using plastic bags, dried leaves, bottled water and baby wipes. 

After dropping off the two oldest, I began to trek back, this time with two smalls contained in the double stroller and my shepherd attached to the hand rail with a giant carabiner clip. It was well past sunset and getting dark now, so I was looking at flowering branches by dusk, backlit by car headlights. That was one way to see them. I could at least free up one hand and thumb to snap some low quality photos. 

Every time I see the blossoms, I think of mortality. They are anticipated all year, their plumping buds monitored and reported out by professionals for truly the entire world to remain informed. Vacations and festivals and distance runs and April 1st marriage proposals (mine) are orbiting around their peak bloom dates. And yet, the dates are difficult to pin down, conditions can render a poor showing, and the peak is over in less than a week. Then we are left with leafy greens, a staple, popularly maligned. This year, such a mild winter chased by an abnormally warm spring has brought the peak so early, it’s also been a great conversation starter for global warming enthusiasts. Such a cultural and political touchstone! 

But like I was saying, mortality. The blossoms bursting out in a blaze of glory is truly magnificent, but then it ends so abruptly, and I’m left pondering to myself: “How many more chances will I have to see this? 30? 40 if I’m lucky?” Maybe many, many fewer. I know not the days or the hours and therefore, I make the absolute most of every opportunity, blossom-bathing and shameless iPhone recording and yes, now blogging about it. 

Today, under gray skies and a light drizzle, the shepherd and I went walking again in the broad daylight of the 1pm hour, a lunch break from my home office. Just pop a roast and veggies in the oven with a timer set to 4 hours, and step outside for a walk. Idyllic. 

It had rained all morning, but hadn’t been too windy, so the petals were still largely intact. I had so many thoughts. 

The trees are so magnificent, they look like magical creatures. The petals appear almost translucent. They are vibrating and pulsing with aliveness and a tender beauty. Their trunks and bark are striking in their dark gray masculine angularity, looking almost as though an imaginative sketch artist / magician has just rendered them in pencil and then brought them to life. Their branches are ecstatic with feminine petals, and the petals appear to be humming a chorus. Some are more white, others more pink. Some branches wave and bend down willowy to touch toes. Others jut out and up, like interpretive dance arms or a yoga pose just concealed by proliferating blossoms. 

Their life will only be shortly glorious. The environment will play a role in how long the glory can be observed by the naked eye, and then they will return to ordinary time, ordinary trees doing summer tree things. I’ll rest in their shade but I’ll always remember and long for those good ole blossom days again.

Next I’m personifying the peak bloom — as if it’s a special friend who’s incarcerated and gets out for a brief break annually based on good behavior (didn’t that happen in OITNB?!). Or maybe they’re a loved one who’s always deployed, and comes to visit home just once a year. Maybe it’s the voice of the Holy Spirit, loud and clear today but tomorrow a distant memory, and then that memory is doubted to have been real. 

Then comes the rain — sure, a beauty, but one we see frequently in our ordinary time lives — and it has the gall, self-importance, lack of self-awareness to just show up and distract from everything happening with our rare visitor. And I love the rain! I can’t sleep without rain sounds turned on artificially.

I will miss you when you’re not around, blossoms. Thank you for coming to visit, and for being everything while you stayed.

And then I think — what if this were our first spring? What if we landed on the planet during winter, much like my family did when we moved from the land of California succulents and evergreens to the bleak and barren landscape of Virginian deciduous suburbs in late December. (I mean bleak.) 

And let’s pretend that was our first ever intro to Trees, the species, and we just believed them to be stark, ho hum pokey creatures. And then let’s pretend that it’s our first time ever seeing an East coast spring dawning, with all varieties of flowering trees proudly displaying their colors each in turn, like a faithfully rehearsed music and dance performance. 

Wouldn’t I be genuinely stunned, floored, rendered speechless since my jaw is on the ground and mesmerized by this glorious debut? I’m lying if I say I wouldn’t be, and I’d be lying if I said I’m fine to waste a single year not pretending it’s my first time here, on this planet, witnessing a dead tree risen to life