The blush colored blossoms drifted like snowflakes, coating the concrete in delicate splotches of pale pink. Morning glories unraveled their sleepy buds, lotus flowers unwrapped their lush petals, and splinters of grass resurfaced beneath the frost-covered dirt. The air was still cold and crisp, but new images of life started to emerge through the ice of another snowy winter. Spring in Tokyo was filled with flowering cherry blossoms that showered the city with ephemeral beauty. For a transient period of time, Hanami festivals would cascade upon Tokyo neighborhoods, sprinkling parks and city streets with thousands of cheerful gatherers—celebrating life and the momentary splendor of the fleeting blossoms.
I walked through Inokashira Park as the sakura blossoms were in full bloom on a sunny, spring afternoon. Families and friends perched under them drinking beers and grilling smoky yakitori on mini charcoal grills. The lake in the heart of the park was dotted with blossoms and couples paddling swan shaped boats. Cherry branches dangled over the lake, slightly sweeping the unruffled water—the occasional migrant petal cascading down and floating elegantly, like a graceful feather.
As I watched happy couples in boats—wrapped in scarves and cozy jackets—I thought of the Japanese legend of the goddess, Benzaiten. Enshrined in the park at Meiseisan Taiseiji temple, she is said to curse any couple that enters the park with her jealousy, causing them to violently separate. Some believers think Benzaiten is at fault for the suicide of famed Japanese author, Osamu Dazai, who mysteriously took his life, with his mistress, in the park one sultry summer night many years ago. I wasn’t sure if I believed in Benzaiten’s curse, but I knew that Japan’s culture was full of legends, folklores, and ghost stories. Benzaiten’s story was just one of the many cultural idiosyncrasies passed down for generations, like the Hanami tradition of commemorating the rebirth of billowy blossoms, and the magic of growth.
I continued my stroll around the park, passed the vendors selling sparkling turquoise, jade, and amber necklaces, small paintings, and handmade postcards. I passed a band of twenty-something hipsters playing guitars and singing soulful lyrics in Japanese, guitar case open, and filled with a few scattered yen. I passed Benzaiten’s luminescent shrine, and the park restaurant, lit up with glowing, red lanterns, the aroma of salty yakisoba pervading the air, making my mouth water. I passed families under the sakura trees, and drunken youth swaying their way up the stairs leading to busy Kichijoji. I sat on a bench, underneath a blossoming tree, and let the velvety buds caress my cheeks as the calm breeze bursted with aromatic sweetness, and moon-shaped petals.
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