Letter from Japan

Chapter 1

Cherish
愛でる

Kisetsu 季節

I was far from home in New York City. Amidst a day crammed with publicity events, my husband, Takumi, and I were speeding through the city in a cab, headed to yet another press interview. Feeling a bit worn out, I gazed out the window, the foreign cityscape blurring into a colorless haze. Suddenly, a cheerful burst of pale pink caught my eye. I would have recognized that familiar shade of pink anywhere.

“Sakura!” I exclaimed. Cherry blossoms!

Takumi looked up. “Wow!” he echoed, matching my enthusiasm. “You’re right. Sakura!”

“Beautiful!” I breathed, marveling at the clusters of cherry blossom trees lining block after block. It felt like bumping into a long-lost friend. Joy flooded my heart, tinged with a bittersweet pang of homesickness. The blossom instantly transported me to the spring days of my childhood in Japan—picnicking with family beneath a pink canopy, walking to school on an April morning, surrounded by a flurry of dancing petals.

In the back of the cab, Takumi and I burst into cheers each time we glimpsed another sakura tree. We pulled out our phones and snapped photos as if we had encountered a celebrity, and bemoaned our inability to leap from the vehicle and bask beneath the pink storm. My colleague, sitting in the front seat, swiveled to face us.

“They’re just cherry blossoms,” he remarked, arching an eyebrow. “What’s the big deal?”

I looked back at him, mouth agape. “Because they’re cherry blossoms,” I tried to say. “They’re so beautiful. It lets you know it’s really springtime . . .”

My colleague shrugged. He regarded me skeptically before turning away. His nonchalance threw me off balance for a moment, but it failed to diminish my enthusiasm. I got right back to ooh-ing and ahh-ing alongside my husband. I simply couldn’t stop.

Spring

Every spring, meteorologists in Japan begin tracking the sakura zensen, the cherry blossom front, as the flowers bloom first in Okinawa, which contains over 160 islands and is best known for its white sand beaches in the southwest, and gradually progress northward to the mainland. The Japanese Meteorological Agency uses fifty-eight designated sample trees across the nation to predict when the blossoms will emerge in each region. In rural areas such as Yoshino in Nara Prefecture, cherry blossoms transform entire mountainsides into cascading pink spectacles, while in urban settings like Shibuya, bustling with people and traffic, you might stumble upon a solitary tree flowering in an unexpected nook or cranny.

The meteorologists aren’t the only ones who busy themselves with predicting the first bloom. Like many Japanese people, when I see the buds of sakura starting to swell, I grow anxious, thinking, “Will it bloom tomorrow? Maybe the day after?”

When I notice the first cherry blossoms beginning to open in a sunny spot, I excitedly tell my family, “The season’s starting!” Then I consult my schedule and the weather report to decide on the best day for a cherry blossom picnic.

Japanese supermarkets in springtime will put on cherry blossom fairs, their aisles overflowing with sakura-inspired sake, pastries, and traditional wagashi sweets embellished with the iconic blooms and flavored with their fragrant leaves. From powder pink to pearly white, the sakura motif graces everything from kimonos to household items. The trees also flourish on the grounds of Buddhist temples and Shinto shrines, alongside school campuses and river embankments. Some, like the weeping cherry tree Miharu Takizakura in Fukushima prefecture, have survived over a millennium and are nationally recognized as a natural monument.

And where would Japanese art be without cherry blossoms? The flurry of pink serves as a dramatic backdrop for countless anime and films, as well as classical theatrical arts like noh, performed in masks and costumes, and kabuki, heavily stylized performances. They inspire pop songs, adorn ukiyo-e prints and paintings, and feature prominently in literary titles.

The Japanese language itself offers a multitude of expressions and terms to capture their blossoms’ allure: sakura-fubuki for the way the petals fall from the tree like snowflakes; hana-akari, or “flower light,” evoking the gentle glow of the blooms in darkness. The word hanami, which translates to “flower viewing” in English, hints at Japanese people’s long-standing love affair with sakura.

The word sakura first appeared during the Nara Period (710–794) in the Manyoshu, Japan’s oldest anthology of classical poetry. Back then, the imperial court favored the fragrant plum blossoms imported from China, but as Japan cultivated its own cultural identity, attention gradually shifted to native cherry blossoms. The bloom of sakura in the mountains historically coincided with rice planting season. Because of this, Japanese farmers long revered the sakura as divine harbingers of a bountiful harvest.

In 812, the Emperor Saga held the first imperial sakura-viewing party, or hanami, an elegant affair complete with poetry readings and musical and dance performances. Cherry blossoms, which typically last only about two weeks, capture both the lush vibrance and fleeting nature of life. It’s moving to think that generations of Japanese people have celebrated the sakura at these events with the same emotions that stir within us today. The renowned courtier and poet Murasaki Shikibu captured the essence of the hanami in her classic work, The Tale of Genji, weaving romantic intrigues and power struggles against the backdrop of cherry blossoms. Through such imperial poetry and literature, sakura became firmly established as the quintessential symbol of Japanese spring.

For centuries, cherry blossom viewing remained an elite privilege until the shogun generals of the Edo Period decided to share their passion with the masses. In 1720, Yoshimune, the eighth Tokugawa shogun, initiated widespread cherry tree planting in what would become Japan’s most popular viewing spots, including the Sumida River banks in Tokyo. This era also saw rapid development of cherry blossom varieties, which helped them to spread around the country. The Japanese public, united beneath the pink blossoms, helped to shape hanami into its modern form: a celebration of spring with elaborate food and drink and a beloved national pastime accessible to all.

The fact that we are still able to enjoy customs established so long ago makes me sincerely grateful for our rich history. Our affection for cherry blossoms has now crossed oceans, taking root in faraway countries. In places like the Tidal Basin in Washington, D.C., cherry trees gifted from Japan many years ago continue to bloom each spring. When I consider how our shared love for seasonal beauty transcends cultures, it fills me with the warmest joy.

Why do I love cherry blossoms so much? I can think of innumerable answers to this question. First, it’s that pale, gentle pink of the petals. No other color in the world sparks so much warmth and brightness in my heart as “sakura pink.” Every time I witness this soft hue in the spring air, my heart brims with hope and tenderness.

And above all, the beauty of falling cherry blossoms is incomparable. Even as I hope to watch this beauty for just a day longer, the petals fall carelessly in the flurry of wind. The truth that a life with an end is beautiful quietly pierces my heart. How many more years do I have left to watch these cherry blossoms? Awakening the same delicate sensibility that moved the poets of the imperial court is an effect of the sakura’s presence.

Perhaps what I love most about cherry blossoms is their ability to offer an occasion for reflection—a moment to deeply experience a season through a single entity. In Japanese, we call the act of adoring something mederu (愛でる), written with the kanji character for love. Let us consider this concept of mederu as we explore the four seasons of Japan.