Cherry Blossoms
Cherry blossoms on The Quad of The University of Washington, Seattle 3.15.26
Cherry Blossoms
The bittersweet beauty of cherry blossoms
On her birthday, my mother would play a silly game by reversing numbers. For example, when she turned 52, she joked that it was her “25th birthday.” Mom aged gracefully and never dyed her hair, but her remarks about the calendar being wrong makes me think that perhaps she wanted more years out of her life. Ironically, my mother was born in 1929 and died too soon in 1992, at the delicate age of “26 years old.” I wanted more years out of her life, too.
When I was 20 years old, I was blessed to be with my mother the week prior to her passing while I was on spring break from Hiram College. On March 28th, she died peacefully at home after a very long battle with degenerative health. My mother’s death occurred during a transitional season back at home. Winter in Erie wasn’t ready to let go of its grip quite yet while spring’s enthusiasm was just starting to bud. The threshold of spring has always reminded me of the loss of my mother.
This year, I decided to allow myself some mindful moments to reflect upon her by visiting the uncomfortable place in my heart that deeply misses her. My delicate mother loved nature and especially flowers and blossoms, so a walk among the Japanese Cherry Trees at the University of Washington felt like an apt place to be. It is a must see Seattle experience that I never had until today.
Suspended in anticipation, there hovered an agonizingly beautiful tension of what is about to be. Most of the buds remained tightly wrapped, holding their breath against the chilly Pacific Northwest air. A soft rain fell from the burgeoning clouds above, showcasing the birthing branches. Even in its incompleteness, the beauty of that moment in time had held a distinguished place worthy of appreciation. I felt very thankful that my heart’s eyes allowed my experience to be genuinely satisfying, not a disappointment at all, as the awe of becoming was witnessed and savored for what it was. For me, this sight was a mirror for a life interrupted, a bloom that was taken before its full unfolding.
In the Japanese aesthetic tradition, this experience is known as mono no aware, the bittersweet pathos of things. It’s a deep emotional moving that comes from witnessing the impermanence of life. To look at a cherry blossom bud and feel a pang of grief is to participate in an ancient human observation that the most beautiful things are often the most fleeting.
The samurai of feudal Japan took this metaphor to its most profound and literal heights. To the warrior, the cherry blossom was the ultimate emblem of their own existence. Unlike the rose, which withers and clings to the stem in a slow decay, the cherry blossom falls at the very height of its brilliance. It drops while it is still perfect, scattered by a sudden wind. This clean death was the samurai ideal to live with intensity and to depart without the stain of a long, slow fading.
My mother’s death was the sort of the long, slow fading, but our relationship was that of the cherry blossoms. We’d just started, torn apart at the cusp of the spring of my life. The natural order of things felt violated, losing her so soon. She never was able to witness the color tucked away inside of me, on the verge of showing, still emergent.
In samurai jisei (death poems), poets often wrote about scattering blossoms to reconcile the unfairness of a young death. They suggested that the length of the bloom is less important than the purity of the light it held while it lasted. My mother experienced the heartache of baby loss, having three little ones pass. Brother Matthew died within a few hours of his birth, prematurely, on March 18th. Having so many miscarriages, I often have yearned for my mother’s consolation as she would have a deep understanding of my pain.
Every year that passes, another ring forms inside the cherry trees. Within their bark remain every spring, every frost, every fallen blossom. Forever, my loved ones shall remain inside of me, too. Every spring, I will deeply miss them, and feel grateful that I was blessed to be in their lives.
Beauty immortal,
Ever-blossom in my heart,
Our love, spring eternal.
