Each year of my life I rediscover Spring.
The insane energy of it.
The intoxicating scent of it.
The seductive beauty of it.
The wonder and exuberance of it.
Spring has returned. The Earth is like a child that knows poems. Rainer Maria Rilke
Each year, Spring becomes my favorite season for as long as its promise lasts.
Before its flowers fade.
Before its green changes from brilliant to subdued.
Before its birds have found their mates.
Before the scent of orange blossoms vanishes.
Such soft and solemn and perfect music doesn’t last
For more than a few moments.
It’s one of those magical places wise people
like to talk about.
One of the things they say about it, that is true,
is that, once you’ve been there,
you’re there forever.
Listen, everyone has a chance.
Is it spring, is it morning?
Are there trees near you,
and does your own soul need comforting?
Quick, then––open the door and fly on your heavy feet; the song
may already be drifting away.
Now, each Spring may be my last, but hasn’t that always been true? Would we know spring without winter? Can we know life without death?
And all our world is dew…so dear,
So fresh, so fleeting”
― Kobayashi Issa
In a few short weeks, I’ll travel to Kyoto again. If I’m lucky, my trip will be timed with cherry blossom season (sakura); perhaps, the most extravagant celebration of spring on this earth, but one, like life, that is fleeting and unpredictable.
“Soaring in white clouds, The cherry trees are in full bloom, Every branch bending with loaded blossoms. But the wind is ceaseless as the peak is lofty, And day after day falls the spring rain; The flowers have scattered from the upper sprays. May the blossoms on the lower branches neither fall nor lose their beauty, Till you, who journey, grass for pillow, Come home again !” Mushimaro, 8th Century