Hanami in the time of Solitude

Japanese cherry blossoms have held an unusually prominent position of significance in my life. The short-lived mass blooming of ornamental cherry trees in early spring is stunningly beautiful of course, but beauty alone isn't really enough to make something resonate on a deep and personal level.  When I first moved to Vancouver I was pleasantly surprised by the diverse multitudes of spring-flowering trees - especially since I'd spent most of my life in rather chillier parts of Canada before that.  I quickly began to look forward to the spring displays, but it wasn't until eight years ago that an amazing and entirely unexpected coincidence caused cherry blossoms to become considerably more significant in my life. It was spring of 2012, and my wife and I were wandering around Vancouver's Van Dusen Botanical Gardens at the annual Cherry Blossom Festival, enjoying a beautiful spring day, and trying to get our heads on straight.  Our first son had been born only three months earlier and, in our rather frazzled and exhausted states, we hadn't exactly been getting out and about much.  In fact, thanks to our son's vocal hatred for his car seat, my frantic work schedule, and the general exhaustion of being new parents, we'd barely had any leisure time at all.  It's fair to say that we were really just hoping for a peaceful day out - ideally without much angry crying or nap disruption.  Come to think of it, two more kids and eight years later, I'd say that the bar is still more-or-less in the same spot. But that day - a day we barely managed to drag our exhausted selves out of the house and across town - quickly turned into a day I'll remember for the rest of my life.

I feel like the English language is missing a word in between friend and acquaintance.  We use terms like 'work friend' or 'school friend' to describe the people we like, but who occupy only the transient, liminal places and times in our lives.  Circumstances often keep us from growing closer to these people, but we still consider them our friends.  Despite this, we know that these people could disappear from our lives at any moment - or that we might disappear from theirs. Calling these people acquaintances feels wrong, and yet we judge ourselves for calling them friends, as if the word carries some universal connotation of commitment or permanence.  Rob and Eri were my 'kendo friends.'  We'd first met while practicing kendo (Japanese sword fighting) in Edmonton, Alberta.  Rob, like me, had joined the club early on because of an interest in the sport.  Eri had moved from Japan to Canada, and wanted to practice a sport she'd first learned back home.  Much to the delight of everyone in the club, they met, fell in love, and got married.  I'd always had fun and gotten along with them both, but I never saw them outside of kendo.  My time with the kendo club stretched across two university degree programs, and I can't say that I spent a lot of time cultivating longer lasting friendships during that busy time. I wish I had. Hindsight, and all that.  Then one day, Rob and Eri announced that they were going to move to Japan together. We were all delighted, though our tight-knit little club was sad to see them go.  We held 'sayonara practices' for them (a wonderful, albeit grueling kendo tradition that involves sparring with every single member of the club in rapid succession, capped off with a final bout with the sensei).  After her practice, Eri gave me a string of handmade paper cranes that I still have.  Rob and I went for lunch at the little Vietnamese restaurant next door after his practice. I was sad to see them go, but happy that they had each other, and new adventures to look forward to.  I figured I'd likely never see either of them again. Then, out of nowhere, many years later and in a completely different city, Eri came up and tapped me on the shoulder at the sakura festival.  She'd spotted the back of my Edmonton Kendo Club jacket in the crowd.  She and Rob had moved back to Canada, and they had a son a little older than ours.  Now, thanks to a sakura festival and a jacket, we were all together again.  We all got to talking and catching up, and quickly realized that we lived only a few kilometers apart.

I'm delighted to say that we're fully-fledged friends now, and not just kendo friends. In what I think is a fairly universal trend, our get-togethers tend to be less focused on festivals and events and more focused on sharing food these days. Nonetheless, sakura have only continued to grow in significance in my life over the last couple of years; in early 2018 I met the film crew from the Japanese TV series 'Who Wants to Come to Japan?' at the very same Vancouver Sakura Festival. I cooked a meal for them, told them of my love for ponzu shoyu and Japanese citrus, and ended up being invited to participate in a life-changing culinary trip to Japan.

The cherry blossoms have been good to me.