Sakura-Bathing in Showa Kinen Park

Earthshine reader —

It's me (Dazé), and spring is in the air. Yes, even here, in two-season Iceland.

Iceland. I live there, which means I don't live elsewhere, which means I'll miss my dear cherries (blossoms) for the second year in a row. Sniff-sniff!

To fill this great void, I plucked the dreamiest walk from my Japan library that I could find.

It was April 1, 2023. In Japan, this period is known as hanami ("flower viewing"), and barely lasts a fortnight. For the locals, this means seizing every chance that comes one's way — and creating them when they don't. Yes, this is the time to skip school, call in sick, and reject birthday invites. (Don't do that.)

According to my wife's cherry blossom forecast — yes, those exist — Tokyo was peaking pink. Tokyo, however, is a large playground, and the sakuras are widespread. Where was I to go on this blissful Saturday afternoon? To answer that question, I summoned the yesteryear voice of one of my PE teachers, who said the following as he handed out a once-in-a-blue-moon multiple-choice test:

Oftentimes, the first choice that comes to mind is the right one.

And so, on this day (14 years too late), I took his advice and concluded that I best do my sakura-bathing in Showa Kinen Park, the biggest green space in Tokyo, named to honour Emperor Showa (Hirohito).

Warning: From this point onward, your blood pressure might drop. (And now that I've set such an expectation, mine is on the rise …)

It amazes me how such an organism blooms for two weeks and then takes its leave for the next 50. What's going on below that dark, rugged bark?

I'm not a dendrologist, but emailing one would likely reveal answers like "producing flowers takes a lot of energy", "it's to maximise pollination while conditions are optimal, or "the petals are prone to weather". A poet, on the other hand, would conclude things like "the poor things have self-esteem issues", "they've learned the value in scarcity and like to feel special", or "they bloom only as much as they feel humans deserve".

The majority of people I saw were in company, yet most of my subjects were without one. It's no coincidence; I lean towards solitary figures in my photography.

Solitude allows you to declutter the mind, digest thoughts, and gain clarity. It's rewarding. The place you honour as your meditative spot may honour you back with answers and inner peace.

For others, the purpose might be quite the opposite: to put to rest all rumination and externalise yourself by focusing on the outer world. The other day, I was walking in a park here in Reykjavík and thought about how mindfulness is a simple yet rare superpower that some learn to appreciate as they grow older.

Then there are those who come for reasons unknown. It's an indulging quality, mystery. Scientists won't agree with me, but can you imagine how dull the world would be if we knew all the answers? Authors and filmmakers are essentially tour guides into the wondrous. But that's the easy way to wonder; you should try it yourself. Look at the next thing in your vicinity and wonder about it.

Maps. Some are all about them. I, not as much. I prefer to be led by the environment and instinct, just like I do when exploring a new Pokémon region. I've found that a map spoils the adventure and leads you to crowded areas. (Admittedly, in an emergency, I have nothing but good things to say about maps.)

Here's one of only two "wide" shots I captured on this walk (I was bound to a telephoto lens). I wish it gave a better sense of the scale of the park. Fortunately, photography isn't the only tool in my storytelling kit. I have the omnipotent power of words: Showa Kinen Park is about half the size of Central Park.

As if the 1,500 sakura trees aren't enough, this park also hosts an impressive tulip garden with about 250,000 tulips of over 200 varieties. And yet — in classic Dazé fashion — all I have to show you is this poor attempt at a reflection shot.

A fellow observer of life who, unlike me, would give the tulip garden justice in her newsletter. Notice she's adopting a perfect flat-footed squat or "asian squat", as some call it. Many people, especially non-asian, can't adopt this posture. My wife, for instance, lacks this ability, and I laugh every time she attempts to prove the opposite. I am among the fortunate ones, and it has come in handy.

We are tulips, too. We exist in great numbers. We come from different backgrounds. We have our personalities. We live on a shared turf, and each day, we do our best to thrive there and get along with our neighbours. We appreciate sunny days, but can't go without rain for too long. We eventually wither, and our place on the turf gets replaced, perhaps by those of our blood. For now, though, we stand in the here and now. So, let's blossom.

I didn't realise it then, but notice how the ball was angled perfectly towards me, making all its colours equally visible, as if it wanted to look its best for its picture. I don't think the planets were aligned, but the force at which the ball was last kicked, the windspeed it travelled through, and my trajectory across the field were most certainly holding hands and singing in harmony.

In the middle of the field was a random coffee table with a mirror surface. A sign prohibited anyone from sitting or standing on it, which makes me wonder what its purpose was — as an actual coffee table? Unresolved, I decided to experiment with it by looking for interesting compositions and settled on this one. How come we can't see you? I flipped the image 180°, which, now that I think about it, only confuses things further.

At the opposite side of the field was a large patch of bright lemon cosmos flowers. For a photographer, a setting like this is like a theme park to a kid. I must have spent 30 minutes here trying different ideas. This photo was one of them. I like how the out-of-focus flowers on the left resemble "sun rain", and the woman is shielding herself from them. Of course, that's exactly what she was doing.

As I prepared to leave, I spotted this gentleman having a blast with the cosmos and decided to capture his flow state. (Those with a keen eye might recognise this photo from an essay I wrote last summer.)

After the cosmos, I walked to the nearest vending machine and grabbed an ion supply drink while enjoying the shade. I resumed my walk shortly after, this time without a camera up to my eye.

This transmission is fading, but the sakuras still have a week to go, so cherish them while possible, if you can. For me, at least.

Until next time,
D