Sakura Time in Samurai Land

I look up, the stick in my hand having once more trounced another imaginary target. My bare feet are loving the return of bare ground, revived with yesterday's first soaking rain, tiny blades of new grass give a shade of bright green repatterning the beige field of winter. I'm surrounded by 50 white uniformed aikidoists. In front of me is Hitohiro, our instructor in jo suburi, resembling I must admit one of those solid wood guardians seen at the gate of many shrines. He's resplendent in his attention and mastery of technique. His stage backdrop is a magnificent grove of house-high azaleas, still keeping their wintry state of leafless gray, looming shapes of dense twiggy ships, forever sailing the aikido Sea of Iwama. The rainstorm-gray ancient tiled roof of the aikido dojo barely show over their tops. A dark evergreen band of the conifer stand surrounding the aiki-jinja highlights the pale pink showstoppers--the cherry trees in lifting clouds of pink...

It's past prime blooming season but their resplendent beauty is a constant song of spring. To my left, the field ends in a forest of cherry trees, and each gust of an approaching cold wind gives a shower of pink petals, the most delicate thing imaginable.

The souls of millions of legendary samurai fall around us. A pinkish snowfall lies on the dark grounds. The Sakura leaves, a newly minted fresh green, with the pale pink and the dark gray stems and trunks form the eternal Japanese palate. Above all, a never ending display of rain threatening clouds provides dramatic grays in a promising blue sky. I'm awash in a sea of beauty that just takes me away.

Hitohiro's instruction is punctuated with the sounds of the countryside, the call of birds, an occasional rude crow call. The nearby karaoke bar has a late morning singer of sad songs. At noon, we are regaled with a broadcast of yet another American song from the fifties redone into a tinkling, music-box version unimaginable by it's composer. It rolls over us promising all good things, as it fades, other music box renditions in the distance tinkle their last bars. It's an auditory lacework. Meanwhile, my companions continue to grunt and shout in counter-harmony.

It's been one of the best Sakura, cherry-blossom seasons in years, and my final reminder of the day was on the train back, in Nippori station. A fearsomely large sumo, hair knot perfect, strode along the platform in I swear a solid pink silk kimono-style garb. Was this large fellow also celebrating the delicate pink Sakura of samurai-land?

© 2008. Comments to Patricia Yarrow
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