learning from the blossoms
It's that time of year again when the cookbooks are supposed to come out and the cherry blossom viewing plans are supposed to ramp up into full gear.
Except this year, I've put it off and put it off because, in the wake of such a disaster, it just felt wrong.
Last night, I pushed ahead and started to list out all our old favorites and a bunch of new things and then mailed it to my usual suspect list (people who've joined me several times and indicated a wish to join me this year, too) to get a better idea of the groceries I'll need to pick up at the supermarket and schedule my cooking.
Today I find out after a long day of errands, bad news from my family, and a call from my husband telling me our credit card number had been stolen, that one of the JET program teachers from our area was the first confirmed US fatality in Japan.
I grieve so much for her family and friends and everyone in the program who will be so terribly hurt by this and then thought again of my beloved cherry blossoms.
Oddly, this annual ritual doesn't seem as silly and frivolous to me now as it did last week when I couldn't imagine a picnic in the middle of such tragedy. After all, how could I look at the beautiful sakura and stuff myself with food when half a world away, people had lost everything including food, water, and shelter?
Taylor's death reminded me that life is impermanant and she lived a beautiful, if far too short, life doing exactly what she wanted to do and in the place that she loved more than any other. That, to me, is kind of what the sakura blossoms stand for. Life is short, beauty is fleeting, and you need to grab joy and wring it out where and when you can.
And so I will work on my menu and cook with all my heart to nourish and bring happiness to my family and friends and when I sit under the blossoms and watch them fall to earth around me, I will sip my tea and say a hundred silent prayers that this time next year everyone in Japan will be able to enjoy the blossoms in peace and joy again.
Except this year, I've put it off and put it off because, in the wake of such a disaster, it just felt wrong.
Last night, I pushed ahead and started to list out all our old favorites and a bunch of new things and then mailed it to my usual suspect list (people who've joined me several times and indicated a wish to join me this year, too) to get a better idea of the groceries I'll need to pick up at the supermarket and schedule my cooking.
Today I find out after a long day of errands, bad news from my family, and a call from my husband telling me our credit card number had been stolen, that one of the JET program teachers from our area was the first confirmed US fatality in Japan.
I grieve so much for her family and friends and everyone in the program who will be so terribly hurt by this and then thought again of my beloved cherry blossoms.
Oddly, this annual ritual doesn't seem as silly and frivolous to me now as it did last week when I couldn't imagine a picnic in the middle of such tragedy. After all, how could I look at the beautiful sakura and stuff myself with food when half a world away, people had lost everything including food, water, and shelter?
Taylor's death reminded me that life is impermanant and she lived a beautiful, if far too short, life doing exactly what she wanted to do and in the place that she loved more than any other. That, to me, is kind of what the sakura blossoms stand for. Life is short, beauty is fleeting, and you need to grab joy and wring it out where and when you can.
And so I will work on my menu and cook with all my heart to nourish and bring happiness to my family and friends and when I sit under the blossoms and watch them fall to earth around me, I will sip my tea and say a hundred silent prayers that this time next year everyone in Japan will be able to enjoy the blossoms in peace and joy again.