[In densely packed Tokyo, flora is abundant in
unassuming places. Hunting for it, as I learned, can lighten life’s loads.]
By Motoko Rich
During our first season of cherry
blossom viewing, known as hanami, our family traipsed along avenues near our
Tokyo apartment, tilting our heads back to marvel at the throngs of pastel
blooms above us. I was agog, and like many of those walking around me, snapped
dozens of pictures on my cellphone, trying to capture the essence of their
perfect beauty.
Across the city, there are
carefully tended stands of trees along many boulevards and rivers, as well as
lovingly cultivated gardens. And while Tokyo is one of the most densely packed
cities in the world, flowers are abundant here in everyday places.
It’s in the unassuming flora that I
find the most pleasure: the weeds sprouting behind a rusted guard rail, or an
unkempt shrub of scarlet berries climbing up a drain pipe on a dilapidated
house.
During long waits between games at
my son’s soccer tournaments, I would find myself exploring the sidelines,
crouching down for a close-up of a bright petunia or a clump of clover dotted
with spiky lavender blossoms. Along the trail where my daughter ran
cross-country meets, I would look up to admire the sun-dappled trees.
Back in Brooklyn, before moving to
Japan to become Tokyo bureau chief for The New York Times, I hadn’t been a
particularly horticultural person. My husband and I used to joke that it was a
miracle our two children managed to thrive given our poor track record with
house plants. While we were avid supporters of the Brooklyn Botanic Garden,
where we had our second date, for us the annual Cherry Blossom Festival there
was as much about the taiko drumming and bento boxes as it was about the
flowers.
Here in Japan, though, I soon
discovered that I am easily enchanted by the flowering profusion. I’m
especially drawn to anything with an unusual hue or a funky shape.
Most of the time, I have no idea
what kind of flower or plant or tree I am looking at. But that only enhances
their allure. Particularly during the pandemic, when many of us have been
working from home and stresses have mounted (the recent earthquake here
didn’t help), hunting for flowers has become a way to soothe anxiety.
After two days when I didn’t leave
our apartment because I was covering the resignation and replacement of
the president of the Tokyo Olympics organizing committee, I walked to the
grocery store and spotted tiny pink and cream winter daphne blossoms nestled in
some bushes out front. For a moment, tension evaporated.
Another day, a pot of fuchsia,
sitting on a cracked section of pavement, can take the blues away. Even after
grief and loss, I think: There’s still this.
On a recent walk through a
residential neighborhood, I stumbled upon an abandoned lot overgrown with wispy
straw-colored susuki grass, peaceful beneath a blue sky crisscrossed by
cotton-batting clouds. At a time when so much travel is curtailed, I could
imagine I had whisked to the countryside for a walk in a wild field.
This past February, following a few
intense weeks of reporting on the severe coronavirus outbreak that occurred
aboard the Diamond
Princess, a cruise ship docked in Yokohama, I snatched a few hours off on a
Saturday and cycled with my family to the Meguro River Green Belt on the
outskirts of Tokyo.
We parked our bikes and strolled
along the meandering path. I stopped frequently to snap photos of all kinds of
plants, running to catch up with my husband and children, who were not as
transfixed by every leaf and petal.
I could not resist the pink and
white flowers that resembled sea anemones, or a patch of what looked like tiny
green pinwheels. A small sign stuck in the soil labeled them “hot rips,” a
designation that did little to enlighten. But I was refreshed.
Reverence for flowers is deeply
embedded in Japanese culture. While the cherry blossom, or sakura, is the most
celebrated floral icon
of Japan, frenzied viewing expeditions to witness the seasonal blooming of
multiple varieties are common across the country.
People travel to Hitachi Seaside
Park in Ibaraki Prefecture to see the hills carpeted in blue nemophila in the
spring. Flowing purple wisteria attracts hordes to Ashikaga Flower Park in
Tochigi in May. The Furano fields of lavender in Hokkaido are a famed
destination in July and August.
Pre-Covid in Tokyo, we often
jostled with tourists from abroad wielding selfie sticks and local residents aiming
telephoto lenses when we went to admire hydrangeas in summer or ginkgo and
maple trees in the fall.
Tokyo maintains 83 public parks and
has a budget of 67 billion yen (about $646 million) for trees and shrubs along
city roads, said Tomohiro Sakashita, deputy director of the Tokyo Metropolitan
Government’s parks department. Local wards, volunteers and private building
owners maintain more, including abundant planters found at street corners or
smaller garden patches.
The city packs a verdant punch despite
its relatively small green space: The amount of greenery per person is about a
quarter of that in London, New York and Paris, Mr. Sakashita said.
“I think that having a little
nature close by is good for both the body and the heart,” he added.
To share the floral uplift I find
in Tokyo, I often post pictures of flowers on Instagram.
“Your photos are even more soothing
than the recordings of Tibetan singing bowls I’ve been listening to,” a friend
from Brooklyn commented on a series I posted of some two-toned flowers that
looked like the faces of newborn kittens with their eyes scrunched tight.
Sometimes the photos instigate a
little botanical crowdsourcing. The weekend after Thanksgiving, I put up some
photos from a walk with my husband. We didn’t know what the heathery bushes on
the fringe of a playground were, and were flummoxed by the (somewhat creepy)
red seed pods packed together in the shape of a heart.
But another journalist identified a
purple thistle and some udo — which look like a cousin of the dandelion — while
my mother spotted the susuki grass familiar from her childhood.
As we await spring, seeking out
floral beauty can feel a bit like a treasure hunt. Sometimes, I have to get
really close before I see what is there.
The other day, I passed a small
park where it looked from a distance as if most of the trees were still bare.
But upon closer inspection, I discovered that one tree was already sprouting
tiny sprigs of white, pinhead-size blossoms. The large, rubbery leaves on
another reminded me of the tropical plants of Okinawa, where my family traveled
two years ago, on a vacation that now seems impossibly distant.
I peered into the depths of the
leaves, and spied a cluster of slightly furry buds, each one filled with a
dozen delicate stamens. It seemed to me that what I had found was reason to
hope.
Hikari Hida contributed reporting.
