Edit 31: Chasing Flowers
The recent stretch of springlike weather in Charlotte has had an immediate effect on my thoughts. Warm light filtering through branches peppered with returning leaves. Afternoons that feel less like winter’s hold and more like a quiet rehearsal for what is coming next. It is enough to send my mind dashing ahead—not just toward sunnier days, but toward the particular rhythm of seasons I have come to associate with Japan, where spring unfolds not as a single arrival but as a sequence of floral moments.
There, the calendar is often read in petals.
Cherry blossoms mark the emotional beginning—the early to mid-March swell of pale pink that drifts across cities and countryside alike, lingering only briefly before dissolving into memory. Entire days are planned around their timing. We set out early to visit certain neighborhoods and prefectures, temples known for particular groves or views. And there we walk slowly beneath canopies of bloom as though time itself had softened. At each temple stop, I would carefully choose a goshuin—the hand-inked temple stamp that now fills the pages of my well-traveled goshuincho, a quiet record of pilgrimages and seasons followed.
What lingers most vividly is not only the sight of the flowers, but the atmosphere that gathers around them. No one is looking down…all eyes are up, up, up. Conversations instinctively hush beneath the branches. The air carries a faint, almost powdery sweetness. In certain parks, when the blossoms begin their gentle departure, a sudden breeze can send petals drifting down in soft showers—pale confetti suspended for a breath before settling on shoulders and sleeves. Sometimes one catches lightly in your hair, unnoticed until later, a tiny accidental keepsake of the season. It feels like the only acceptable way the blossoms come to rest with you. If you’re there for hanami, it feels like the ultimate blessing of your gathering.
There is also an unspoken understanding: the blooms are not ours to touch. Hands remain respectfully at your side. Paths curve carefully to protect roots and fragile limbs. Appreciation is expressed through presence rather than possession. You stand, you observe, you allow the moment to pass through you. In doing so, you begin to sense a deeper rhythm—one that honors not only the flower, but the tree, the landscape, and the centuries of quiet stewardship that sustain them.
As April deepens, spring reveals new layers.
Azaleas appear in vibrant clusters, while fields of soft blue nemophila ripple like fragments of sky fallen gently to earth. Soon after, wisteria descends in perfumed curtains from garden trellises and shrine pathways, their violet strands swaying in lantern-lit evening air. Around these blooms, seasonal rituals emerge. Afternoon teas themed to the flower of the moment appear in hotel salons and tucked-away cafés, delicate pastries echoing color and form. Travel itself becomes guided less by destination and more by timing—by the subtle knowledge that beauty here is always moving forward.
By early summer, the atmosphere shifts once again.
The rainy season settles across much of the country, and hydrangea—ajisai—blooms in varying shades of abundance along moss-lined temple paths and beneath wooden gates darkened by rain. Umbrellas gather in muted tones. Water beads along petals and drips steadily from tiled eaves. Shoes soften against damp stone, footsteps falling almost instinctively more gently. These are days that create lingering pauses—slipping into a neighborhood coffee shop for a beautifully roasted, Japan-specific blend, savoring a seasonal sweet, or making a small pilgrimage to the Reserve for a drink composed with the same care as a ceremony.
As the rains begin to fade in July, lotus flowers rise serenely from still ponds while the temperature climbs toward the shimmering heat of midsummer.
Cicadas begin their steady chorus, filling the air with a sound that feels at once nostalgic and insistent. Evenings stretch longer. Movement slows. Summer festivals—matsuri—bring streets and riversides alive with lantern light, music, and procession. Fireworks bloom across humid skies, their reflections flickering on water and city rooftops, the night scented with grilled street food and sweet, syrupy treats. It is a season felt fully through the body—warmth on the skin, sound in the air, color everywhere you turn.
Perhaps this is what the early warmth here has stirred so quickly within me. The understanding that one bloom yields gracefully to another. That seasons are meant to be followed, not kept in place. That memory itself moves in cycles, returning like a familiar embrace when the light begins to change.
And in these early hints of warmth, I find my thoughts drifting not only toward what once was, but toward what might again be waiting…just a few blossoms down the path.
All photography featured in this post is original work by E.D. Quon Photography and is protected by copyright. Please enjoy, but do not copy, reproduce, or use without permission.
