When Blossoms Fade
In Toronto, people flock to see cherry blossoms in bloom. The window of time is short and, in Trinity Bellwoods Park, there are far fewer of them than the more popular High Park area. On my morning tree walks, I would see the crowds beginning to form around the short path in bloom - cell phones in every hand - their poses being practiced and discussed to ensure the most Social Media worthy images were captured. Even though the flowers provide a stunning display, inviting one to stroll between the trees and take in the scent and sights of their show, I waited. I whispered to the trees from a distance, telling them that I would be there when the blossoms fell and the crowds had vanished. I told them that I believed they were beautiful with or without blossoms and that I would visit them long after the flowers were gone.
Watching the crowds and the multitude of photos taken made me think of models – young girls and women photographed thousands of times for magazines and advertisements, their beauty something to be captured while it is in bloom. Long has a woman’s maturation been unwelcomed much like the fallen cherry blossom. When only the tree is left, its beauty is considered ‘faded’. I imagined the cell phone wielding crowds posting their photos, making comments on them and others like them in the flurry of interest then forgetting about them in the weeks that followed and, likely, deleting them later to make room for new images of the next thing to catch their attention.
When the path had emptied and the crowds were gone, I walked among those trees. I looked at their long, slender leaves that curve slightly while their edges elevate into a v-shape; their veins running parallelly out towards the edges in gorgeous symmetry. They offer a lovely, dappled shade in the summer heat and rustle in the breeze as though they were giggling over a silly joke. In autumn, their leaves turn a deep gold with coppery-red edges before dropping for the stark winter chill. And, much like a woman aging into her forties and fifties (as I am right now), these trees remain largely unnoticed as they grow.
In the time I spent with them this summer – after the blossoms had fallen – I bore witness to a wonderous cycle that had nothing to do with flowers. Not once did I pull out my cell phone. Not once did I pose. Instead, I strolled and sang, whispered, and giggled, reminding them each time that they were beautiful without blossoms. I bemoaned the wayward crowds their lack of real vision and took pity on them for missing out on the true beauty these trees offer. I commiserated with these trees because, I too, am maturing quietly without fanfare or pomp as the glow of youth is replaced with lessons of a life well lived; one that is getting better with age.
