Sakura

Stephen Murphy-Shigematsu
The Mixed Message
Published in
2 min readApr 18, 2017

It was spring, and the cherry blossoms around our home on the island of Shikoku were in full bloom.

One afternoon I wandered around delighting in their beauty. I climbed a hill and found myself alone in a quiet spot with three majestic trees and sat under them in a wonderful state of mindfulness. I reflected on how many Japanese live to see the cherry blossoms just one more time. Oh, to be one with the blossoms, if just for a brief moment!

The peace was shattered as I heard the roar of an engine and saw a car tearing around the corner, coming to a screeching stop close by me. The door of the black Mercedes swung open and a guy jumped out. A woman sat in the passenger seat with a bored and irritated expression on her face.

The guy stood leaning against the car and lit up a cigarette. He took a few puffs, threw down the stub, glanced up at the blossoms and was about to get back in when he noticed me.

He stared for a moment and then spat out, “Japanese Sakura!” jumped in, slammed the door, and sped off.

The quiet returned, but not the peace. Mindful now only of how my face has brought many unasked for lessons in Japanese aesthetics by kind representatives of the race.

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