You can’t miss the cherry blossoms at this time of year in Washington, D.C. Clouds of white and pink proclaim the end of winter, on the streets and by the parking lots. Most famously, and unbeatably, they bloom around the edge of the Tidal Basin.
The Tidal Basin is a roundish body of water in front of the Jefferson Memorial. Each spring, it turns into a bit of a zoo. Peak bloom is briefly and extremely photogenic. While it lasts, the walkways around the tidal basin are mobbed. It is impossible to avoid getting into other people’s pictures. All your energy goes to avoid falling in. (There are some stretches with railings, but mostly you’re on your own.)
Local TV stations sent their crews. And this (above) is the only wedding dress I saw, but I saw three photo shoots of women in the late stages of pregnancy, standing with their partners and their round bellies under the branches of flowers.
I live in a tourist destination, sure. But it’s definitely not just tourists out there under the trees. On my two visits last week, I saw three people I know, from various jobs and the neighborhood.
Why do we keep going, locals and tourists alike? The flowers are unbelievably pretty. And so full of hope – all those trees, bred, planted, tended by humans but taking a chance at reproduction, opening their petals and offering pollen to the bees.
After my first visit, my weekday-morning pilgrimage last Thursday, I came across a poem in which the writer adds up the number of times he’ll get to see the cherries bloom in his lifetime. I know the obvious symbolism of the cherries. They bloom for a moment, they’re gone, they’re the cycle of life, blah blah blah. But somehow until I’d read that particular bit of rhyming Victorian verse, I’d never quite put it together that I, personally, do not have infinite chances to see them. I probably have a lot of chances, presumably dozens. But it’s not forever. So I went back two days later. And I hope we all go as many years as we can.
Photos: Helen Fields
Dear Helen,
Thanks for these words and photos. I lived in Arlington for one year, and was lucky to see the cherry blossoms once. I also wondered too if we notice their beauty because we know they will soon be gone.
Where I grew up in northern California, oleanders are planted everywhere – highways, wind breaks, gardens, parks. The colors are lovely pastels of ivory, pink, copper, and a deep pink. The leaves are deep green, and the flowers have a faint and subtle fragrance.
But the damn things bloom most of the year, and you see them on the dividers of Hwy 101. So we tend to ignore them. Maybe as you say, we treasure them less because subconsciously we know we can see them in a week, a month, or a half a year later. You ignore them because they will always be there.
But sometimes things are so common you end up ignoring them forever. When my mother died and my father was alone, we lived in the family house for a while to take care of him. He loved going out for a ride, and especially in San Francisco where he grew up, arriving from China and Russia in 1928. But as I drove him around, I discovered he had been to only a few of the famous tourist areas. He had never been in Coit Tower on Telegraph Hill. He told me he always wanted to see it someday.
And he did – three months before he died at the age of 77. We saw the PWA Project murals, and went up in the elevator to the observation deck, where the view of the City is breathtaking. He enjoyed it in a special way because he always wanted to know what was there. It is a memory that will always be with me.
Nicholas Suntzeff
That’s lovely, Nick. I had a friend who used to tell me she could hardly stand the daffodils blooming because she knew they wouldn’t last. She loved them so much, she said, she just wanted to crawl under them and die. I think we’re all saying the same thing.
I think they no longer do what they did in our childhood: have big WWII surplus searchlights set up along the Basin to sweep the blossoms at night.