No.13 Floating Petals — Discovering Grace in the Seasons of Letting Go

Not snow, but cherry blossom petals.

The Cherry Blossoms I Left Behind

Twenty-eight years in Okinawa. The emerald-green sea that never ceased to amaze me, sunsets melting into the horizon, hibiscus flowers that caught my eye at every turn, and time that moved at its own unhurried pace. Island life had seeped into my bones, my rhythm, my very being. Yet as my years as a university professor drew to a close and retirement approached, I realized something: there was one thing I deeply missed.

The Yoshino cherry blossoms.

Okinawa has its own cherry trees—the kanhizakura, or Taiwanese cherry, which blooms in January and February with deep pink, downward-facing flowers. They're beautiful in their own tropical way. But they're nothing like the somei yoshino, those clouds of pale pink that drift through springtime like a soft dream, heralding the arrival of a new season across mainland Japan. During my busy decades in the lecture halls, I found myself thinking more and more: "Someday, I want to see them again. Just once more."

Two years ago, having retired and standing at a crossroads in life, I finally made the journey north. My destination: Hirosaki City in Aomori Prefecture, home to Hirosaki Castle and what many consider Japan's most spectacular cherry blossom display.

A Castle Four Centuries in the Making

From Okinawa, I flew to Haneda, then made my way to Tokyo Station. There, I boarded the Hayabusa bullet train bound for northern Japan. Three and a half hours on the Tohoku Shinkansen, watching the landscape transform outside my window—from the Kanto plains to the mountains of Tohoku, finally arriving at the Tsugaru flatlands. From Shin-Aomori Station, I transferred to a local train to Hirosaki. The temperature had dropped from Okinawa's comfortable 82°F to a crisp 50s. Shivering slightly, I thought to myself: "This is what mainland spring feels like." The sensation was both foreign and achingly familiar.

Hirosaki Castle stands as one of Japan's twelve original castles, completed in 1611 during the early Edo period. It was envisioned by Tsugaru Tamenobu, the first lord of the Tsugaru Domain, and brought to fruition by his son, the second lord Nobuhira. Four centuries later, the castle still stands with quiet dignity, its stone walls, turrets, gates, and triple moats all designated as Important Cultural Properties. The castle itself is a living museum.

The cherry blossom tradition here runs equally deep. In 1715, the Tsugaru clan brought fifteen cherry trees from Kyoto—the beginning of a love affair that has lasted over three hundred years. Today, approximately 2,600 cherry trees fill the park.

What makes Hirosaki's cherries extraordinary is the technique behind their beauty. Local orchardists applied apple-growing pruning methods to the cherry trees, creating a unique aesthetic. The careful pruning encourages dense blossoms even on young branches, making each tree cascade and drape like a masterpiece. Some of Japan's oldest and largest Yoshino cherry trees grow here, each one a work of living art.

When I checked into my hotel and asked the front desk staff, "Will I still be able to see the cherry blossoms tomorrow?" she smiled warmly and said, "Peak bloom has passed, but you might be visiting at the perfect time. You'll get to see the hanaikada."

Hanaikada—floating petals. My heart skipped a beat.

Another Spring, Floating on Water

Taken at Hirosaki Castle Park, the white blanket that looks like snow is cherry blossom petals — a phenomenon called hanaikada.

The next morning, I headed to the park early. The tourist crowds had thinned, and a peaceful quiet had settled over the grounds. I walked through tunnels of weeping cherry branches, following the path toward the outer moat. With each breeze, petals drifted down around me—one, then another, landing on my shoulders, in my hair, on my outstretched palm.

And then I reached the moat. I stopped breathing.

The water had turned pink.

As far as I could see, cherry blossom petals covered the surface of the water. It was no longer water—it had become a flowing carpet of blossoms. When the wind blew, the petals rippled like waves, drifting slowly downstream. It was as if the cherry trees had moved their final performance to the water's stage, dancing quietly but magnificently.

"Hanaikada."

The word escaped my lips like a prayer. Petals floating on water, carried by the current like rafts. This is the ultimate expression of Japanese spring—beautiful not despite its ending, but because of it.

Hirosaki Castle's hanaikada has been featured in "Breathtaking Places to Visit Before You Die," and now I understood why. This is the aesthetics of endings. While cherry blossoms at full bloom are stunning, there's something profoundly deeper about this scene—as if all of life's truths are condensed into this moment of gentle departure.

Beyond the blanket of petals, I could see Hirosaki Castle's keep. Due to ongoing stone wall repairs, it had been temporarily relocated, but it stood as proudly as ever. The castle reflected in the pink water, beneath an impossibly blue sky. I raised my camera and clicked the shutter again and again, though what I really wanted to capture couldn't be photographed: the soft sound of petals touching water, the sweet fragrance carried on the breeze, the cool air against my cheeks.

These photos were taken along the Saigawa River and Kanazawa Castle during the fleeting moment when cherry blossoms shift from full bloom to their gentle fall.

What Falling Petals Taught Me

I sat down on the edge of the moat and couldn't move for the longest time.

Falling blossoms. Drifting petals. A departing spring.

Is this sad? No. This scene doesn't mourn endings—it teaches us to live beautifully right through to the end. Cherry blossoms remain beautiful until the very last moment, and even after they fall, they continue to touch our hearts.

Retirement. Leaving the classroom. It was an ending. But it was also a beginning. Life continues, even after we complete our roles. That pink wave in the moat taught me this truth quietly but powerfully.

The Japanese concept of *mono no aware*—the poignant awareness of impermanence, finding beauty in transience—was alive in that floating carpet of petals. Standing there, I felt an inexplicable warmth, as if life itself was blessing this new chapter.

Remembering from Okinawa

Two years have passed since I returned to Okinawa. My days by the emerald sea continue unchanged. But in my heart, that pink water still shimmers, as vivid as ever.

The memory of Hirosaki's *hanaikada* hasn't faded. If anything, it grows more vibrant with time. When I stand at a crossroads, when I feel lost, when I pause to reflect—that scene speaks to me quietly: "Don't fear the falling. Even endings can be beautiful."

If you find yourself at a turning point in life, if you think beauty exists only in full bloom, I urge you to visit Hirosaki Castle's hanaikada. Go after peak season, on a quiet morning when the crowds have gone.

There, you'll find everything life has to teach us.

Hanaikada is another form of spring—one that blooms in the passage of time itself.

Petals drift downstream

Carrying spring on their backs—*

Beauty in goodbye

---

Hanaikada — The Floating Poetry of Cherry Blossoms

When people around the world think of Japan in spring, they imagine cherry blossoms in full bloom: streets lined with pale pink clouds, petals drifting gently in the breeze, and crowds gathering beneath the trees to celebrate hanami. Yet there is another chapter in the story of sakura, one that begins after the blossoms have reached their peak. It is quieter, more contemplative, and perhaps even more moving.

This is the moment of hanaikada — literally “flower rafts.” As the blossoms fall, countless petals settle upon rivers, moats, and ponds, forming delicate carpets of pink that drift across the water. Seen from above, the surface becomes a living tapestry, as if the cherry trees have extended their beauty into the flow of the earth itself.

I first encountered hanaikada at Hirosaki Castle Park in northern Japan. The castle, built in the early 17th century, is surrounded by moats that cradle more than 2,600 cherry trees. When the petals begin to fall, the moats transform into shimmering rivers of blossoms. Walking along the stone walls, I watched the petals gather and swirl, carried by the current like fleets of tiny boats. The scene was breathtaking — not the exuberant joy of full bloom, but a gentler, more profound beauty.