The lesson of cherry blossoms

Some bloom late.

My ex sent me an old picture the other day.

The details are a bit fuzzy. Which is typical for me when recalling those days.

It was around the height of my clandestine career as a drug-doer. I was certainly at my peak in terms of doling out damage to people who were close to me.

Unemployed. Sleeping all day. Perilously in debt. Waking up mean. And so, so skinny (for reasons unbeknownst to them).

It was cherry blossom season.

We were at a sun-drenched park, just outside of Hamilton. I was in my Patagonia jacket. It was early spring and still chilly, especially on the motorcycle. That poor jacket would be all I had to keep me warm when I eventually became homeless.

There were a few people there already, snapping photos. A man with a scholarly air, stood apart, scrutinizing a small forest. He was delighted to share his passion with me.

“Do you hear that?” he asked me.

Yes… yes. A deep, rhythmic tapping coming from the trees.

“Pileated woodpecker!” he gushed. “Canada’s largest woodpecker!”

How on Earth could you tell that from an anonymous rattle in the woods? Years of passionate learning, I guess.

I remember thinking how nice it must be to live that sort of life. You know, when all it takes is a hint of a black-bellied whistling duck or the call of Henslow's sparrow to get high.

How much I would have preferred to be a birder than a crack smoker.

The man disappeared among the trees, binoculars in hand, a notebook tucked under his arm. And I collapsed into a bench overlooking a verdant valley. I might have slept an hour the night before. And already, I was on my phone organizing a drug deal for later that afternoon. I had scarcely enough time to stash my phone when my partner stepped up behind me.

Let’s take a picture.

But look how happy we were!

The thing about cherry blossoms is they don’t dazzle for long. Just a week or two. But my, are they ever pretty in their pink prom dresses. They mean much more than a photo op in Japanese culture. They represent fragility, beauty, and new beginnings.

Maybe that’s what she was thinking, dragging me to that place. Maybe somewhere among the cherry blossoms in early spring, I might find inspiration. But I was flat and grey. Like every other day.

We sure looked smart in front of the camera though.

A picture is worth a thousand words. Most of them lies. Old photos especially. They often use false pretenses — wide smiles, arms around each other, the best days of our lives — to lure you into a false sense of the past.

As an ex-addict, I know better. Those were bad times. Not long after that day, the motorcycle was sold for cheap. The house too. The smiling couple in that photo went their separate ways. I would sleep in stairwells.

Still later, I would come home to live with my mother. I’d go back to university. I’d get my grades back from the first term— straight As. Passionate learning. I’d talk to my ex-partner on the phone every day.

Today, we’re apart. And still a part of each other. As honest friends.

It’s spring. A time for renewal and wonderment at the fragility of life.

I’m not sure what I’ll do with myself. But the possibilities are intoxicating. Nutty professor? Pet detective? Birder?

Back to school, no doubt. But this time, as someone who’s finally learned it’s never too late to blossom.