A slice of Japanese citrus, a slice of “Hassaku” served at dinner, at a temple stay in Japan. It was early August, the tail end of the summer heat was still sweltering hot, Hassaku, a hybrid between mandarin orange and pomelo with its firm sour sweet flesh, provided an instant refreshment and the uplifting of the senses. Silky hay tones from the cool tatami mats woven with soft reeds and rice straws; woody cypress notes from the Hinoki fixtures and pillars.
The temple was over eight hundred years old, surrounded by thousand year old cedars, breathing an air of familiarity and stillness, so quiet that the bare rustle of the smallest leaves can be heard audibly. Walking through the sacred moss covered grounds, an occasional stone statue of Jizo, a compassionate bodhisattva that bridges between worlds. Tiny incense sticks burning away releasing sandalwood sweetness. Bouquets of flowers leaning against stone lanterns, left as offerings drying away, releasing fading wisps of floral perfume, a gentle reminder of impermanence.
Plum trees, lush and green, with their presence often ignored in this state, for every year they are recognized only by their pink white blossoms for a brief few weeks before spring. This is Makafushigina (Summer Edition), a sanctuary in a bottle.
