Peonies

Now that it's early summer, I look out for peonies. These lush and extravagant blooms first entranced me when I saw them at the home of a Japanese journalist in Washington.

Peonies are a symbol of China. I imagine that they're popular in Japan too. In the United States, the Cricket Hill Garden in Connecticut is "madly devoted" to peonies. I like their peony picture collection, where I viewed an "Ancient Pink" peony (above).

And the name Ancient Pink suggests one more reason why I love peonies: They evoke the ancient, and most of us have a sense or a nostalgia for the ancient -- the virtuous side of it anyway.

My pastor has talked about Robert Webber's ancient-future faith which values a deeper kinship with the early church. Recently he also highlighted Isaiah 61:4 and its idea of rebuilding ancient ruins -- which is one reason why our morning service rents a room in a lovely old Bethesda church, whose tiny congregation has a desire to grow vibrantly.

Fathers

I met Trangdai Tranguyen once. All serenity and friendliness, she was stirring a pot of perfectly clear and flavour-rich chicken broth she'd prepared for pho at Sandra's place.

Soon after, I was entranced as I read three slim volumes of her poetry in mostly one night.

This is an excerpt from Daddy's Weekend, a poem in Songs For A Boat Father:

sunup
weekend
you're keyed up running to each room
asking, inviting,
- Get up! Let's go have breakfast!
the five children turn over
all five

The father is also pictured toiling over dinner, pulling a movie from his archive for his children, constantly on the go during the weekend -- highly enthused, sacrificial, pouring love into the lives of his children whom he'd missed for years when he migrated alone from Vietnam to the US.

Such poems that so tenderly portray the translocation trials of refugee families are transformed into the universal with Trangdai's skilled pen.

Certainly it reminds me of my own sacrificial Dad. The way he enrolled us in the best schools where he had to make patient, persistent connections. The opportunities he gave us out of his limited resources, and the times he played with us. He brought me to the library when I was six and I began my lifelong love for books. I think he was the only person who tried to imagine the extraordinarily intense first days of my life in the US, and that humbles and amazes me much.

Our fathers are wonderful and flawed. They are an imperfect but still-shining glimpse of the Father's heart and the God-designed love He placed in the hearts of men for their children.

Cherry Blossoms in Washington

I missed Washington's cherry blossoms for the first time! Today, after returning from Singapore, I did spy several cherry trees near my house. But they were in the awkward flower-and-leaf stage and totally past their wondrous early-spring peak.

Life-transitions are like that: unbeautiful, but hiding a new day. Hopefully, our transitions are as ephemeral as those pink and white blossoms too!

During my first spring here in 1997, I wasn't going to view the blossoms. Too sweet, I imagined. Until I spent a gorgeous mid-afternoon strolling through Bethesda's affluent Kenwood neighbourhood where 1,200 Yoshino trees were in full bloom.

I joined the invasion of gawkers on the pretty streets, all of us floating slowly, it seemed, under the millions of dreamy petals held aloft on old, dark, gnarled branches.

This was where American suburbia encountered Japan too. American children set up stalls to sell home-made brownies and icy drinks.

I remember buying lemonade from a little boy whose house was far from the hubbub. His hopeful eyes had followed me as I walked up the road; that was how I made my modest 25-cent contribution to a future entrepreneur, one of America's best products.

I love the story of how in 1912, Tokyo presented Washington with 3,700 cherry trees that soon encircled the star-shaped Tidal Basin, signifying friendship.

Once, a Japanese journalist told me he much preferred Washington's sakura season. In Japan, there were karaoke and drinking contests under the trees and it gets crazier every year, he lamented.

That afternoon in Kenwood has stayed with me - the tender colours, the spark and energy of early springtime, and another Asian echo in America.