After Snow, the Flowers Bow In | Ikebana Story #10 by Ben
- Ben Huybrechts
- 6 days ago
- 3 min read
It started with a gentle sway.
Mobiles by the Japanese artist Odagiri Satoshi danced ever so slightly in the spring breeze at the Arboretum Kalmthout. Balanced on thin rods, they turned slowly, weightless but certain, like thoughts you hadn’t realized you needed to think. After ten days of near-continuous teaching, Ilse had earned this moment. So had I.
The invitation had come from Els, who had just finished a workshop for the Azalea Study Group in Brussels. "Why don’t you come over tomorrow?" she’d said casually. The next day, the weather was golden and generous, and we found ourselves en route to the arboretum in Kalmthout. Not for any grand purpose—just a walk, a pause, a moment to reset. Sometimes, that’s all you need.
We strolled past the mobiles first. Then into the arboretum itself, where spring had begun its soft declarations: a stubborn bloom here, a bold bud there. I watched Ilse and Els drift ahead, stopping, pointing, gasping— like two teenage girls - conducting what could only be described as a joyful botanical investigation. A branch in full bloom set them off like schoolgirls.
A flower they couldn’t quite name had them bending down in the path, trying to guess its identity like curious detectives. I let them go on ahead, taking the occasional photo, but mostly just enjoying the moment.
And then it happened. I was thrown, rather abruptly, thirty years into the past.
To Nagaoka, deep in Japanese snow country, where we once lived. For geographical reasons I never fully grasped, the snowfall there was relentless. One metre a day, on average. Our windows were boarded up from the outside to keep them from collapsing under the weight after removing snow from the roof.
It was dark, and it was damp. The city pumped warm spring water through small fountains in the middle of the road, keeping them snow-free without the need for salt. And to even find our car, we had to pull out the antenna every day, so we’d know where to dig in our rubber boots the next day. Every morning, 30 minutes earlier than needed, just to excavate the vehicle.
So yes, when spring finally came, it didn’t just arrive—it performed.
I suspect those years carved a permanent reverence for spring into both of us. In Japan, seasons aren’t wallpaper—they’re centre stage, wearing full costume and refusing to be ignored. Their presence is unapologetic, theatrical even. Perhaps that’s why ikebana clings to them so fiercely: the rhythm of flowers, like the rhythm of life, refuses to be background noise.
When I try suggesting something off-season for Ilse's social media—it’s like proposing tulips in August. She shoots me that look, the kind that needs no words to say 'absolutely not.' I argue, perfectly reasonably I might add, "But what about the Southern Hemisphere?" She remains as unmoved as a bronze statue in a snowstorm. It never works.
Back in Kalmthout, Odagiri’s mobiles had the final word. Perfectly poised, responsive to the gentlest breath of air. Like ikebana. Like spring. Like this 25th anniversary year: a balancing act between memory and momentum, rooted in the seasons that shape us.
And on that day—with the flowers and the golden hush of spring—it felt, however briefly, that the world had remembered how to balance itself.
Comments