The volcano loomed large over the tiny village nestled in the quiet valley at its base. A thin hint of smoke and ash wafted out of the mouth of its crater, sending a light dusting of grey-white over the landscape before the prevailing winds.
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In a time long ago, when the sun was young and the moon but a hint in history’s dark corridors, a farmer lived high in the mountains in a snug little valley, surrounded by sharp-rising mountains and rushing streams, and green fields blanketed with beautiful flowers that numbered as the stars in the night sky. The farmer came from a long line of farmers, and the land passed down through time from one generation to the next. Along with the land passed the secret of raising grand and beautiful flowers.
Nobu Go Den rested quietly on his knees under the branches of an ancient ginkgo tree, his eyelids closed, his mind on the verge of sensing. It was approaching evening, the sixth hour past midday by his reckoning, and the sun had slid behind the western walls of the Golden Torii Shrine, casting a hint of blue-grey over the garden within. A cricket sounded somewhere amidst the stones and low shrubs beside the wall to his left, the anticipation of the coming of eventide. Silence. Peace. Nobu Go
Childhood is a precious and wonder-filled time. Our experience of it was fresh and unfettered by the whims of the mind, and we were able to launch ourselves into the realms of daydreams, make-believe, and fantasy. When I was a child the pace of life, even in the larger cities, was slower then today’s craziness. Where I grew up there were fields and orchards to walk barefoot in, feeling the cool earth between your toes; barbed-wire fences placed there to divide and protect, but which were challenges to climb through hoping you wouldn’t get caught on the upper strand; fields of alfalfa you could run hell-bent through, and once spent fall down in with your face to the cerulean