Hydrangeas are beautiful, especially during a long spell of summer rain. The soft hue of their petals all but dissolve into the air, their subtle beauty surmounting even the prettiest of views. These flowers line the path from my girlfriend’s doorstep to the smoking area at my university. This, I think, is nothing short of a small miracle.
When the hydrangeas bloom in June, I like to take detours on my way home. I step off of my usual path and onto ones closer to the greenery. A shrine in my hometown is one such place; I never go there except for the traditional first shrine visit of the year — and when the hydrangeas bloom.
I’ve come to many realizations while watching these blossoms. It’s common knowledge that the color of hydrangeas is determined by the acidity of the soil. But if you look closely, you’ll see that each blossom possesses a slightly different hue — almost as if they refuse to become one and the same, as if they are trying to create an individual color for themselves.
I’m just your average 22-year-old college student. There’s no topic that I and only I can report on; I possess no exceptional talent. At times, seeing Tansa’s capable members hard at work, I feel suffocated, insecure. What makes me special? Do I really have what it takes to become a journalist? These are the questions that sometimes plague my mind.
When these fears threaten to overwhelm me, I watch the hydrangeas bloom. Although they may not be the most eye-catching flowers of the lot, I can’t help but sense each blossom trying to produce a color of its own. Well then, so will I. One day, I, too, will create a color of my own, works that only I can write. The city during the month of June springs hope in my heart, and that is a small miracle in itself.
Kotaro Chigira, intern
(Originally published in Japanese on June 23, 2020. Translation by Wakaba Oto.)Through Our Eyes: All articles