Leaf Hunting

Pomegranate in a lowland garden

 Yesterday the weather forecast was for clear skies. I double checked the local weather forecasts for all the towns surrounding the mountain area we had chosen. Definitely clear skies. We started the trip bathed in sparkling brilliance, gloating over the success of the hunt to come. We entered the mountains. Deep valleys were filled with shadow, yet above us the sun lit the tops of ridges, and we climbed higher and higher, anticipating the rewards. We visited a touristy dam, where the sun played hide and seek, lighting nearby grasses and leaving the mountain ridges in dull and forlorn. We had a picnic lunch. More dark clouds gathered directly above us. A spot of blue sky hinted for us to try further north. A few random shafts of sunlight played the trickster, leading us deeper and deeper into the mountains. We raced the car's engine on hairpin turns and steep slopes. Beyond the next ridge, surely we will have the brilliance of autumn burned into our eyeballs, we thought, again and again, only to go deeper and deeper into the underbelly of dark clouds. We emerged at last at the top of the world, chilled and surrounded by shadow. Far behind us Tokyo lay like a dream, basking in the sun.

Tree Dahlia, native to Central America, but now a beloved addition to the gardens and roadsides of Japan.

Looking back toward Tokyo from Shomaru Pass.

The north side of the pass, where we were now too tired to go.

Emergence

The title word is so close to the word "emergency" that it scares me. Aftermath of disaster still affects the soul.
In the rainy season we have the emergence of Lady Bugs, the manifestation of kiwi fruit from kiwi flower. June drop is happening with the persimmons, as the tree sheds the burden of excess fruit. Little green heads with court jester caps litter the pavement. I examine the tree with a scolding eye. "Don't drop them all!" I say this every year. Plums have ripened, some are falling, some are becoming brine pickles in earthenware jugs.
We missed the fledgling sparrow debut in the garden this year. I heard the nestlings peeping in the trees, and then I heard nothing. The crows in the tree on the farm out back have made their presence clear. Their own nestlings take precedence.

The spots develop later.

The hiyodori pair had a narrow escape a week ago during evening song hour. After a noisy skirmish in the magnolias, the hiyodori male led the crow a merry chase back to the crow's own nest, whooping in derision. The hiyodori female has emerged as a full-fledged member of the garden. She is not shy like many of the females, and she enjoys her daily bath in the fish urn. They built a nest somewhere near, but the female is too active right now to be brooding. Perhaps they are waiting until the crows leave the area.

Emerging

Drying the wings.

Clusters of kiwi fruit

Oxitate striatipes male. The most common spring spider.

Litany of Spring

Dendrocopus kizuki female

                                 

Japanese skink

kiwi blossoms

Nephila maculata

Lady bug pupae

Lady bug larva attaching itself to leaf

After a several week hiatus where "all the sedge is withered and no birds sing", the airborn radiation levels decreased, and many of the birds either returned or became active again. Earthworms are multiplying at last. I was wondering what the fallout of radioactive cesium would do to them, but so far the creatures who aid in breaking down dead leaves, etc, seem to be making a rebound. And so we have the bamboo partridges visiting and looking quite satisfied with the fare.
Aphids are more plentiful than usual, especially on the plum trees, but fortunately the lady bug larvae are also more plentiful than usual. These industrious insects can clean the aphids off a 10 cm length of twig per day.
Skinks showed up late, too, but in abundance. There are no bush warblers in the area this year, but a cuckoo is letting us know he's around. The first year hiyodori male found a mate, and he shrieks enthusiatically about every new discovery.  I got to watch him discover camelia nectar, and then magnolia petals. He practically swims through the trees in joyful exuberance, and loves to hang upside-down like a monkey, and then let go in a free-fall.
We had our spring visitation from the kogera wood pecker, perhaps later than usual, but all the more welcome.
Spider webs are fewer, flies are multiplying in hordes. No honey bees. A few bumble bees and mud wasps.
Fewer cabbage butterflies than last year, but the spangle is back, and so are the "regular" swallowtails. I saw one azure-winged swallowtail in the garden, too, a real treat. Gliders were seen at the next town over. No Painted Ladies as of yet, but the climate has been anything but tropical this year, so far. 

After the Earthquake

Twenty days past the Great Eastern Japan Earthquake. Twenty days into a nuclear disaster. Yet grace visits us, sun lights the plum blossoms, stars shine down on the magnolia. Jungle crows and Gray starlings carry on with the business of spring. They are happy enough to be alive. So are we.

Playing with Ice2

Almost the end of February, and the plums are still hesitant about blooming. On the weekend we had a warm day with a strong damp wind which melted all of the remaining snow in the garden, and the icebergs in the fish urn were reduced into placid water. I could see a few fish darting about under the water weeds.

Last night was cold enough for the urn to glass over in the thinnest layer of transparent ice, mysteriously patterned with tiny bubbles frozen into six-spoked stars. So this morning I played.

A few nights ago the full moon had me out there with a tripod, pointing the camera at the icebergs. Not much to be gleaned there but scattered bits of light. This leaves a whole world of investigation for next winter.

Playing with Ice

 I have been having a lot of fun playing with the ice in the fish urn. Every night the surface refreezes into galaxies of strange patterns. I was perfectly content to just take photos of the ice, but today someone suggested I play with it more, so I did.

And then I got tired of trying to add flowers to ice, and started to look around at what was already there in the snow. 

 And found some piece of old tinsel glinting in the mud. You really never know what you'll find when you start looking.

The End of Winter

Early February marks the end of winter in many seasonal and lunar-based calendars of the world. In Japan, February 3rd is called Setsubun, the separation of the seasons. Yesterday, my husband followed the tradition of his father by throwing roasted soybeans out the front door (and into the neighbor's parking area) while shouting "Demons out!!" Then he stood outside and threw the soybeans into the house, while shouting, " Good fortune in!!!" I stood there and giggled happily.

Still, winter has not completely released its grip even though the plums and narcissus are starting to bloom. There aren't enough blossoms open yet to support the nectar-drinking birds, (bulbul and white-eye) who wake me up with expectant shrieks and soft chittering, prodding me to get going on the daily mandarin orange donations that tide them over during sparse times.

The coming spring tide has also released the tensions of the earth in the form of an ongoing volcanic eruption in the south of Japan. During winter here on the Kanto plain I am constantly reminded that the soil beneath my feet is volcanic in nature, gifted by the past eruptions of Mt. Fuji.
Shimobashira, or frost pillars, form nightly as the moisture in the earth freezes, lifting the powdery volcanic deposits up into bio-film-like platforms that crunch and collapse with each footstep at dawn. 

Old Imperial Palace Garden

 A visit to one of my favorite places in Tokyo was the perfect way to spend a lovely winter day. The brilliant January sun cast the landscape into a playground of light and shadow.
We visited the mysterious land of the Bald Cypress air roots, and meandered over the bridges and waterways of the Japanese garden, making our way to the Taiwan-style pavilion overlooking one of the ponds.

Birds spotted included the ubiquitous and notoriously grand Mallard, (refer to Not as the Crow Flies for further details on Mallards and the consequences of forgetting to mention them), the friendly Wagtail, the enigmatic and "slightly spooky but really cool" (as my friend put it) Jungle Crow, and one Little Grebe, with its "powder puff tail". The signs posted around the pond are less poetic about the Little Grebe, simply stating that it has no tail feathers. The photo I took is so poor that a link to Wikipedia is included so you can actually see what it looks like.


http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Little_Grebe

Gardenia Pod Dye

One of the most striking plant dyes to come from the ordinary Asian garden is the brilliant yellow of the gardenia seed pod. There are three gardenia bushes in my inherited garden, and though they produce multitudes of fragrant white blossoms to scent the summer nights, being more ornamental than functional, they produce no fruit or seed.  (There are also two ornamental pomegranate trees. The flowers are beautiful, and when they are done blooming, they drop to the ground, and that is the end of the story.)
However, this year, one of my English students was kind enough to share two gardenia seed pods from her garden. The Japanese use the fresh pods to dye special New Year's dishes a brilliant yellow. I used the dye this year to dye Stollen dough bright yellow, and also to color the apples for the filling. My own melange of holiday joy!