Who Makes Those Flowers Bloom?

The crape myrtle tree enters its own season after the gentle, harmless spring flowers have withered. It looks like a warrior unhesitatingly marching into the heart of summer. As if trying to make up for its late start, it unleashes a ceaseless torrent of red blossoms. A single flower doesn’t last 100 days; instead, petals bloom in cone-shaped inflorescences at the ends of branches. Of these, some bloomed yesterday, others just opened today, and still others will fall this evening. The seasons overlap within a single branch. This phenomenon vividly reveals the secret of time held by the crape myrtle tree. As if spring has not yet arrived and autumn has already departed, the seasons brush against each other within a single branch. Like the back of a hand and the palm of a hand, blooming and falling to the ground are inseparable. Time for the crape myrtle is not linear. It’s as if life and death aren’t separate events; they seem to touch each other and dwell within the same breath. Flowers bloom and fall, and as they fall, they bloom again, and within this cycle of time, a season is completed. Thus, standing before the crape myrtle, I wonder if the division between future and past might only be an illusion, because on the stage of the present, the beginning and end always overlap and bloom.

No matter how long they bloom, flowers eventually fall to the ground, and bark continually sheds, revealing the smooth flesh beneath. The tradition of planting crape myrtle trees has long been preserved in temples in Korea, China, and Japan. Crape myrtle flowers bloom throughout the summer, symbolizing the virtues of perseverance and endurance, and have become synonymous with the mindset of a practitioner. The shedding of the bark and appearance of the smooth inner flesh symbolize the state of a practitioner shedding their superficial selves to reveal their true nature.

Crape myrtle flowers, which bloom steadily for three months, are also a metaphor for the patience required in meditation, remaining in one session until the very end. The way the blossoms bloom and fall day by day symbolizes awareness in each moment, and just as flowers don’t bloom all at once, enlightenment too is not attained all at once; it is revealed gradually. One practitioner once said that while observing the flowers throughout the summer, he felt that their blooming and falling were like his own inhalations and exhalations.

I close my eyes and recall one Seon master’s question: “Who makes that flower bloom?” The subject of the blooming flower is neither “flower” nor “me.” Blooming and falling both occur, complementing each other. Since blooming and falling are not the will of anyone, blooming is not joyful, nor is falling sad. Flowers simply bloom and fall in their own time. The branches, laden with clumps of blossoms, flutter with every gust of wind, drawing curves in the air. This dance is both joyful and sorrowful, a fleeting flame, and a gesture of impermanence, rushing toward extinction from the moment of blooming. Yet, it is a single moment of existence, shining with all its might. This dance is not for the crape myrtle tree itself, but for the wind, the light, and we who briefly linger on this Earth. Even when flowers bloom, they lack a center of “self”; they are the product of the combined forces of sunlight, wind, rain, and soil. This is a manifestation of non-self and interdependent arising because countless causal relationships must intertwine to allow a single flower to bloom. Just as one has no fixed substance called “self,” neither does a flower. A flower does not bloom on its own. Therefore, the question, “Who makes that flower bloom?” leads to the question of non-self. We can realize that the subject who makes a flower bloom is neither a person nor a god, but rather the sum total of various conditions, and that I, too, am a part of those conditions. At this moment, the flower and I simply bloom each other.

Everything happens relying on causes and conditions. The blooming of a flower is not the result of a single cause, but the result of countless interactions. The questioner and the flower are in a relationship of mutual influence. In other words, what causes a flower to bloom is both the change in temperature and the consciousness of the questioner. Seon allows us to intuitively experience this relationship, thereby breaking the illusion that all things exist separately and independently. The concept of “flower” is merely a name we give it; it lacks a fixed, inherent nature. The question, “Who makes that flower bloom?” is ultimately a gateway to the realization that there is no distinction between the bloomer and the bloomed, a device that reveals that both the flower and I are intrinsically empty of self-nature. In this moment of enlightenment, the distinction between bloomer and bloomed disappears.

While the crape myrtle blossoms in the park in front of my house bloomed and withered three times, I harbored a deep hatred and resentment toward one certain person. Like a flower bud forming, my hatred grew deep, forming a deep red mass before blossoming over a long period of time. Every day, I looked out at the flower through the window, calming my mind and examining my emotions. At first, the wound was bigger than the flower, then the flower and the wound existed side by side, and then the flower healed the wound. After three months, the petals fell one by one, and my heart gradually emptied itself of emotion, and the wind soothed the spot where the hatred had once flourished.

In the sunlight, the dried trunk of the crape myrtle was shedding its bark like an old scab. The tree’s inner flesh was smooth yet unsettling. It seemed as though I was seeing an ancient face within the tree. The quietly exposed flesh wasn’t a source of shame; it was more like a testament to survival. It reminded me of my grandmother’s forearm when we walked hand in hand long ago. Even as the bark fell away, the tree didn’t shrink; instead, it returned to its original color. Touching its smooth flesh with my fingertips seemed to send a subtle tremble through the tips of its branches. Hence the crape myrtle’s nickname, “tickling tree.”

Sunlight streams down the tree’s trunk, alternately illuminating the bark and the inner flesh. The tree’s rough surface bears the marks of time, but the tender newly-emerging shoots live in a completely different time. Seeing the old trunk and the tender new shoots together is like the past and future flowing together within a single body. The peeling bark testifies to the long winter endured, and the light green leaves herald the coming season. Is this what the statement “Things arise and cease every instant” truly means? Things disappear and others come forth simultaneously, and death and life dwell side by side within a single breath. Even when flowers fall, they are still flowers, and even when bark peels, the crape myrtle tree remains a crape myrtle tree. Flowers know how to fall to the ground, and bark knows when to peel away indifferently. The speed and moment may vary, but every instance of shedding and scattering defines the identity of a crape myrtle tree. The petals, unpicked by anyone, are left to the wind’s fingertips, and both the petals and the bark become the wind itself. This scattering and shedding are “fullness in emptiness,” a state that seems to diminish while remaining undiminished. And the moment eventually comes when the crape myrtle tree finally becomes itself. Perhaps from the very beginning, the petals, the wind, and I have always existed in one place.

A taxi driver once told me that after crape myrtle blossoms have bloomed and fallen three times, you can eat white rice. At the time, I was on my way to Bulgapsa Temple to pay respects. This saying holds a meaning beyond being a simple agricultural proverb. By connecting the flowering cycle of flowers with the harvest cycle of farming, it makes me realize that my life is intertwined with the cycle of nature. It leads me to understand that I am part of nature, and my life, too, is a seasonal cycle that blooms and withers. Ultimately, the cycle of nature is also my cycle, and my life is fulfilled within it. There was a brief downpour that day. Even on the slope of the Bulgapsa Temple parking lot, the crape myrtle blossoms were in full bloom. I didn’t worry that the rain would blow them all away. Admirably, the crape myrtle will continue to bloom and bloom until autumn arrives. Then, without regret, all the blooms will fall. Rice is harvested when it ripens, and the same is true of people. Youth, health, relationships—everything changes. The reason every moment is precious to us is because it inevitably passes.

Red petals were scattered at the foot of the crape myrtle tree in the park in front of my house, as if someone had quietly passed by last night. It was a complete coincidence in every way. The tiny petals gathered at the foot of the crape myrtle tree didn’t resent the space. Even though they bloom in the space and vanish in the space, the space remains space. I suddenly remembered the school of baby fish hatchlings I’d released into the river a few years ago. I decided to forgive myself.