The Tree That Brought Us Closer| Ikebana Stories #13
- Ilse Beunen
- May 19
- 3 min read
In 2016, something rather extraordinary happened: Akane Teshigahara, headmaster of the Sogetsu School, visited Belgium. It was an honour, naturally but more than that, it was a catalyst. Her visit, filled with demonstrations, installations, and an infectious sense of fun—the kind that bubbles up when creativity runs wild. That week became a common memory for the entire Belgian-Dutch Sogetsu community.
There’s one scene forever etched in my memory. Akane and her entourage needed an abundance of materials for a demonstration, so we (and helpful members of the Dutch branch and the Belgian study group) whisked them off to the garden of a particularly generous member who had a dying apple tree.
"You can take the whole tree," the owner said, with the sort of nonchalance one usually reserves for offering a biscuit. The staff nodded, smiling politely, and didn’t budge.
Ben, my husband and veteran of many ikebana escapades, explained again in Japanese. And again. And yet, the apple tree stood untouched, as if cloaked in a polite force field of uncertainty.
They began inspecting the garden, carefully looking for suitable materials. The staff and all the helpers were gathering and moving branches and greenery—respectable choices, certainly, but clearly not the main attraction.
Ben, my husband and veteran of many ikebana escapades, tried once more—perhaps with a touch of disbelief—that they would actually leave such a perfect piece of material behind. He explained again that the owner would be delighted if they took the tree; otherwise, she’d have to get rid of it herself.
"The whole tree?" they gasped. "Really?" Convinced we were perpetrating some botanical prank, they were hesitant to believe their luck. Once it finally became clear that we truly meant it, they began returning the other branches they had gathered—clearly not wanting to overdo it.
And then came another adventure: the apple tree, splendid but far too large to fit in any car trunk, posed a new challenge. We didn’t want to cut it up too much—it felt like butchering a gift—so we called a friend to borrow his trailer.
After sunset, in the soft hush of night, Together with Ann-Riet, branch director of the Netherlands, we returned to the garden to retrieve the tree. And at 2:00 AM in the morning we dropped of the tree at the demonstration venue.
That little escapade—like so many from that week—still makes me smile in hindsight. But it also captures what happens when cultures collide in the best possible way.
Take the blue balloon installation, for instance. Dreamed up by Els, Ingrid, and Will, it involved more blue than a Delftware teapot convention.
The plan? Papier-mâché over balloons, painted with loving care, and dried in warm corners of homes across Belgium and the Netherlands.
Our house became a balloon logistical center. Ben, ever the voice of reason, looked around one evening and asked, not unreasonably, "Darling... is this still ikebana?"
We met ikebanists from abroad. We worked side-by-side with the Sogetsu headquarters staff and absorbed an entirely new rhythm. What started as a formal visit blossomed into something deeper: a sense of community, creativity, and shared joy that crossed languages and borders.
It’s moments like these that remind me: ikebana is a global conversation. We speak through branches, blossoms, and every now and then, an entire apple tree at midnight.
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