[E-Magazine]: The Spring Spirit of Northern Vietnam

People remember spring not for its vibrant flowers, but for its scent. A scent that's hard to name. Perhaps that's why anyone far from the North misses spring. They miss the cold that isn't chilly enough to make them shiver, the rain that isn't heavy enough to soak them, the fragrance that isn't strong enough to intoxicate them...

Spring in the North doesn't arrive as suddenly as the downpours of the South. It begins on misty mornings. The weather isn't quite cold, but it can't be called warm either. The lingering chill of late winter, mixed with the dampness of the drizzle, leaves a constant, pleasant sensation on one's skin. The village road isn't completely dry; the soft earth vaguely reflects the footprints of women going to the market early. The air carries the earthy scent of wet straw, the smell of kitchen smoke, and the scent of the earth awakening after a long winter.

People remember spring not for its vibrant colors but for its scent. A scent that's hard to name: a hint of the wind's pungency, a touch of the sweetness of early-season pomelo blossoms, a hint of the strong aroma of incense smoke during Tet (Vietnamese New Year), and somewhere in the distance, the lingering warmth of sticky rice cakes in a small kitchen. All these elements blend together into a very subtle fragrance, so subtle that it disappears the moment you turn away.

I remember those late afternoons at the end of the year, when the north wind had grown weary, barely strong enough to sway the peach blossoms in front of the gate. The blossoms weren't a vibrant red, but a pale pink, delicate and trembling as if afraid of the wind. Each time a gust passed, the petals fell slowly, gently, without haste, as if afraid of disturbing the sleepy insects.

Every household begins preparing for Tet (Lunar New Year). The atmosphere isn't noisy, but it's bustling and full of anticipation. Outside, the rhythmic pounding of pestles for making pork sausage fills the air. In the kitchen, the pot of sticky rice cakes simmers all night, the fire illuminating the faces of those keeping watch, their eyes stinging from the smoke, their hearts warm with the approaching Tet. The scent of banana leaves, sticky rice, and mung beans, mingled with the smell of wood smoke, creates a unique aroma found only in the North, only brought by spring.

Spring in Northern Vietnam still resides in simple yet refined Tet feasts. A bowl of dried bamboo shoot soup with pork trotters, its clear, sweet broth evoking images of distant mountains and forests. A plate of sliced ​​pork sausage, pristine white and fragrant with the scent of fresh meat. Pickled shallots, spicy and pungent, served with rich sticky rice cakes, dispelling the lingering chill in the throat. These dishes are not just for satisfying hunger, but for remembrance. Not just for the present, but for all the springs that have passed.

People often celebrate Tet (Lunar New Year) slowly. Slowly in cooking and decorating, slowly in visiting relatives, and slowly in joy. On the first day, they visit relatives on their father's side, on the second day on their mother's side, and on the third day, they visit their teachers. Each step is a reminder to live righteously, to fulfill their duties, and to maintain a pure heart. New Year's greetings don't need to be flowery, just sincere: "May you have good health in the new year," "May your family be peaceful." Spring is thus warm, fragrant, and full of togetherness.

After Tet (Lunar New Year), spring truly reveals itself. A light drizzle falls everywhere, as light as dust, drifting gently through the air. The sky is always hazy with mist, the trees are tender, and the young leaves sprout a vibrant green. Pomelo blossoms bloom white in the courtyard, their fragrance gentle, not overpowering, just enough to evoke a sudden memory of something very old. Perhaps a person gone, a lost spring, or simply a childhood that will never return.

On spring mornings, sitting by the window, watching the rain fall on the tiled roof, listening to the sparrows chirping outside, one's heart naturally sinks. Not sad, but not entirely joyful either. That's spring: always carrying a very light sadness, like the morning dew on one's shoulders. That sadness doesn't hurt, but makes one live slower, think more, care more, and want to open their heart to share. Perhaps that's why those far from the North miss spring. They miss the cold that isn't enough to make them shiver, the rain that isn't heavy enough to soak them, the fragrance that isn't strong enough to intoxicate. They miss all those "incomplete" things, but it is precisely these things that give spring its soul, its essence, and its scent.

Spring has passed, the drizzle has stopped, the weather has gradually warmed, and the kapok flowers are once again a fiery red at the edge of the village, heralding a new season. But the spirit of spring remains. It lies somewhere in our memories; a damp morning, a gentle breeze, or a sudden scent of kitchen smoke is all it takes to bring it back, making the hearts of those far from home sink and the eyes of those left behind suddenly well up with tears. Who wouldn't miss and cherish a season full of hopes and excitement? Who wouldn't feel a sense of wistfulness and longing when the first signs of spring arrive?

Spring in Northern Vietnam doesn't captivate with its colors, but with its fragrance; it doesn't hold on with joy, but with memories. And perhaps, as long as we still remember, that spring will never truly leave. It lingers in the deepest corner of our hearts, waiting for the day it sprouts, blossoms, and ignites love!

Content: One Fragrance

Photo: Internet source

Graphics: Mai Huyen

Source: https://baothanhhoa.vn/e-magazine-hon-xuan-dat-bac-277785.htm