Masaki -N- Kansai

AI Helps Translators Write Their Own Obituaries

Many large Japanese companies with translation departments, including mine, have been evaluating machine translation and AI assistants to improve quality, increase speed, and reduce labor costs—particularly those associated with employing people like me. So, with my head potentially on the chopping block, you might expect me to explain why in‑house translators, especially native English-speaking translators, are essential to a company’s success.

But I can’t. My AI assistant won’t let me. Instead, I am here to write my own obituary on behalf of myself and other native English-speaking translators.

Since maritime traders began using English as their common language, international trade has endured and even prospered under business correspondence that was as cryptic as a crafty pirate’s treasure map. It will certainly survive a few AI indiscretions, with or without a native English translator there to save the day.

What English translators have done by translating understated Japanese into clearly stated English and spending hours tightening prose, untangling modifiers, and hunting down wandering antecedents is to add another layer of trust for a colleague, product, service, or company. Gone are the days when consumers in English-speaking countries threw their operation manuals down in disgust.

Nevertheless, the exodus of teary-eyed translators walking out the company’s door with a cardboard box, flowers, and a farewell card signed by their colleagues seems inevitable.

“Sayōnara, Mr. Native English Translator!” the in-house Japanese translators will say while secretly gleeful that their nemesis with the red pen is leaving, unaware that they too may just be whistling past the graveyard.

That said, before you begin stacking logs onto my funeral pyre and publishing my obituary, I have some caveats.

The Caveats

It’s certainly true that machine translation and AI assistants provide access to an extraordinary amount of knowledge about English composition and grammar through a browser window, allowing anyone with a keyboard and an internet connection to write like a budding Ernest Hemingway.

The process is lightning fast, and when applied appropriately, these translation tools help Japanese translators instantly correct awkward expressions, confusing prepositions, and pesky articles. Likewise, English translators, who had once spent years wrestling with the complexities of kanji and the nuances of Japanese, now have the ability to paste a document into an AI assistant and receive a translation that is often remarkably good.

But using digital tools to improve translation is nothing new. Translators have been quietly using their predecessors, a.k.a. software translation applications and online translation sites, for years while feigning ignorance of their existence.

Having begun translating professionally in an era when English translators had to prove their fitness with a translation test, a couple of sheets of paper, a Japanese-English dictionary, two sharpened HB pencils, and an eraser, I am of two minds. One, it’s not fair, damn it!! Two, these tools give all translators the opportunity to better serve their customers.

The Risks of AI-Assisted Translation

When we consider entrusting our lives and livelihoods to AI, we have to consider its risks and reliability. Ninety-five percent reliability might seem acceptable until you are talking about driverless cars and fatalities. Then you might start thinking that the crazy driver in the next lane is actually Mario Andretti.

Working with AI-generated prose requires translators to learn a different set of pitfalls from those associated with traditional machine translation. While machine translation often risks saying too little, AI assistants increasingly risk saying too much. What makes AI-assisted errors particularly troublesome is that they are often veiled in fluent, compelling English:

Presenting inferences as established facts
Prioritizing fluency over fidelity
Overlooking or misinterpreting specialized terminology
Adding specificity not present in the source text
Normalizing writing to a common style
Softening assertions it perceives as controversial
Projecting the image of the ultimate authority

Often readers will forgive the occasional grammatical error or misspelling, but when the subject becomes confused with the object and facts are replaced with suppositions, they start to distrust what they are reading. Consequently, that layer of trust surrounding a colleague, product, service, or company and earned over decades can instantly erode.

Like autonomous driving, AI-assisted translation works remarkably well right up until it makes a wrong turn into a lake, turning autonomous into amphibious. That’s why a competent driver needs to be at the wheel, ready to take over when necessary.

A New Skill Set for Translators

One lesson from the rapid adoption of AI is that translators now need training not only in language but also in how to use these tools effectively. Knowing when to trust a translation, when to challenge it, and when to verify terminology has become as important as producing the translation itself.

For that reason, I believe both Japanese and English translators should continue translating documents themselves, even if only as a first draft. AI can then serve as a valuable second opinion, offering alternative interpretations, suggesting improvements, and identifying possible errors. This means keeping the translator in the driver’s seat, responsible for the final decisions, and the AI assistant as his trusted navigator.

Once the translator is confident that the meaning has been accurately captured, AI can perform one of the tasks at which it excels: proofreading. At that stage, suggestions regarding style, clarity, grammar, punctuation, and readability can be evaluated without risking the loss of meaning during the original translation process.

In other words, the translator determined the destination while the digital tools help determine the best route to get there.

A Case Study: The Anniversary Book

Last year, I was asked to proofread the English translation of our parent company’s anniversary book which included interviews with 96 employees across the group. The interviews were conducted by three members of HR who relied heavily on machine translation and, at times, AI-assisted translation and editing.

At first glance, the translation appeared professionally done, and I expected the assignment to be straightforward. However, once I began reading for meaning rather than grammar and punctuation, I noticed a pattern of excessive intensifiers and unnecessarily flowery language that transformed genuine accounts of overcoming challenges and personal growth into something resembling a Marvel Avengers origin story. The over-the-top description became a distraction, causing me to lose trust in the content.

Needless to say, the interviews were painful to read. There was also a hotchpotch of rookie mistakes, including changing groupwide to groupwise in a title. More troubling than the occasional awkward sentence or sudden shifts in point of view was the paraphrasing and omission of key corporate terms and phrases used consistently throughout the company. The result was English that often sounded more glamorous and grandiose than the original Japanese while bearing only a passing resemblance to the values and lessons the employees were trying to convey.

In the past, I would have been involved in either the translation or editing process. This time, buoyed by the hype surrounding AI and their own experience using it to produce polished emails and reports, the employees never questioned what was being presented to them. What was needed was the judgment of experienced translators accustomed to questioning both themselves and their colleagues.

That’s not vanity. That’s experience.

Authority vs. Correctness

Machine translation users must ensure that proper terminology is used and that key corporate terms, phrases, and concepts are not omitted. AI assistants require a different kind of vigilance. Someone must still be willing to challenge the machine when it confidently asserts, “This is the more natural expression,” “Native speakers would normally say …,” or “This wording is correct because …”

What I have noticed is that the translator may not always possess the linguistic confidence to challenge those assertions. In this case, the AI’s conjecture often becomes fact; its preference becomes a rule, and its style becomes the standard.

As a native English-speaking translator, I can evaluate an AI’s suggestions and push back when I disagree. Many Japanese translators do not enjoy that luxury. Faced with a confident explanation of why one expression is preferable to another, they may understandably treat the AI as an authority. And if they don’t, they risk that their clients might.

The problem is that authority and correctness are not always the same thing, and when repeated often enough, an AI’s conjectures can harden into accepted facts.

What AI Still Can’t Do

What the anniversary book taught me was that the problem was not the English. Much of it was grammatically correct and stylistically polished. The problem was that the translation lacked the institutional knowledge possessed by people working within the company. AI could generate attractive prose, but it did not know which terms carried significance, which expressions reflected corporate values, or which wording had been intentionally standardized over time. Those are things learned through experience, conversation, and physical presence within an organization.

A translator sitting inside a company does more than translate documents. He attends meetings, asks questions, observes how people communicate, learns the history behind recurring terminology, and develops an understanding of the company’s culture and priorities. Those insights rarely appear in source documents, yet they often determine whether a translation is authentic or merely sounds authentic.

The technology available today is phenomenal, but it is most valuable when used as a point of comparison against a translator’s own work and as a resource for checking facts, terminology, and expressions. There is a reason virtually every AI provider includes a disclaimer reminding users that mistakes can occur.

Reports of Death Greatly Exaggerated

In retrospect, it seems that the timing of my obituary may have been greatly exaggerated. In-house translators, including English translators, bring something that machines cannot: physical presence within the company, an understanding of its history and culture, professional judgment, and intuition developed through experience. Those qualities ultimately reduce both translation costs and legal risk.

AI may not be helping translators write their obituaries after all, but simply revealing that a translator’s greatest responsibility is, and has always been, not to translate words, but to preserve meaning.

Nantoka Naru: Somehow, Everything Will Work Out

Of all the careers I ever imagined pursuing when I was young, translation never made the list. Nor did I ever consider studying a foreign language, much less Japanese, after ninth-grade French made me realize that I would never be ordering food in a French restaurant like James Bond. It would always be much more like Maxwell Smart.

And yet here I am now, an ordinary American living in Japan with nearly 30 years’ experience as a translator.

The plan upon leaving Honolulu and my first job after university had been remarkably simple: go to Japan, learn Japanese, return to America, and work for a Japanese company as a Japanese-speaking American liaison.

The only major problem to overcome was the fact that I spoke virtually no Japanese aside from the one phrase “Yubin kyoku ga doko ni arimasu ka” or “Where is the post office?” Unless I had a letter to mail, opportunities to use it were extremely rare, and people today would just show me the Google Maps app instead.

Nevertheless, I arrived at Osaka’s Itami Airport in the evening from Honolulu, with An Introduction to Modern Japanese, a one-year open-return ticket, a large mountain backpack, and $300 in my pocket. I had no hotel reservation, no job, and no particular reason to believe that a plan rooted in such extreme optimism would end in anything other than utter catastrophic failure — a testament to my happy-go-lucky, nantoka naru approach: somehow, everything will work out.

And yet, with a helping hand here, a lucky break there, and lots of instant ramen noodles in between, the plan did work out, sort of — except that decades later, rather than working as the American liaison for some important Japanese executive in the United States, I’m still in Japan, unheralded and underappreciated, diligently slaving away at translating the documents for some other American liaison to hand to that Japanese executive.

So, how did I wind up becoming a translator in Japan? Good question. Certainly not how you may think.

In retrospect, my training, if you could call it that, probably began years earlier with a second-hand car purchased at a police auction for $200.

That automobile was a blue 1970 Opel GT, a two-door sports coupe styled like a baby Corvette. German-engineered with the temperament of an Italian car, the car muffler would, without warning, disengage from the rest of the car. Just as unpredictable was a fickle battery that capriciously shunned its responsibility to start the engine, leading to an embarrassing situation in which a petite traveling companion would have to supply the needed forward inertia while I popped the clutch for a push start.

As any Opel GT owner will tell you, if cars could suffer from bipolar disorder, this car would have all the symptoms.

This is why I spent many days during high school lying on my back looking up underneath the car, with a wrench in one hand and a car repair manual spread open to the latest problem. More paramedic than mechanic, when an emergency arose and I was stumped, I would consult Sandy, who worked the counter at my nearby NAPA Genuine Parts store. A redheaded automotive guru and single mother in her late thirties, Sandy was uncanny in her ability to instantly visualize the problem, disappear into the back, return with the replacement part within seconds, and explain exactly how to install it.

“But my world of thermodynamics and wiring diagrams would soon become short-circuited.”

Which was good for me because my blue baby had a voracious appetite for oil and replacement parts. To feed that appetite, I worked various part-time jobs in construction after school and in the summer, where I learned the basics of carpentry, electrical wiring, HVAC, and plumbing. Combined with above-average scores in mathematics and science on my college entrance tests, these practical skills led me to believe that I was destined to be an engineer.

But my world of thermodynamics and wiring diagrams would soon become short-circuited.

After declaring a major in engineering, I spent my first year in university in the School of Engineering attending core classes. Then came my sophomore year, when I took a required World Literature course at 7:30 a.m. on Tuesdays and Thursdays (for God knows why).

That’s when a literature professor changed my life by changing how I read books. He taught the class that the words and images a writer chooses are not simply ornamental. They reveal the writer’s individual perception of life, much as the colors, subjects, and composition chosen by a painter reveal the way the painter sees the world. Why does a writer choose one word rather than another? Why does one image remain in the mind while another disappears? How can a small change in language alter the feeling of an entire passage?

Until then, reading had largely been about acquiring knowledge and information. Now I became interested in how a writer created the world I was reading. Writing, I began to understand, is often a search for that one word or phrase that most eloquently captures the image and sentiment an author wishes to convey.

That concept has stayed with me.

From that literature class, my interests began to stray from engineering. I studied drawing and music history and became involved in drama — even landing a part in a university play. I took part in small creative-writing workshops taught by established contemporary authors, including James Leo Herlihy and Ken Kesey. Suddenly, engineering no longer seemed my destined path and I changed majors to English literature.

None of this was part of what I initially conceived: I was simply following what interested me. Looking back, however, I can see that my interests were teaching me different ways of seeing and communicating. Drawing taught me to look. Music taught me to listen. Drama taught me to understand words not only as text, but as something spoken by another person with an intention, a character, and an emotion aligned with a theme. Creative writing taught me to search for my own words. Literature taught me to pay attention to someone else’s.

Years later, when I began translating Japanese into English, I found myself trying to do something analogous to what my literature professor had taught us to recognize, and it made me realize that a translator is not simply looking for the English equivalent of a Japanese word. The real challenge was to find the corresponding word or phrase that creates the same image, conveys the same intention, and leaves the reader with the same essential impression as the original Japanese.

Whether it came from books or practical experience, I never clearly knew the path I was following, but I let my curiosity guide me, and I trusted my instincts to tell me when it was time to deviate from the path I was currently following.

After university, I took an entry-level position at an S&L in Honolulu. Life in the land of paradise has its own rewards, but rarely were they monetary. My salary was just high enough to eke out a living, but the high cost of living on Oahu prevented any possibility of saving money, and the uncertainty of promotion combined with the looming S&L crisis eliminated any chance for advancement in the near future.

It was at that time that I started hearing the siren song of Japan: “Come make money teaching English and see Asia. You can learn Japanese from your students.”

This was the era of Japan as Number One. Japanese companies and products appeared unstoppable, and Japanese billionaires and mega-corporations were aggressively acquiring hotels, private golf courses, commercial properties, and luxury residential homes. Meanwhile, Japanese tourists outspent tourists from the mainland nearly 2 to 1. As the U.S. slid toward a recession, Japan seemed to represent the future.

So I went to Osaka.

As fate would have it, I quickly got a job teaching English, and after saving tuition money I began studying in a Japanese intensive course for six months at a Japanese school in Kyoto. From there, I worked even harder to study the language in earnest.

I read a Japanese newspaper article every day, looking up unfamiliar kanji in a dictionary by counting the number of strokes. With a nagging brother telling me I had to learn Excel for my future, I built a barebones computer and installed DOS/V so that I could write Japanese. My desire to create multimedia content — and install audio and video boards — often displeased the Windows 3.1 deities of IRQ lines and DMA channels. When something went wrong, I read technical manuals and called tech support in Tokyo.

Years later, I would realize that those technical manuals had been teaching me another language: the language of technology.

Then Japan’s bubble economy collapsed, and I found myself in an entirely different role. I became a labor representative at the English conversation school where I worked. Suddenly, I was reading Japanese labor law, leading labor demonstrations, appearing on television, and negotiating with my school’s management.

Newspapers, computer manuals, labor law: none of these looked like translation experience at the time. But they were. Each one was teaching me how to take unfamiliar information, understand its meaning and context, and accurately communicate its nuances.

Eventually, I saw an advertisement in The Japan Times for freelance technical translators at a Kyoto translation company. I had never worked professionally as a translator. Still, my résumé contained journalism experience and work proofreading medical papers for physicians at Osaka City University Hospital and Kyoto University Hospital. That was apparently enough to get my foot in the door for an interview.

The translation test was an astoundingly low-tech affair but typical of that time. I was taken into a room alone and handed a Japanese manuscript, a Japanese-English dictionary, two sharpened pencils, and an eraser. Thirty minutes. That was it. For someone accustomed to today’s translation technology, it sounds almost prehistoric.

The company specialized in technical translations for manufacturers throughout Kansai. Much of the work involved semiconductors, but the company also handled consumer electronics, industrial machinery, and operation manuals. I had no idea what would appear on the test, but I knew that I had to prepare in some way. I chose the “Getting Started” section of a software manual in my bookcase and translated it. When I saw the translation passage at the interview, I discovered the passage to be extremely similar to the one I had practiced.

I received a high score and soon began my first professional translation assignments.

But getting translation work and becoming a good translator are two different things. My Japanese was still developing. Because I had never formally studied Japanese at a university, I spent many late nights identifying unfamiliar kanji characters by counting strokes and searching dictionaries. It was a slow, painstaking process, and it was necessary.

But Japanese ability alone wasn’t what ultimately gave me an advantage. My real advantage came from everything I had done before becoming a translator. I understood technical material because I had spent years repairing cars and studying engineering. I understood manuals because I had read them to build computers. And I understood language because I had spent years thinking about why writers choose the words they do.

Many translators had stronger Japanese skills than I did, but I could often determine what a document was actually trying to communicate and then search for the right English word or phrase that would communicate it naturally to engineers, technicians, and ordinary users.

That became my competitive advantage.

Freelancing taught me another lesson. A freelance translator who relies on only one client eventually becomes a freelance translator without work, so I joined several agencies and translated everything from semiconductor documentation to company brochures. Each field had its own terminology, rules, and audience.

Then the semiconductor industry began moving offshore, and the translation work in Kyoto gradually dried up.

Once again, I needed a plan.

I began looking for an in-house translation position. Just as I was preparing to return to a steady diet of instant ramen noodles, I saw an advertisement for an in-house translator at a midsized company in Kyoto.

I applied, completed the interview, took the translation test, and later I was hired. Lady Luck had smiled upon me again.

Several months later, I asked my department manager why he had selected me.

“You live closer to the company,” he said. “I figured it would be easier for you to get to work on time.”

That answer serves as the perfect counterargument to people who meticulously plan out their lives. Sometimes you just have to have courage and take a leap of faith, knowing that somehow things will work out. Nantoka naru. A phrase I never knew until I came to Japan, but one that expresses a philosophy I’ve been living all my life.

Where the Obon Homecoming Begins

In the dog days of August, as the cicadas pass the baton to dragonflies darting above rice fields, families throughout Kansai prepare their homes to welcome special guests: their departed ancestors. From August 14 to 16, people in the Kansai region celebrate the Buddhist practice of Obon, a three‑day homecoming in which those inhabiting the spiritual world return—metaphorically speaking—to the world of the living.

Obon is one of Western Japan’s most cherished observances. So much so that many companies close their offices to allow employees time to travel back to their hometowns for reunions that span not only generations, but also the physical and spiritual worlds.

Ceremonial lanterns are lit, and offerings are placed before the family butsudan (Buddhist altar). Outside, Japanese folk music carries across the neighborhood from makeshift festival towers built for bon odori. Singers and musicians standing atop the tower beckon residents of every generation—from small children to their grandparents—to slip into a yukata or jinbei and join the circle of dancers moving around the raised stage.

To a Western observer, Obon may seem a bit ghoulish, if not a little morbid, but holidays honoring ancestors returning from the netherworld are common throughout Asia, where ancestral worship often predates organized religion. Newly introduced faiths such as Buddhism, seeking acceptance in these cultures, adapted their teachings to align with longstanding traditions.

To understand the significance behind this ethereal exodus from the underworld, it’s important to understand the role that Buddhist rituals and cosmology play in helping Japanese cope with the loss of a loved one.

Preparing the Path Home

In Japan, nearly ninety percent of funerals are carried out within the Buddhist tradition. Shinto’s discomfort with death and Christianity’s preference for ground burials left Buddhist temples to guide families through loss for more than a millennium. From the wake and funeral to cremation, the conferring of a posthumous Buddhist name, and the memorial services that follow, Buddhist burial rites carefully orchestrate a large swell of grief into something that unfolds gradually over weeks, months, and years.

Upon their passing, the deceased rests in a quiet room prepared for the wake—whether in the family home, a temple hall, or a funeral facility. Dressed in white and surrounded by flowers, the body lies in a simple casket as friends, neighbors, and coworkers stop by to pay their respects. They offer incense, speak softly with the family, and linger for a few moments before continuing on their way, while relatives take turns keeping vigil beside the body through the night.

Mourners signing the registry and offering condolence money at a funeral reception. — At the funeral reception, guests sign their names in the registry and present condolence money before entering the ceremony.

On the day following the wake, mourners arrive in black suits and formal kimono, giving their names and condolence money at the reception desk—whether beneath a tent outside a home or in the lobby of a funeral hall. One by one, they enter the ceremonial space. They bow before the flower‑lined casket, then to the family seated nearby, before offering a pinch of incense and a whispered prayer.

As people wait in a single-file line to bow and offer incense, you might see someone—maybe an elderly neighbor—pause at the altar longer than most. For a moment, she remains motionless, as though sharing a final, unspoken thought with the deceased before bowing once more and stepping aside for the next mourner. No one thinks it strange: we all say goodbye in our own way.

Once the funeral has ended and a member of the family expresses gratitude to those who attended, a hearse arrives to carry the departed to the crematorium. Hours later, the family gathers around the cremated remains laid out on a metal tray. Using long chopsticks, they carefully select several bones, passing them from one family member to the next before placing them in an urn. The room is quiet except for the gentle instructions of the attendant.

For the next forty-nine days, the family observes a series of memorial services and a mourning period as the deceased is believed to make the passage to the next realm. While Buddhist tradition focuses upon the soul’s transition, the rites serve an equally important purpose for those left dealing with their grief.

A Buddhist priest leading memorial prayers at a family’s home during the 49‑day mourning period. — A Buddhist priest visits a family’s home to conduct memorial prayers held during the forty‑nine days following the funeral.

After forty-nine days, the formal ceremonies begin to recede, but the deceased remains present within the household. Many Japanese families maintain a butsudan, where incense is offered and prayers are quietly recited before memorial tablets bearing the names of departed relatives.

Fresh flowers appear beside bowls of seasonal fruit. A daughter pauses at her father’s photograph before leaving for work. A student shares the results of an entrance examination with his grandfather. The responses are felt rather than heard.

Over time, the relationship undergoes a subtle transformation. The father who once occupied his place at the dinner table, the grandmother whose voice once filled the house, or the child whose toys once scattered the living room are no longer physically present. Yet their spirit remains part of family life through memory, ritual, and reflection—remembrance not marked by a day on the calendar, but rather through a daily observance woven into the ordinary rhythms of everyday living.

Calling the Spirits Home

A night photograph of a stone Buddhist altar flanked by two large, glowing white paper lanterns with Japanese calligraphy inside the gravel courtyard of Rokudo Chinnoji Temple in Kyoto. — Illumined lanterns mark the historic Rokudō no Tsuji (Crossroads of the Six Realms) altar at Rokudō Chin’nō‑ji Temple, famously known as the legendary Heian-period entrance to the underworld.

Several days before Obon officially begins, many Kansai families make their way to Rokudō Chin’nō‑ji Temple. As dusk settles over Kyoto, lanterns cast a soft glow across the temple grounds, and the air carries the heavy scent of incense. Calling one’s ancestors back home here follows a precise yet profoundly simple ritual. It begins along the temple approach, where families purchase a Koyama‑maki—a sacred pine branch believed to serve as the physical vessel for returning spirits.

A night photo showing a crowd of people waiting in front of long tables covered by a purple banner where Buddhist monks are writing on wooden tablets under lit paper lanterns. — Under a row of glowing lanterns, families wait patiently in line outside the Main Hall as temple priests brush ancestral names onto wooden Mizu-toba tablets.

Next, they wait patiently in line for a priest to brush the loved one’s Kaimyō, or posthumous Buddhist name, onto a slender wooden Mizu‑toba tablet. Gently holding both sacred pine and tablet, the family steps before the hidden Mukae-gane, the Welcoming Bell. As they pull the thick rope extending through the wall of its small wooden bell housing, the bell—resting safely out of sight above an ancient opening to the underworld—sends a deep, resonant toll into the earth, inviting the spirits home.

Mizuko Jizō altar at Rokudō Chin’nō‑ji, where families offer prayers for children who passed before birth or shortly after. — Red lanterns illuminate the *Mizuko Jizō* altar at Rokudō Chin’nō‑ji Temple, where families pray and leave offerings for children lost before birth or shortly after.

From the bell housing, they walk quietly toward the Sai no Kawara Jizō altar to complete the rite. At this symbolic riverbed boundary of the underworld, the atmosphere deepens into something both solemn and tender. Some have come to welcome a parent. Others a spouse, a sibling, a grandparent, and others still a young child. A few may be observing Hatsubon, the first Obon following a recent death. Within their prayers, they carry their own private memories, regrets, gratitude, and longing. No eulogies are spoken, and no overt displays of emotion disturb the stillness of the temple grounds.

Visitors finishing the washing of a memorial tablet at the Jizō purification basin at Rokudō Chin’nō‑ji. — A couple stands beneath glowing lanterns to splash water over their inscribed tablet, completing the sacred *Mizu-eko* ritual to welcome their ancestors home.

To foreign travelers visiting at night, the scene can feel like a living ghost story—eerie, yet deeply moving. Under the flicker of lanterns against the darkness, an elderly woman is steadied by her daughter as she pulls the heavy rope emerging from the wooden walls. Nearby, at the water basin, a mother guides her children’s small hands to dip the Koyama‑maki pine branch into the water, gently splashing it over the inscribed tablet to complete the final Mizu‑eko blessing. The deep reverberations of the concealed bell linger in the humid summer air, turning the sultry night into an unforgettable threshold between two worlds—one seen, one felt

For a true Japanese ghost story involving Kyoto’s Rokudō Chin’nō-ji Temple, see The Ghost Mother of Rokudō: A Kyoto Ghost Story.

Welcoming Guests from Beyond

Back at home, the family prepares the butsudan for the official welcome. Fresh flowers are arranged, incense is lit, favorite foods are offered, and ceremonial lanterns are placed where they can guide the spirits safely home. You might even see Nana’s favorite type of peaches on a small lacquer dish—simple gestures of omotenashi, the quiet hospitality Japanese families extend to honored guests who have traveled from afar to visit their homes.

Masaki’s home altar prepared to welcome ancestral spirits during Obon. — At home, Masaki prepares a small altar to welcome his ancestors back during Obon, arranging offerings and light to guide them safely.

Throughout the visit, the household altar becomes the focal point of remembrance, where generations separated by death are symbolically reunited beneath the same roof. Someone might tell one of Grandpa’s favorite fishing stories for what must be the hundredth time, and nobody complains. The children listen as if it were a beloved bedtime story.

In this way, memory becomes an inheritance, lovingly passed down from one generation to the next.

As evening falls, communities gather for bon odori. Beneath strings of lanterns, dancers circle a raised platform at the center of the grounds. Some move with the grace acquired with years of practice while the children fumble with the steps, laughing with joy at their own mistakes. Above them, the lanterns sway gently in the summer night.

Seeing Them Off Again

In the evening of August 16, the mood gently changes. Across Kyoto, enormous bonfires ignite on the surrounding mountains. The blazing characters of Gozan no Okuribi, better known as Daimonji, are more than dramatic spectacles. The bonfires signify farewell, illuminating the spirits’ journey back to the spiritual world after their brief respite.

The “Dai” bonfire of Gozan no Okuribi glowing on a Kyoto mountainside during the Obon send‑off. — One of Kyoto’s five *Gozan no Okuribi* fires, the “Dai” character burns brightly on the mountainside to guide ancestral spirits back at the end of Obon.

Along riverbanks and hillsides, conversations fade as the first flames appear against the darkness. Cameras are raised to capture the moment. Thousands of eyes turn toward the mountains.

Along the Ōi River in Arashiyama, floating lanterns drift quietly downstream. Their light flickers upon the water before gradually disappearing into the darkness, accompanying the ancestors on their voyage home until the following summer.

The farewell is poignant but not final. In Japan, it is customary to remain outside and watch a departing guest until they are no longer in sight. That same spirit of omotenashi shapes this moment: viewers wait until the last ember fades on the mountainside or the final lantern boat vanishes into the night, offering the ancestors the same courtesy and care they would extend to any honored guest leaving their home.

What Remains With Us

Floating paper lanterns glowing on the water at Arashiyama during an Obon remembrance event. — Lanterns float downstream at Arashiyama, gently guiding ancestral spirits back to the world beyond as Obon comes to an end.

The influence of these traditions extends far beyond the days in which they are observed. Bon odori transforms neighborhoods into places of reunion and celebration, and the rituals surrounding death become rituals of continuity, strengthening not only family ties but also the communities that have long sustained them.

That continuity is seen in a neighbor offering incense at a wake; a family selecting bones at the crematorium; a student sharing the results of an entrance examination with a photo of his grandfather; crowds waiting patiently to ring the welcoming bell at Rokudō Chin’nō‑ji; and the Gozan no Okuribi bonfires lighting the path for the spirits to follow on their return trip home.

In Japan, profound emotions are more often conveyed through ritual and fellowship than through words. Gratitude, sorrow, regret, and remembrance find expression in the lighting of incense, the gathering of families, and the social rituals involved in welcoming and saying goodbye to departed loved ones.

Every August, lanterns glow beneath the summer sky and Kyoto’s mountains blaze with farewell bonfires. Families gather, stories are retold, and ancestors return to the homes they never truly left.

Kampai to the Gods: Why Osaka’s Biggest Festival Feels Like a Block Party

Together, Tenjin Matsuri and Kyoto’s Gion Matsuri are two of Japan’s three great festivals. While both trace their origins to ancient rites meant to appease vengeful spirits, the manner in which they honor their respective deities is as different as the flavor of the dashi they use to season their food.

For those interested in Gion Matsuri, see my article entitled Gion Matsuri: Bridging Tradition and Modernity.

For example, at Kyoto’s Gion Matsuri, you get the impression that a deity, known as kami in Japanese, might roll its eyes derisively upon seeing beer and snacks being served to guests in premium seating during the Yamaboko procession, while at Tenjin Matsuri, you suspect the kami would give a nod of approval and a loud yell of “Kampai!”

Vendor grilling chicken gyoza at a festival stall during Tenjin Matsuri, with two visitors in yukata watching — A young couple in yukata pauses at a chicken *gyoza* stall for a quick, delicious snack during Tenjin Matsuri.

The difference stems from both geography and history. Kyoto is located inland, surrounded by mountains, and was home to the Imperial Court for over a millennium. During that time, the city strictly adhered to codes defining ceremony, etiquette, and social status. Downstream lay Osaka, a commercial port city welcoming anyone who had something to trade. Much of the cargo traded in Osaka’s markets—rice, seafood, sake, textiles—wound up on boats heading up the Yodo River (now called the Ōkawa River) to Kyoto.

In this way, the river became both a bridge and a dividing line between the country’s political capital and its economic engine.

“…the manner in which they worship their respective deities is as different as the flavor of dashi they use to season their food.”

Today, Tenjin Matsuri carries on the dynamic spirit of that bustling port city where merchants, traders, and working-class families have lived and conducted business beside their tutelary shrine for more than a thousand years.

Festival visitors gather beneath a decorated shrine gate during Tenjin Matsuri, with lanterns, a large chinowa ring, and priests visible inside the illuminated shrine. — As dusk fades into night, people gather at the shrine gate to catch a glimpse of the lively ceremonies going on inside.

For the people of Osaka’s Tenma district, Tenjin Matsuri is only one aspect of Osaka Tenmangū’s role in the local community. It is a neighbor, a guardian, and a familiar presence in everyday life. That relationship becomes even more apparent the moment you step beyond the shrine grounds.

Performers in traditional festival attire dance with colorful umbrellas during Tenjin Matsuri as spectators line the street at night. — Under the glow of a streetlight, dancers move toward the shrine with umbrellas in hand, carrying the rhythm and joy of Tenjin Matsuri into the night.

A Shrine Woven into the Neighborhood

Only a short walk away lies Tenjinbashisuji Shopping Street, the longest covered shopping arcade in Japan. Each morning, shopkeepers stop by the shrine before opening their stores. Students pause to pray before examinations. Office workers pass through the grounds on their way to the station. Families return for New Year’s prayers, christenings, weddings, and Shichi-Go-San celebrations.

Far from being separated from the neighborhood, Osaka Tenmangū is woven into it.

Crowds walk through Tenjinbashi Shopping Arcade, one of Japan’s longest shopping streets, on the approach to Osaka Tenmangu during Tenjin Matsuri. — Tenjinbashisuji Shopping Street becomes a lively pilgrimage during Tenjin Matsuri, guiding visitors toward Osaka Tenmangū Shrine.

Founded in 949, the shrine honors Sugawara no Michizane, a brilliant Heian-period scholar who was deified as Tenjin, the kami of learning. After falling victim to court intrigue, Michizane stopped at a small shrine on this exact spot on his way to exile in Kyushu, where he died two years later in poverty and despair. Soon after, disasters struck the imperial court—lightning blasted the palace, powerful rivals died unexpectedly, and plagues swept the capital.

Realizing they had angered a powerful spirit, the terrified court restored his honors to appease his spirit. It is one of the wildest transformations in Japanese history: a vengeful ghost gradually became the benevolent patron saint of students, merchants, and the neighborhood that grew up around him over the course of a thousand years.

For the people of Osaka, that affection has endured through both prosperity and devastation.

Front of Osaka Tenmangu Shrine with its wooden façade, lanterns, shimenawa, and sake barrels, showing the enduring craftsmanship of the historic structure. — Osaka Tenmangu’s wooden front, lined with lanterns and sake barrels, reflects the shrine’s long history and the community that has protected it.

During the air raids of 1945, parishioners fought to protect Osaka Tenmangū even as their own homes burned around them. A sign on the shrine grounds recalls how local residents struggled to save Tenjin-san from the flames. The shrine survived because the people of Tenma refused to abandon it.

Costumed performer representing Tenjin, the deity once associated with thunder and later revered as the kami of learning, riding a white horse during Tenjin Matsuri. — Riding a white horse in his traditional guise, Tenjin embodies the festival’s deep history—from his origins as a thunder kami to his enduring role as the patron of scholarship.

When the Deity Hits the Streets (and the River)

For two days every July 24th and 25th, Osaka throws a loud, boisterous party for its beloved deity, and everyone is invited.

Tenjin Matsuri begins with solemn rituals within the shrine precincts before spilling into the streets. Priests, shrine maidens, drummers, musicians, and participants in historical costume accompany the mikoshi (portable shrine) carrying the divine spirit of Tenjin-san and its escort mikoshi through the city. The crowds line the route, not merely to watch the spectacle, but to accompany Tenjin-san through the streets that he has watched over for centuries.

Tenjin’s mikoshi, carried by festival participants just before being transferred to a boat for the river procession during Tenjin Matsuri. — The *mikoshi* carrying Tenjin’s spirit is lifted and prepared for transfer to the boat, marking the start of the river procession.

As evening falls, the two mikoshi are transferred to a waiting boat on the Ōkawa River. Lanterns shimmer across the water as brightly decorated vessels gather for the night’s river procession. Waiting patiently along the riverbanks for their arrival are groups of people sitting beneath the trees on blue plastic sheets, while food stalls fill the warm summer air with the aromas of grilled squid, yakitori, takoyaki, and festival sweets.

Crowds gather along the riverside during Tenjin Matsuri, waiting for the river procession and the fireworks that follow. — As the river grows quiet before nightfall, people settle along the bank—waiting for Tenjin’s procession to pass and for the first burst of fireworks to open the sky.

Business organizations entertain guests aboard viewing barges. Illuminated advertisements and company mascots glide past alongside the mikoshi. No one seems to find the juxtaposition unusual. After all, this is Osaka, where people greet each other with “Mōkarimakka?” (“Are you making money?”), which is met with “Bochi bochi denna” (“Just getting by.”).

Dragon boat rowers lead the river procession during Tenjin Matsuri, followed by the two mikoshi boats and a barge carrying participants down the Okawa — Rowers drive the dragon boat ahead of the mikoshi vessels, while a barge of participants follows—one of the most iconic scenes of Tenjin Matsuri’s river procession.

As the mikoshi floats by the crowd to its exalted position on the river, other barges follow. Then darkness settles over the water, fireworks begin to erupt above the illuminated boats. Along the waterfront stand businessmen in summer suits, young construction workers in their work clothes, young children sitting on a parent’s shoulders, university students dressed in brightly colored yukata, and lifelong residents of Tenma of all generations. For a few hours, they gaze upward in wonder at the mesmerizing display of exploding light, culminating in a finale of a near-deafening crescendo of sound and light.

Crowds watch the opening fireworks of Tenjin Matsuri, with bright bursts lighting the evening sky above the river. — As the river procession ends, the night begins to glow with fireworks, drawing the crowd’s eyes upward in one of Tenjin Matsuri’s most beloved moments.

Tenjin Matsuri is not simply a religious ceremony to express appreciation to a protective deity, nor is it a public event to entertain guests and bring a community closer with food and fireworks. It is all those things, but it also reminds us that the joy of humanity begins with being joyful in the company of our neighbors.

For all its grandeur, Tenjin Matsuri remains, at heart, a neighborhood festival. It is a thousand-year bond between the people of Tenma and the deity they have long regarded not as a distant god, but as their own Tenjin-san.

Gion Matsuri: Bridging Tradition and Modernity

As the colorful hydrangeas of the rainy season in June fade from memory, Kyoto transforms for the month of July. Paper lanterns hang beneath downtown awnings, massive yamaboko floats emerge from their storehouses, and the kon-chiki-kon rhythm of Gion-bayashi echoes through crowded sidewalks and covered shopping arcades.

These are the unmistakable signs that Gion Matsuri has begun.

To visitors, it may seem like a month of mysterious rituals and a massive block party culminating in a spectacular procession of towering floats weaving through Kyoto’s narrow streets. For those raised in Kyoto, however, it is an opportunity to pass down centuries-old traditions and beliefs while extending the spirit of omotenashi, Japanese hospitality, to visitors from near and far.

Traditional red and white lanterns hanging in Kyoto during Gion Matsuri, with modern buildings in the background. — Lanterns marking the arrival of Gion Matsuri—where centuries-old symbols glow against the backdrop of modern Kyoto.

The festival traces its origins to 869, when a devastating epidemic swept through the capital. People believed the plague had been unleashed by the anger of vengeful spirits (goryō). In response, the Imperial Court held a goryō-e, a purification rite in which sixty-six towering halberds (hoko), one for each province of Japan, were erected to attract and contain these malevolent spirits. Prayers were then offered to the deity Gozu Tennō, later identified with Susanoo-no-Mikoto, asking him to pacify these supernatural forces and protect the capital.

According to tradition, the epidemic subsided. The rite became an annual expression of gratitude for divine protection and a prayer for the continued blessings of the deities enshrined at Yasaka Shrine. For more than five centuries, it endured until the Ōnin War (1467 to 1477), when much of Kyoto was reduced to ashes in a decade of civil conflict.

The main gate of Yasaka Shrine in Kyoto, with visitors walking near the entrance and trees surrounding the shrine. — “The entrance to Yasaka Shrine—the spiritual heart of Gion Matsuri, where the festival’s ancient rituals begin and return

Five years after the war ended, Kyoto’s wealthy merchant and artisan class, known collectively as the machishū, looked upon a city left battered and exhausted. Rather than wait for the Imperial Court or military leaders to restore civic life, they petitioned to revive Gion Matsuri and committed their own wealth, labor, and organizational skills to rebuilding it.

As the festival grew, individual neighborhoods assumed responsibility for constructing, maintaining, and parading a single yamaboko float, creating a tradition of stewardship that has endured for more than five centuries. In doing so, the festival evolved from an exclusively religious observance into a civic celebration that strengthened neighborhood identity while preserving its sacred purpose.

A display of traditional art and artifacts arranged for public viewing during Yoiyama, including textiles, scrolls, and ceremonial items. — During *Yoiyama*, families open their homes to display the art and heirlooms passed down through generations—revealing the craftsmanship and devotion that sustain Gion Matsuri

That balance between faith and community still defines Gion Matsuri today. Throughout July, each neighborhood assumes responsibility for preserving traditions that have been handed down for generations while welcoming hundreds of thousands of visitors into the heart of Kyoto. It is this combination of devotion, civic pride, and hospitality that transforms Gion Matsuri from a festival into a living expression of Kyoto itself.

A group of maiko-san in daytime attire standing along a street, watching a float during the Yamaboko procession in Kyoto. — Maiko-san in their daytime attire pause along the street to watch the Yamaboko procession—an everyday moment where Kyoto’s living traditions meet the festival’s grand spectacle

A busy evening scene on Karasuma Street with food stalls, festival banners, and crowds of people during Gion Matsuri. — Karasuma Street on a summer evening, where food stalls and festival games draw young people into the lively rhythm of Gion Matsuri.

For many visitors, Gion Matsuri truly begins during the evenings of Yoiyama, the days leading up to the Yamaboko Junko procession. As the towering floats are assembled using centuries-old joinery techniques without a single nail, central Kyoto transforms into a lively festival district. Streets close to traffic, the sounds of Gion-bayashi drift through the air, lanterns illuminate the floats, and thousands of people dressed in a summer yukata stroll from one neighborhood to the next, enjoying food stalls, traditional performances, and an atmosphere that has defined the festival for generations.

A child sitting on an adult’s shoulders watching illuminated lanterns during Yoiyama, surrounded by a nighttime festival crowd. — Not all premium seating is expensive—on *Yoiyama* evenings, a child’s view from a parent’s shoulders becomes one of the festival’s most cherished vantage points

Behind the celebration lies an extraordinary community effort. Throughout the month, neighborhood associations, craftsmen, musicians, shrine parishioners, students, and countless volunteers devote their time to assembling floats, directing crowds, selling chimaki, performing festival music, and welcoming visitors from across Japan and around the world. Their quiet dedication embodies the spirit of omotenashi, transforming Gion Matsuri from a spectacular public celebration into a heartfelt invitation to experience Kyoto’s living traditions.

Participants in traditional attire guiding a float during the Yamaboko procession, with a man in modern clothing walking nearby. — Volunteers and community members guiding the Yamaboko procession—an everyday devotion that keeps Gion Matsuri alive in the heart of modern Kyoto

Although the Yamaboko Junko procession draws the largest crowds, it serves a deeper religious purpose. On the evening of July 17, the three mikoshi (portable shrines) depart Yasaka Shrine carrying the shrine’s tutelary deities, including Susanoo-no-Mikoto, into the parish neighborhoods of central Kyoto. For the next seven days, the deities are believed to reside among the people, blessing the city and protecting it from illness and misfortune.

A mikoshi being lifted and shaken by participants during Gion Matsuri, preparing to be carried through the city. — One of the mikoshi being lifted and shaken as it begins its journey into the city—carrying the shrine’s deities to dwell among Kyoto’s people until their return on the 24th.

On July 24, following the Ato Matsuri return procession of the remaining yamaboko floats, the three mikoshi make their solemn journey back to Yasaka Shrine. With the deities returned to their sanctuary, the spiritual cycle of Gion Matsuri comes full circle, concluding another year of prayers for purification, protection, and the well-being of Kyoto.

One of the festival’s most recognizable traditions is the sale of chimaki at the floats during Yoiyama. Unlike the edible rice dumpling of the same name, these woven talismans trace their origins to the legend of Susanoo-no-Mikoto, who, disguised as a poor traveler, was turned away by a wealthy household before finding shelter with a humble man named Somin Shōrai.

Unaware of his guest’s true identity, Shōrai welcomed him with what little he had. After revealing himself, Susanoo rewarded Shōrai’s generosity by protecting his family from a devastating plague. Today, hanging a new chimaki above the entrance of a home or business expresses the wish to stand among the descendants of Somin Shōrai while invoking protection against illness and misfortune.

A chimaki talisman hanging on a door, used during Gion Matsuri as a symbol of protection.

A chimaki hanging at my door—an annual reminder of the story of Somin Shōrai and the wish for protection and good health during Gion Matsuri

It hangs above the door to ward off all sorts of evil—excluding in‑laws—and is exchanged for a new one each July, with the old talisman taken back to the shrine for ritual burning.

More than a good-luck charm, the chimaki symbolizes a community’s determination to face the powerful forces of nature and the uncertainties of life through compassion, gratitude, and hospitality toward neighbors and strangers alike.

Perhaps the greatest lesson of Gion Matsuri is that preserving and taking pride in one’s heritage is not an obstacle to change, but rather a precursor to it. Every July, Gion Matsuri reminds us that while epidemics, wars, and even centuries may pass, compassion, gratitude, craftsmanship, and hospitality remain strong enough to carry a city forward into the future. In doing so, the festival continues to serve as a living bridge between Kyoto’s past and its future.

Ode to the Venerable Plum Blossom Trees

The firstborn in a family enjoys a celebrity status right up to the birth of a sibling, at which time the child gets unceremoniously pushed aside and forgotten. The plum blossom tree, or ume in Japanese, is that firstborn child.

Arriving from China in the 8th century, plum blossoms occupied a preeminent position in the Imperial Court of Emperor Saga during the Nara Period (710–794 CE). At that time, Japanese aristocrats attended garden hanami (flower viewing) parties to gaze at the beautiful pink and white flowers and write poems about the beauty of plum blossoms.

Then came the Heian Period (794–1185) and the appearance of the precocious cherry blossoms, which supplanted plum blossoms as the object of adoration in the eyes of the Japanese aristocrats.

Nevertheless, there are still a few places around Japan where plum blossoms are celebrated for their beauty. Two of the most famous places in Kansai are the Jonan and Kitano Tenman shrines in Kyoto.

Jonan Shrine

Built when the capital moved from Nara to Kyoto in the 8th century, the
Jonan Shrine, or “shrine south of the capital,” was established in the southern part of Kyoto to ward off calamities and offer prayers for the prosperity of the country. It is also a shrine for people who are bad at directions and seek safe travels.

*Miko* blessing worshipper with bells and a plum blossom branch

Throughout the year, mikos, or shrine maidens, offer a ritual kagura dance to the gods before blessing shrine visitors with bells and a seasonal flower branch. In ancient times, shrine maidens served as a spiritual medium to communicate with the dead, perform healing rituals for the sick, and foretell the future.

There are seven gods enshrined here including Amaterasu Ōmikami, the sun goddess, Ōkuninushi, the deity who protects Japan, and Sugawara no Michizane, known posthumously as Tenjin, the deity of learning in Japan.

Rakusuien Garden

Spring Mountain Garden features roughly 150 plum blossoms trees and camellia plants

The Rakusuien Garden, which covers approximately 30,000 sq. meters, surrounds the Jonan shrine and is comprised of five gardens. The Spring Mountain Garden treats visitors to roughly 150 plum blossoms trees and camellia plants before leading them to the Heian Garden where they can see a small stream and lush moss. Across from these gardens are the Muromachi, Momoyama, and the Jonan Imperial Villa gardens where visitors can see a pond with carp, a teahouse, rock garden, and flowers that include cherry blossoms and azaleas.

The garden is impressive no matter the season and is often called the Tale of Genji garden since all of the 100 different types of plants mentioned in the Tale of Genji can be found at the Jonan Shrine.

Heian Garden featuring a small stream and lush moss

Kitano Tenman Shrine

Located in west Kyoto, this shrine was established in 947 and enshrines the spirit of the scholar and poet Sugawara no Michizane, who was canonized after his death as Tenjin, the deity of learning. He was the first person to have been deified in Japan.

While the Jonan Shrine also has a small shrine devoted to Sugawara no Michizane, the Kitano Tenman Shrine was the first established for the deity Tenjin, and it currently serves as the head shrine for the various Tenjin shrines throughout the country.

One of the many cow statues at the shrine for good luck and relief from pain

Sugawara no Michizane had been a gifted civil servant who quickly rose up the ranks to become advisor to Emperor Uda. Unfortunately, when Emperor Uda abdicated his throne, people who had been jealous of the civil servant’s success had him banished in 901 to the faraway island of Kyushu where he lived in obscurity until he died two years later.

Ornate walls and lanterns of the shrine’s main hall

Following his death, Kyoto suffered severe thunderstorms, earthquakes, and outbreaks of the plague, and there were sudden, mysterious deaths among the people who had banished him and members of the imperial family. People concluded that the angry spirit of Sugawara no Michizane was to blame for these misfortunes, and the Kitano Tenman Shrine was established to appease his angry spirit.

Bai-en Garden

Plum blossom flowers blooming in late February

Plum blossoms were a personal favorite of Sugawara no Michizane. For this reason, the Bai-en Garden within Kitano Tenman Shrine has nearly 2,000 plum blossom trees. From mid-February through early March, the garden is open to the public for a small entrance fee. On February 25, the shrine holds its annual Ume Blossom Festival, and there is a tea ceremony on the day where geikos and maikos (Kyoto geishas and apprentices) from the nearby dKamishichiken district come to the shrine to serve matcha tea and Japanese sweets.

One of the nearly 2,000 plum blossom trees in the Bai-en Garden

March 9, 2026

Captivated by the Ebisu Spirit

January 10, 2026

While many people face difficulties growing up, few of us have faced abandonment at sea by our deity parents because we were born without any bones. Fortunately, Ebisu was the happy-go-lucky sort who could turn lemons into lemonade.

Rescued by a fisherman who subsequently adopted him as his son, Ebisu miraculously grew bones and developed a passion for fishing. Even as an adult, no one ever saw him without a fishing rod in one hand and a fish in the other.

Though partially deaf and slightly disabled with a limp, Ebisu always maintained a positive outlook despite his hardships and difficulties. For this reason, he continues to enjoy widespread appeal in Japan as the Shinto deity of fortune and prosperity.

Ebisu is also the only Japanese deity among the Seven Gods of Fortune and is often seen with his buddy Daikokuten, the Buddhist deity of fortune and households. Being the swell guy that he is, many Japanese companies use his likeness to market their products, including beer.

Seven Gods of Fortune in Japanese mythology

Since the early days of the Heian period (794 to 1185), Ebisu has made his home at the Nishinomiya Shrine in Nishinomiya, Hyogo. The Nishinomiya Shrine is the head shrine for around 3,500 shrines of the Ebisu sect nationwide.

Toka Ebisu Festival

If truth be told, inside every Kansai person beats the heart of a merchant because no other region in Japan prays with greater devotion to the deity Ebisu than the people of Kansai. That fervor is most easily seen at the regions’ semi-annual bargain sales and the Toka Ebisu festivals held in Kansai over a four-day period in early January.

Toka is the Japanese word for the 10th day, which marks the most auspicious day for paying homage to Ebisu. The bulk of the celebrations center on the three major Ebisu shrines in Kansai of Imamiya Ebisu Shrine in Osaka, the Kyoto Ebisu Shrine in Kyoto, and the Nishinomiya Shrine in Nishinomiya. Like jealous young children competing for their mother’s attention, each shrine tries to outshine the other two for the crown of best festival.

Imamiya Ebisu Shrine

Osakans lining up to pray for good fortune and prosperity in 2022

Osaka has been a commercial hub in Japan since ancient times and the popular greeting among friends here is “Mokamatta ka,” meaning “Are you making a lot of money?” Given this nature of Osaka people, it is hardly surprising that the shrine can fetch up to as much as 200 dollars for a lucky fukuzasa bamboo branch loaded with amulets and charms.

Many of the people who worship at this shrine are small business owners and employees who come in the hope that Ebisu will tame the animals spirits for this year, and it is this shared desire that generates a level of excitement in the crowd that rivals major sporting events.

Though suspended due to the coronavirus in 2021 and 2022, a parade, food stalls, and visits by local geishas are some of the special attractions of the Imamiya Ebisu Shrine.

Kyoto Ebisu Shrine

Located in the Gion district in Kyoto, the Kyoto Ebisu Shrine draws great support and love from the surrounding merchants and proprietors of local bars and restaurants. Unlike Osaka, its lucky fukuzasa bamboo branches are more reasonably priced, blessed by shrine maidens performing live kagura dances, and handed out by maiko geisha apprentices. Top that Imamiya Ebisu Shrine!

Also, the festival runs for an additional fifth day and includes many Japanese traditions and practices. Unfortunately, some events and activities, like the participation by maiko geisha apprentices, had to be curtailed again this year because of COVID-19. Nevertheless, city officials showed great pluck in allowing street food vendors to set up stalls on the street leading to the shrine’s main gate. In doing so, they signaled another step forward toward some sense of normalcy.

Nishinomiya Shrine

Former wild Japanese monkey now working in the entertainment business

Just mentioning that the Toka Ebisu festival in Nishinomiya has a performing monkey should be sufficient for its declaration as Ebisu festival champion, but its haunted house, game stalls for children, and sweet amazake beverages make it an enjoyable place for the whole family to pray for good fortune. And did I mention it had a performing monkey?

Not only does the Nishinomiya Shrine attract enormous crowds during Toka Ebisu, but it is also a major shrine in Hyogo where people can stroll its large grounds year round to enjoy a moment of peace and serenity.

Celebrations for Toka Ebisu at these three major shrines and smaller ones like them reveal much about the tremendous energy, vitality, and competitive spirit of the Kansai people and are a part of the must-see Kansai events in January.

Sweet Decadence at the Hankyu Department Store

St. Valentine’s Day Chocolate Expo 2022

Japanese wagashi sweets may be the perfect complement to green tea, but for Valentine’s Day nothing expresses romantic feelings better than the decadent taste of luxurious gourmet chocolate. That decadence, along with some sweet goodness, can be found with a Japanese twist at the Umeda Hankyu Department Store in Osaka, Japan, from January 20 to February 14.

Main exhibition hall on the 9th floor of the **Umeda Hankyu Department Store**

This chocolate extravaganza attracts over 300 brands of chocolatiers and pâtissiers worldwide, including Belgium and France, with over 3,000 types of confectionery products on sale.

These artisans not only create visually appealing products, but their uncompromising insistence on one-of-a-kind ingredients leads them to unique flavors and textures that stimulate both the physical senses and the imagination.

Showcase of Belgium chocolatier **Herman Van Dender**

In addition to gourmet chocolate, a variety of candies, cakes, ice cream, and pastries can also be found in the three main exhibition areas on the 9th floor or at one of the mini exhibitions located on each floor of the department store.

*One of the mini exhibitions located on each floor of the department store*

Kansai Chocolatiers

Since Valentine’s Day sales account for the large majority of total annual sales of chocolate, the Hankyu Chocolate Expo extends a lifeline to local chocolatiers in Kansai who have suffered under the COVID-19 pandemic. These businesses must not only compete for customers with well-established gourmet brands from overseas and Tokyo but also with traditional Japanese wagashi sweets. This makes brand differentiation extremely important, and a number of local chocolatiers are demonstrating great resiliency in the face of a challenging business environment.

Aya Mandai of Cagi de rêves in Osaka is a dessert specialist highly motivated to succeed. Seeing customers enjoying her desserts at local restaurants made her want to become a pastry chef. Her commitment to bringing happiness through chocolates is so great that her bonbons come complete with explicit serving instructions on temperature and order of consumption.

*Aya Mandai of* **Cagi de rêves** *showing the instruction manual for Dessert Chocolat*

Salon de Royal Kyoto is another Kansai chocolate exhibitor. The company operates a shop and café overlooking the scenic Kamo River in Kyoto. Chocolate-covered pecans and chocolates with creamy fillings featuring distinctive Kyoto flavors are some of its popular items. Visitors to the café can also select from scrupulous cakes for enjoyment with coffee on the outdoor terrace.

Chocolate showcase at the **Salon de Royal Kyoto**

Named after an ancient Mayan god responsible for the cocoa harvest, Ek Chuah is a major chocolatier in Osaka with four convenient locations. It features a wide selection of chocolates that capture European elegance in a taste that is uniquely suited for the Japanese climate and culture.

*Showcase of chocolates at Ek Chuah’s main shop and café in Osaka*

toca*towa is a manufacturer of hand-crafted chocolates with a shop and café in Wakayama, Japan. Inspiration for its chocolates come from natural flavors readily available in Wakayama. These vary from the common- strawberries, pears, and green tea- to the not so common- wasabi and soy sauce. To the seasoned expat living in Japan, the uncommon often has a taste that is deliciously addictive.

*Showcase for **toca*towa** at Umeda Hankyu Department Store*

Willful Ignorance

No talk of Valentine’s Day and chocolate would be complete without mentioning the big lie perpetrated on Japanese females by a Japanese major chocolate manufacturer in 1960. The company promoted Valentine’s Day as a holiday for giving chocolates as an expression of gratitude to male colleagues, bosses, and teachers. These chocolates later became known as giri–choco or “obligation chocolates.”

Even while being angrily opposed to giri-choco and the large bite that this custom took out of their wallets, Japanese females were under strong social pressure in Japan to continue the practice each year. Luckily, a social movement in Japan to eliminate sexual harassment in the workplace caused HR departments to flag this practice as NG (not good).

Now Japanese females need only make one chocolate purchase on Valentine’s Day for that special person in their lives. Give it time, ladies. The men will eventually figure out the proper way for celebrating Valentine’s Day.

Cherry Blossoms Lift Kansai Spirits

Weeping cherry blossoms at Kiyomizu Temple in Kyoto

“Wa-a-a…kirei,” which means “how beautiful” in English, are the words you are likely to hear when a Japanese person reacts to seeing 40 to 50 cherry blossoms in full bloom lined up in one place. Next comes a respectful silence for the overwhelming beauty and the emotions that it stirs inside. Finally, there is the pose with a peace sign for the obligatory photo in front of the cherry blossoms. This is Japan after all.

Cherry blossoms in Kansai typically bloom from the end of March to the first week of April. Their buds first appear around the spring equinox and wait patiently on their branches for a couple days of warm sunshine before popping out like popcorn on a stick. When unaffected by rain or strong gusts of wind, they will remain on the trees for three to five days before scattering in the wind like falling snowflakes.

Philosopher’s Walk, a path in Kyoto that extends from Ginkaku Temple to Nanzen Temple

Every April starts a new business and academic year in Japan, and in Kansai the appearance of cherry blossoms often coincides with company and school entrance ceremonies. Similarly, many young couples choose this time of year to get married. In this way, cherry blossoms mark the passage of time and inspire a feeling of hope in those starting a new path in their lives.

Hanami Parties for Viewing Cherry Blossoms

Gathering of friends sharing in the beauty at the Shukugawa Park in Nishinomiya

Hanami is a Japanese word for the traditional custom of Japanese people sitting underneath a cherry blossom tree, eating a packed lunch, drinking beer and sake, and even singing karaoke. In a typical year, mothers with their small children, families, close friends, and colleagues find a place to spread out their blue plastic tarps to enjoy seeing the cherry blossoms together.

College students spending an afternoon together at the Kamo River in Kyoto

While it sounds like jolly good fun, the ground can be quite damp and cold, the wind chilly, and the thought of drinking cold beer slightly less appealing, especially during night-viewing. Nevertheless, these hanami parties renew relationships, build camaraderie, and strengthen social bonds while giving people an opportunity to engage in shared humanity.

This is why the voluntary (and not so voluntary) restraints placed on the movements of people in Japan these past two years for COVID-19 have been so stressful on the Japanese people. Fortunately, the recent semi-state of emergency was lifted on March 21, 2022, enabling people to take a step forward toward normalcy.

Visiting Some Famous Places in Kyoto

*Hanami* at night in Maruyama Park in Kyoto

As with its temples and shrines, Kyoto has hundreds of places that are famous for cherry blossoms, and even taking five days to tour the city would not be enough time to see them all. For a day trip, limiting your destinations to East Kyoto can help maximize your time for viewing cherry blossoms since the distances between the famous gardens inside temples and shrines are smaller.

Unfortunately, a significant number of temples and shrines are either undergoing major renovations or preparing for renovations since tourism for these past two years has been exclusively domestic and restricted by state of emergency proclamations. Visitors in 2023 can expect those renovations to be completed.

Maruyama Park

One of the most famous places in Kansai for cherry trees is Maruyama Park. Here you can see around 680 cherry blossom trees, including its famous 80-year old weeping cherry blossom tree. The park is adjacent to Yasaka Shrine.

Philosopher’s Walk

With around 500 cherry blossom trees lining the path, Philosopher’s Walk is a popular destination for taking photographs of cherry blossoms. The most beautiful spots are around Ginkaku Temple from where you can stroll down the path to Nanzen Temple.

Kodaiji Temple

Another venerable tree in Kansai is the weeping cherry blossom tree in Kodai Temple. The temple was constructed by “Nene” in memory of her late husband Toyotomi Hideyoshi, a feudal lord who was one of the three unifiers of Japan.

Siege at the Gates of Osaka Castle

View of Osaka Castle through the cherry blossoms in full bloom

Being closed to picnickers and alcohol meant that the appeal of going inside the Osaka Castle garden to see the cherry blossoms was significantly diminished. Undeterred, throngs of Osakans stretched out their blue plastic sheets under the cherry trees bordering the moat to lay a daylong siege outside the castle wall with their lunches, snacks, and beverages of choice.

Some even mocked those behind the castle walls by throwing discs to each other, engaging in random frolicking, and doing cartwheels on the grass lawn in front of the main gate. The message was clear: “We reclaim our weekend territory.” In normal times, Osaka Castle is a popular place with plenty of space for friends and family to hang out together.

People taking selfies at Osaka Castle in front of the cherry trees

Keep Walking at Shukugawa Park

Walking paths along the Shuku River in Nishinomiya

“No alcohol and social gatherings” was the message sent to Nishinomiya residents over the LINE social media app when the cherry blossoms started blooming and people started flocking to see them. While a few people had already enjoyed their hanami parties prior to the edict, the remaining faced strict enforcement of the city ordinance by an elderly man with a yellow vest and an attitude.

Kansai people come from all over to visit the Shukugawa Park

While the prohibition of alcohol and social gatherings was disappointing, the park is located in a residential area where large crowds provide little economic benefit while the trash left in their wake creates enormous work for the volunteers, mostly retirees, who tidy up the park.

Another reason for maintaining the strict restrictions is the lingering fear among residents of the recent coronavirus variants. While the number of deaths from COVID-19 in Japan may seem minuscule to people in Europe and the United States, there has been noticeable rise from the omicron variant, and the populations in Nishinomiya and nearby cities are largely comprised of elderly people.

That is not to say that there are not a number of grumpy, authoritative elderly people living in Nishinomiya and Hyogo Prefecture-because there are-but in typical years prior to COVID-19 the spirit of hanami had permitted both alcohol and social gatherings.

Even as the expectations for 2022 seem more hopeful than the previous year, people in Kansai wonder when life will get back to normal. Still the cherry blossoms fills us with hope for the future and a communal spirit that believes that we will overcome all the obstacles before us.

March 27, 0026

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Preparing the Path Home

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A Shrine Woven into the Neighborhood

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Jonan Shrine

Rakusuien Garden

Kitano Tenman Shrine

Bai-en Garden

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Toka Ebisu Festival

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Nishinomiya Shrine

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St. Valentine’s Day Chocolate Expo 2022

Kansai Chocolatiers

Willful Ignorance

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Hanami Parties for Viewing Cherry Blossoms

Visiting Some Famous Places in Kyoto

Maruyama Park

Philosopher’s Walk

Kodaiji Temple

Siege at the Gates of Osaka Castle

Keep Walking at Shukugawa Park

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