Maybe both

For over 1,000 years, people in Japan have used paper name tags called senjafuda, to mark their visits to shrines and temples. I have seen these in the most unexpected places — behind the guardian statues at Yamadera, on high ceilings of shrines, and plastered all over the walls the fabulous double-helix shrine, Sazaedō. 

Yet to my ignorant eyes, they looked like ancient graffiti.

How did they get there? Why were they put there? Isn’t it disrespectful to plaster the hallowed halls of holy places with stickers? These are the questions that kept me awake at night. No one I asked about them could provide me with a satisfactory explanation. I had no idea what they were even called.

However, during completely unrelated research, I stumbled upon some answers. 

Senjafuda’s origins

Senjafuda, 千社札, meaning “1,000 Shrine Notes,” are votive slips left at shrines and temples by devout visitors. The practice dates back to the ninth century when people began carrying senjafuda during pilgrimages to the 33 temples dedicated to Kannon, the Buddhist deity of mercy, or while on quests to visit 1,000 Shinto shrines. The 千, literally “one thousand,” in the name is more figuratively used to mean “a lot of.”

Senjafuda are effectively calling cards bearing the names and addresses of the pilgrims. They are generally black on white and written in a distinctive calligraphy style using sumi ink. 

After prayers and offerings, pilgrims would leave senjafuda as proof of their visit to the sacred spot. They would attach them to the pillars, walls, or ceilings. With their names kept safely in the shrine or temple, visitors believed they would continue to receive the blessings of the sacred place even after they had physically departed.

Originally crafted from wood, copper, or brass, by the middle of the Edo era (1603–1867), they were being made from paper — and their popularity surged. The era was plagued by three severe famines, prompting the populace to grow fervent in their supplications to Inari, the Shinto kami associated with grains and prosperity. As a result, leaving your senjafuda at 1,000 Inari Shrines throughout the land became all the rage. 

The more obscure the placement, the better

The placement of these votive stickers evolved into a friendly competition among the faithful, each vying to place their senjafuda in the most obscure places. Even sacred trees were not exempt from being plastered with stickers.

As the years passed, placing the stickers in hard-to-reach spots became a point of pride. Worshippers used their walking sticks or other longer poles as tools. They would attach two brushes and a clip to the end of their sticks, use the brushes to spread the rice-based adhesive, and then affix the note using the clip.

Out of respect for others, pilgrims would refrain from placing their senjafuda on top of someone else’s. As a result, the votive slips are often squeezed together, filling every nook and cranny of the older and more popular shrines and temples. The ceiling of Sazaedō is a perfect example.

As woodblock printing evolved, more intricate and elaborate printed designs replaced traditional handwritten senjafuda.

Modern senjafuda

Towards the end of the 18th century, another type of senjafuda emerged distinct from those used for temples and shrines. Called kokan nosatsu, 交換納札, these name slips were designed exclusively for trading. While senjafuda served as “offering notes,” the trading notes took on a different character, featuring colorful patterns, intricate folds, and detailed etchings. They swiftly evolved into an independent art form, and trading clubs dedicated to kokan nosatsu proliferated — and many continue to thrive.

In the magical realm of Kyoto’s pleasure quarters, geiko (as geisha trained in Kyoto are called) developed their own version of kokan nosatsu. Called hana meishi, “flower calling cards,” these small colorful stickers bear the geiko’s name and are decorated with flowers and drawings of the willow world. Hana meishi are still exchanged and treasured as collectibles.

Today, the traditional form of senjafuda, with woodblock printed paper attached with rice-based adhesive, has been replaced by machine-made stickers. Although convenient, these modern stickers can damage ancient wood leaving unsightly marks when removed.

In recent years, a growing number of temples and shrines have prohibited the placement of senjafuda. Additionally, many of these places of worship have been designated as Important Cultural Properties. Affixing senjafuda to these treasured buildings could result in severe consequences, including imprisonment or fines, according to the 1951 Act on the Protection of Cultural Properties.

Nevertheless, ancient senjafuda still adorn the walls, ceilings, and pillars of innumerable shrines and temples throughout Japan. These votive slips provide a glimpse into bygone centuries when pilgrims traversed the land, leaving behind their “calling cards” as tokens of their devotion and spiritual journeys. 

I will never think of them as ancient graffiti again.

The post Senjafuda—Ancient Japanese Graffiti or Early Calling Cards? first appeared on More Than Tokyo and is written by Diane Tincher.

No one wants to live with a ghost

There has long been a belief in ghosts and supernatural beings in Japan. You may be familiar with Japan’s Three Great Vengeful Ghosts — Taira no Masakado, Emperor Sutoku, and Sugawara no Michizane — but today’s story is a bit more personal.

It all started with a knock on our door.

Time to move

One evening, our landlord’s real estate woman came to our door and announced without fanfare, “The owner wants you to move out so his son can use the house.”

So what do I do, calm person that I am? I look at my busy spring schedule filled with days away leading tours, and get into a panicky fluster.

House hunting is one of my least favorite things to do. Houses to rent in our city are few and ramshackle at best. Apartments are small and crowded.

I have never considered buying a house as one needs to have a full-time job with a Japanese company to qualify for a mortgage, and I’ve always been a freelancer.

My adult son who lives with me, though, had a different idea. He could get a mortgage and buy a house.

So after having thoroughly explored many narrow lanes leading to the various unpleasant and crowded available housing, I agreed with him that our best option would be to buy land and have a house built. This would take time. Finding a nice piece of land is nearly as difficult as finding a decent house for rent.

We managed to find a few plots we would consider and talked to a nice man at a housing company. We looked at drawings of inexpensive, modern, quick-build houses and started discussing what type of adjustments we would like.

But before any buying or building, we needed to get a loan.

The bank

We visited the local bank and were told that one must have a full-time job for one year before considering a mortgage. The banker assured us that all banks had the same rule. My son had been working for eight months.

So much for buying a house this year.

I wrote to the man at the housing company and told him our disappointing news. He straightaway called and told us of another bank that only required six months of work. He would accompany us to that bank.

Things were looking hopeful.

The house

Meanwhile, I was visiting my 81-year-old Japanese friend. Her late husband had been an architect. In fact, he had designed the simple, practical, and sturdy house where she lived. She pleaded with me, “Diane, please don’t buy one of those trashy modern houses!”

I saw her point. But after weeks of searching, I had no better options.

She said, “One of my husband’s colleagues is the president of a real estate company. I’ll give him a call.”

I sat listening to her describe to him what type of house we hoped to find. Unlike most Japanese people who value locations near train stations, stores, and schools, we wanted a decent-sized, well-built house surrounded by greenery in a rural area.

It just so happened that he had just the thing — a large house with a yard, a bit far from the city, and in a quiet neighborhood. The owner had not yet moved out.

My friend and I found it on google maps and were amazed. It was beautiful. Then I found the listing on a real estate site with the floorplan. It was perfect.

But it was so far away!

As the days passed, the inconvenience of the house’s location loomed large in my mind, causing it to lose its luster. I had nearly written it off as a possibility. But because my friend was so excited about it, I agreed to see it.

After I got home from having been away for two weeks, my son and I met my elderly friend and the real estate man at the house. 

My hesitation over its distance from the city was washed away by its sheer beauty. My son, who had been all-in for building a house, changed his mind immediately. 

“It’s a rich person’s house,” he said, awe filling his voice.

It’s well-built, with traditional roof tiles, a wide entranceway, large rooms, and walk-in closets! It even has a spacious yard, a rare treasure disappearing from modern houses at an alarming rate and replaced with concrete.

There was just one problem. Someone had died there.

The ghost

The house is classified as 心理的瑕疵物件, shinriteki kashi bukken, that is, a “psychologically defective property.” This is a property where the residents may experience distress due to psychological or emotional issues — as a result of sharing the property with ghosts.

Japanese law requires that such information be provided to potential buyers or renters. A “psychologically defective property” is defined as:

• Where one has died as a result of abuse or accident.
• Where one has died naturally but lain undiscovered for a length of time, requiring thorough cleaning of the house to remove insects and odors.
• A house or apartment nearby the scene of a ghastly crime.
• A property nearby a place that people feel strongly against, such as a graveyard, prison, or even a nuclear power plant.

The real estate agent is required to disclose to potential buyers or renters if a property is “psychologically defective.” If they do not, the buyer or renter may sue for damages incurred in the “defective,” or rather, haunted, house.

This law only applies to the first buyer or renter after the incident and within a period of 3 years. After that, there is no legal requirement to disclose this information, unless it is a well-known case. Then the requirement can continue for unspecified years.

If a buyer/renter asks if there have been deaths in the house, the real estate agent must answer truthfully, no matter how many years have passed since the incident.

I looked up our house on Oshimaland, a website of haunted houses, and found only that our house is listed as a “psychologically defective property” for an unspecified reason. Some of the houses on that site have gruesome stories, such as one not far from us where a 26-year-old bludgeoned his parents to death after they criticized his lazy lifestyle and refused to hand over more spending money. I wouldn’t want to live in that house either!

Now, fully informed that its “defective” rating is because an elderly person died alone in the house in 2019 — no bludgeoning involved — we have gone ahead with buying the house.

Moving

We will be moving after a couple of weeks. I will let you know if we encounter any ghosts.

Two months later — A few people wrote and asked me to describe our new house, comparing it with others we’ve lived in, so I did that here.

References:

Chintai.net, toushi.homes.co.jp, oshimaland.co.jp, Ministry of Land, Infrastructure, Transportation and Tourism website.

The post Ghosts in Japan—Buying a Haunted House first appeared on More Than Tokyo and is written by Diane Tincher.

Small decisions can have lifelong consequences

Manila, that teeming mass of happy, colorful, friendly people, was my first destination upon moving away from the US way back in 1976. In my youthful idealism and naivety, I had set off to “help people.”

I loved my years in Manila. The bustling traffic seemed to have no rhyme nor reason — or any consideration for traffic rules or safety. The colorful, open-backed jeepneys. The overcrowded buses, some wooden-framed built on the chassis of surplus WWII-era trucks. And the loud motorcycles with sidecars that seemed to be held together by nothing more than twine and a prayer.

This was where I would live out my days, I imagined, working in small mission schools. I could influence children for the better. I could make a small difference in the world.

I met a man I loved. I gave birth to two children.

It was a happy life, for the most part — even in a country under the iron rule of the notorious Ferdinand Marcos.

But then everything changed.

Revolution

The controversy surrounding the results of the February 1986 presidential election grew, and turmoil spread throughout the country. Although Ferdinand Marcos claimed victory, the election was plagued by accusations of vote rigging, and the results were contested. His opponent, Corazon Aquino, was wildly popular among the common people. She was the widow of one of Marcos’s staunchest critics, Benigno S. Aquino, Jr., who had been assassinated on the tarmac of Manila International Airport in 1983.

Marcos and his family soon fled to Hawaii, having been advised to leave the country by one of President Reagan’s close associates, the then General Chairman of the Republican Party, Senator Paul Laxalt. They left from US Clark Air Base, north of Manila, taking with them crates and crates of cash, gold, jewels, and other valuables — so much that the Guinness Book of World Records awarded the Marcoses the nefarious award of the “Greatest robbery of a Government.”

During this time, Manila’s main thoroughfare, EDSA, the commonly used name for Epifanio de Los Santos Avenue, was the stage for the public to air their grievances against the Marcoses’ oppressive regime. This highway, filled with over a million protestors, was just blocks from our house.

That in itself was not troubling. The protests were largely peaceful. Yet, a bomb had gone off in the shopping area we frequented. Then, one morning just after dawn, outside our front gate, we discovered the body of an unfortunate man who had had his throat cut.

Helping a friend

Meanwhile, my dearest friend who was suffering from hyperemesis gravidarum, a severe form of morning sickness, needed to move to Tokyo. She asked for my help.

Without giving it much thought, I agreed. Who wouldn’t want to help their best friend in such circumstances?

So my husband, our two young children, and I traveled with her and her brood of small children, arriving in Tokyo in 1987.

Immediate illiteracy

To say I was ill-prepared for such a move would be an understatement. I knew three Japanese words — dōmo, dōzo, and ohaiyō, “thanks,” “go ahead,” and “good morning.”

I landed in a country that seemed to be the polar opposite of the cheerful, colorful, and friendly Philippines.

There were no smiling greetings on the streets or people wearing bright, flamboyant clothing.

There were no colorful Jeepneys — in fact, I saw no colored vehicles at all. Black or white cars cruised through clean streets with narrow lanes. There were no honking horns nor bus ticket punchers calling destinations. The city was eerily bereft of sound.

Trains slid in and out of stations filled with busy, austere, black-suited men. Sardining into one of the cars, I noticed no seats offered to women, whether pregnant, babe in arms, or even to the elderly.

On the sidewalks of the city, women wearing bland conservative clothing carried shopping bags, shuffling a few steps behind their imperious husbands until rushing ahead to open doors for them.

What rude men, I couldn’t help but think, comparing them to the Western gentlemen I had become accustomed to in the first 30 years of life.

Adding to my sense of alienation, I was instantly illiterate.

Due to English being used in all schools with local dialects spoken at home, the majority of the Philippine population were bilingual. Not so in Japan, where the highly nuanced, contextual, and culturally enmeshed Japanese language is so difficult, it takes nine years of education just to be able to read the newspaper. Teaching English in schools was minimal, at best.

No one spoke to us in English. I could read no signs. I could understand nothing at all.

Time passes

One year added to another. I focused on raising my many children and educating them in English to complement their education in Japanese public schools.

My family moved away from the big city of Tokyo to Kagoshima, a city in southern Kyushu, surrounded by idyllic natural beauty.

As the years passed, I slowly learned more about this unusual land with its long history, its many traditions, and its unique customs. As with a person we are just getting to know, understanding them is the first step to love. The more I learned about Japan, the more my love and appreciation for this extraordinary land grew.

I came to appreciate the philosophies of Shinto and Buddhism, and the adamant beliefs of my younger years were left behind. I woke up to the reality that volunteer work would not pay the bills, and undertook work as a private English teacher and editor.

When most of my children left home, I started work as a tour guide, and that was a turning point in my life.

Seeing Japan once again from the viewpoint of an outsider — vicariously through my foreign guests — deepened my interest in Japan’s fascinating past, folklore, and culture. I wanted to learn as much as I could about this country that had become my home, and I undertook years of study which continue to this day.

Living in Japan today

These days, I do my best to share my love of Japan, its history, its hidden treasures, and its many stories with curious people through my writings, tours, and presentations.

I hike along ancient highways and mountain trails, and even in my beautiful rural neighborhood, and I travel to explore new wonders in other prefectures.

Thirty-five years after first setting foot in this country, I have become an old woman. Reflecting on that seemingly insignificant decision in 1987 to help a friend, I now know it was momentous, hugely affecting my life and that of my eight children.

I will never know what would have happened had I continued my life in Manila, but I am happy for the life I have in this beautiful, safe, and clean country of Japan.

The post Living in Japan—The Unexpected Path that Brought Me Here first appeared on More Than Tokyo and is written by Diane Tincher.

Fall down seven times, get up eight times

Daruma dolls are the embodiment of the Japanese proverb, 七転び八起き, Nanakorobi, yaoki. Fall down seven times, get up eight times. They are a receptacle for our wishes, and they remind us to never give up striving to achieve our goals.

Daruma modeled after an ancient Buddhist priest

Daruma dolls are modeled after the 5th-century founder of Zen Buddhism, Bodhidharma. It is said that he entered a cave near the famous Chinese Shaolin monastery where he meditated facing a wall for nine years. So dedicated was he that when he fell asleep while meditating, his anger drove him to cut off his eyelids. They fell to the ground, and tea bushes sprouted. Green tea was thereafter used by practitioners of Zen to keep themselves awake during meditation.

In the 12th century, along with Zen, Buddhist priest Eisai brought tea seeds to Japan where he cultivated the plants and, by and by, green tea’s popularity grew. But I digress.

Now lacking eyelids, Bodhidharma continued his meditation. As the years passed, his arms and legs fell off from disuse, and that leaves us with the shape of a Daruma doll.

The Daruma is rounded, so if it rocks over, it uprights itself. When we fail in our attempts to reach our goal, we should not give up, but we should be like a Daruma doll, righting ourselves and keeping on. As the proverb says:

Fall down seven times, get up eight times.

Daruma dolls

Papier-mâché Daruma dolls, just like we see today, began to be produced in the Edo era (1603-1867). They were painted red, as that has long been believed to be the color that wards off evil and disease. To make Daruma even more auspicious, the eyebrows and beard were sometimes painted in the shape of a tortoise or a crane, both symbols of long life. Sometimes other symbolic shapes were added to his features.

As the years passed, some Daruma were painted white — another lucky color. Then in the 20th century, things got wild. There were gold, green, and yellow Daruma — and today, anything goes. I have even seen Daruma dolls in the shape of Amabie, Japan’s Covid-19 guardian yōkai, or supernatural being.

When we buy a Daruma, the eyes are blank. As we set our goal, usually one that can be achieved within a year, we paint the left eye. When we reach our goal, we paint the right eye. The bigger the goal, the larger the Daruma we should use.

When we make our first visit to a shrine at the start of the new year, hatsumōde, we bring along our Daruma dolls to be burnt by the Shinto priest along with our household protection amulets and the last year’s omamori charms. Even if we did not achieve our goal, we still burn the old Daruma and buy a new one for a fresh start in the new year.

How about getting a Daruma doll to mark your goals for the coming year? Every day, as you look into its incomplete face, your determination will be renewed to keep on track.

And it seems you don’t need to visit Japan to buy your own. Daruma dolls are being sold on none other than Amazon.*

*This affiliate link means that if you were to buy something on Amazon through that link, I would get a small portion of the sale price at no extra cost to you.

The post Daruma Dolls for Setting and Achieving Goals—A Japanese Twist on New Year’s Resolutions first appeared on More Than Tokyo and is written by Diane Tincher.

Giving gifts to ancestors developed into giving gifts to the living

Oseibo refers to the year-end custom of giving gifts in Japan to show appreciation for kindness in the past year and to request continued kindness in the new year. Oseibo means — お, honorable, 歳, year’s, 暮, end.

Oseibo is said to have developed from the ancient practice of giving offerings to the spirits of one’s ancestors at the end of the year, which grew to include giving gifts to living relatives and neighbors. This is similar to summer gift giving, ochūgen, お中元, which usually takes place around the Obon holidays. In mid-summer, people offer food and drinks to their ancestors and give gifts to those to whom they feel indebted for kindness during the first half of the year.

Oseibo, though, is the greater of the two, as it celebrates a whole year of gratitude. It also includes a yoroshiku-onegaishimasu, or “thank you in advance,” for any help in the upcoming year.

People give gifts to their bosses, teachers, parents, in-laws, relatives, and even their marriage matchmaker if they had one. Although, arranged marriages are becoming a thing of the past, one still meets people who were married through such an introduction.

Oseibo gifts

Although there are a wide variety of items given as oseibo gifts, from laundry soap to miso soup, the most common are are high-quality meats, ham, and sausages. Second are various expensive sweets, like fancy chocolates and cookies. The third would be gift boxes of beer, sake, or shochu.

Each year, I send oseibo to the couple who kindly agreed to be the guarantor for our residency visa. I receive oseibo from institutions for the elderly and the disabled where I have been teaching for decades, usually beer, juice, and rice.

Once you give your first oseibo, you may likely get one in return. This can develop into a continuous cycle of gift-giving each December that ends up being more of a burden than a blessing to both parties, and not always easy to break out of without appearing rude or ungrateful.

I used to send and receive many more year-end gifts, but those ended up as a somewhat burdensome cycle, so I stopped. It seems I’m not the only one, as according to various surveys, sending oseibo is a dying custom, with some surveys showing up to 60% of respondents not sending any year-end gifts whatsoever.

Some young people have started exchanging Christmas gifts, though, so perhaps this practice may eventually eclipse the time-honored tradition of giving oseibo.

Nengajo — New Year Greeting Cards

The practice of sending New Year’s greeting cards to be read on New Year’s Day may also be declining, but it is still prevalent enough for the Japan Post and many shops to sell a wonderful array of holiday cards.

Usually these cards feature the animal of the year according to the Chinese zodiac, 2023 being the year of the rabbit. But I was happy to find the one pictured above featuring the Sakurajima volcano, the majestic symbol of my city, to send to my friends.

Wishing you all a wonderful new year!

References:

Gift Ranking, Best Present Ranking, Survey of doctors, Survey of women, What is Oseibo?

The post Oseibo—Year-End Gift Giving in Japan first appeared on More Than Tokyo and is written by Diane Tincher.

These things still puzzle me even after 36 years of living in Japan

Even though I’ve lived in Japan for over half my life, there are certain idiosyncrasies of the culture that still leave me speechless.

Weird Japanese Quirk #6 — Drinking behavior

Someone can be embarrassingly out of control drunk and even vomiting in the evening, and the next morning all is forgiven. “He was drunk” absolves such behavior.

Years ago when I became pregnant with my seventh child, I took that opportunity to quit a job teaching at a private high school. The teachers in the English department had a farewell party for me where the usually staid, conservative, dark-suit-clad men got inordinately drunk.

A bus had been hired to take us all home — driving after having just one sip of alcohol is considered a serious offense in Japan — and along the way, different teachers asked the driver to pull over so they could get out and be sick. 

Just another day at the office. No one was the least bit fazed.

Weird Japanese Quirk #5 — Clothing dictated by the calendar

What clothes one wears is traditionally dictated by the calendar, not the weather, and by interesting cultural norms regarding modesty. Let me give you some examples from where I live in southern Kyushu.

• Short-sleeved shirts can only be worn between June 1 and September 1. You should see the looks I get when I wear short sleeves out of season. “Aren’t you cold?” asked concerned onlookers.
• Students are not allowed to wear their summer uniforms before June 1, or winter uniforms before December 1. Some schools are stricter than others, and in these modern times, some even have hybrid uniforms students can wear between certain dates.
• Some schools — not all — allow girls to wear stockings to cover their bare legs in the winter months. But never after March 31.
• Young women can show as much leg as they want, but they must keep their shoulders and chest covered up.
• Once a woman reaches age 35, she must not be seen wearing shorts. This is another convention I ignore.

• Middle-aged and elderly women seem to have some sort of unwritten dress code that includes only dull colors. There are stores dedicated to providing this wardrobe.

Oh, and beaches in my subtropical city are only “open” from July 9 to August 31.

Weird Japanese Quirk #4 — Speaker cars used for political campaigning

When election season comes around, each candidate uses a squad of cars equipped with loudspeakers and filled with uniform-clad, white-gloved volunteers. These vehicles roam the streets, blasting recordings of musical slogans and campaign promises. The volunteers wave and call to passers-by from the windows.

My youngest child always ran to the back of the house and hid in terror when any came near. The volume can be deafening.

If I had the right to vote in this county — which is only granted to citizens, not permanent residents like myself — I’m afraid I would make it a point NOT to vote for anyone who disturbs the peace in such an obnoxious manner.

I can’t help but wonder about the efficacy of such political campaigning. Some of the slogans are also quite hilarious, but that’s a topic for a different article.

Weird Japanese Quirk #3 — Mask-wearing

There was a culture of mask-wearing in Japan long before the pandemic. For years, people have been wearing masks to protect against catching the flu, to not spread their cold or fever, and to prevent breathing in pollen. Women sometimes wear a mask when they didn’t have time to apply makeup in the morning.

These days, though, I’m afraid this practice has been taken to the extreme, with people wearing masks working in their gardens, driving alone, and even walking in the countryside. 

I find it especially puzzling when people wear masks hiking in the mountains where they could be partaking of the health-giving fragrance of the forest.

Weird Japanese Quirk #2 — Changing room etiquette

I’ve visited onsen hot springs, sento public baths, and most frequently, my local swimming club, and the contrast in what is acceptable puzzles my Western brain.

It’s fine to walk around stark naked in the women’s changing room at hot springs or public baths, but it is absolutely not acceptable at the swimming club. Women take great pains to never show any skin, covering up with hand-sewn, tent-like garments while they change.

I can only conclude that, like the Japanese language, context is everything.

Weird Japanese Quirk #1 — Anime hologram singers

People attend concerts to watch a hologram of an anime character sing in a synthesized, artificially produced voice. 

This is not a new phenomenon.

The singer in the video, Hatsune Miku, traces her roots as far back as 2007 when she was created by Crypton Future Media using Yamaha’s Vocaloid 2 singing-synthesis technology. This is open-source software, so anyone with a computer and internet can easily and freely collaborate on creating Vocaloid songs. And many people do.

Through the years, Hatsune Miku and other synthetic singers have evolved and grown from a subculture trend to become major players in mainstream Japanese pop music.

In 2020, an artist using Vocaloid singing-synthesis software, Yonezu Kenshi, secured the #1 spot on Billboard Japan with his album, Stray Sheep.

I’d love to hear quirky cultural customs that you have experienced. Please feel free to share them in the comments.

The post 6 Weird Japanese Cultural Quirks first appeared on More Than Tokyo and is written by Diane Tincher.

Funny things do happen

Rain was pouring down as my train pulled into Sakata station in Yamagata Prefecture. That cool cloudy morning, I had left my shrine lodging on Mount Haguro and spent the day exploring the charming town of Tsuruoka. I was visiting the beautiful Zenpoji temple complex about 40 minutes outside the town when the rain started in the early afternoon.

I don’t mind the rain, one of my daughters in the US sent me great rain gear for hiking, but my shoes were not waterproof. I decided to head to Sakata earlier than I had planned.

Exiting the train, I passed through the ticket gate and out of the small station. My hotel was 2 km away. I was pulling a small suitcase in addition to carrying a backpack, and I was feeling a bit tired, so I opted to take a taxi.

After a quick check-in, I took off my rain jacket in my room and noticed that the chest pocket of my fleece — my dedicated ticket pocket — was open.

It was empty.

Where was my rail pass?

I checked all my pockets.

I thought hard.

Blank.

My 5-day rail pass cost ¥18,000 (about $150) and would be nearly impossible to replace. It allowed me to travel on trains, including the Shinkansen, all over northeastern Japan and down to Tokyo. And I still had 3 days left.

What had I done with my pass?

Perhaps I left it in the ticket machine at the station. When tickets are left, the machine sucks them in and deposits them in a container with used tickets.

Life had thrown me a fresh challenge.

Or was it me that had done the throwing?

My adventure leveled up

I had added another layer of adventure to my trip with a new task — find the lost rail pass.

I did an internet search for JR East’s lost and found. The woman on the line contacted the local station, and I waited while the employee sorted through every ticket from the ticket machines.

No luck.

The taxi company phone number was on the receipt. I gave them a call. In a few minutes, they called me back. No rail pass was left in the taxi.

Then I was really puzzled.

My mind was completely blank from the time I walked to the turnstile until I decided to take the taxi.

There was nothing left to do.

I decided to go to the station and look on the floor. Maybe I had dropped it.

The rain was still falling. I didn’t want to spend money on another taxi. This trip was a gift from one of my sons. Money is tight these days. Because of the pandemic, I have lost all income from leading tours and many of the classes I used to teach. I would save money and walk.

Then, not wanting to ruin my non-waterproof shoes, I opted to run.

I ran 2 km to the station.

I am not a runner. A swimmer, yes. A hiker, a walker. But running is not my sport. Yet, I did it with relative ease.

After patting myself on the back for my impressive stamina, I scanned the immaculately clean station floor. There was not a scrap of paper to be seen.

I went to the office window in the station. The gentleman assured me he had gone through every single ticket and my train pass wasn’t there. A woman stood beside him, looking like she wished she could help.

After some discussion about the lost pass, I explained that I would need it for my 6:45 train the day after tomorrow. Could I get it replaced?

“Not at this station. We are too small. We have no way to issue those passes.”

Then he asked, “Are you sure you don’t have it anywhere?”

“No, I checked all my pockets.”

He and the woman went into the backroom to do a little research as to how to help me.

It was then that I looked down.

My rain jacket has a pocket in exactly the same spot as my fleece’s dedicated ticket pocket.

I unzipped it.

There was my pass!

“Sumimasen!” I called to the station employees. “I found it!!”

They came out of the backroom, all smiles.

After profuse apologies and many bows from me, we all rejoiced in that happy ending.

Much relieved, I went out of the station just as a bus pulled up. I popped my head in and asked the driver if he would be going down the street that passes my hotel.

“Sure, hop on!”

It was a grand adventure in the rain.

…but it did leave me wondering about my mental state.

The post It’s All Part of the Adventure—of Travel and of Life first appeared on More Than Tokyo and is written by Diane Tincher.

Mr. Kojima was far more than he appeared

I have been teaching English at a special care Seniors’ Home for 27 years. Along the way, I have come to know many wonderful people.

One such person was Mr. Kojima, who I first met about 10 years ago when one of the staff led him into my classroom and helped him sit down. I heard he had worked in the law department of a large university.

You can’t judge a book by its cover

Mr. Kojima’s expression was blank and a little bewildered.

I approached him and said, “Hello.”

His face brightened, and he replied with a clear, “Hello! How are you?”

How unusual!

Most people I have met at the Seniors’ Home cannot speak English, and the few that do, speak English with katakana/Japanese pronunciation that is barely understandable. For them, “How are you?” becomes, “Hah-low, hau aah yu?”

Not so with Mr. Kojima.

I answered him, “I’m fine, thank you! How are you?”

Eyes twinkling, he replied, “I’m fine, thank you! It’s a fine day, isn’t it?”

I have gotten to know this delightful man over the years. His habitual blank face transforms when I call him by name, get his attention, and direct a question to him in English. He looks up, momentarily lucid, and answers politely — usually correctly — before his head drops and his expression returns to blankness.

He attends my weekly English club at the Seniors’ Home, and our time together largely consists of simple games played in English.

One is a card matching memory game. When Mr. Kojima’s turn comes, he often looks around confused. A helper or I tell him to pick up two cards from the table, and he inevitably picks the two closest to him.

He looks at the cards and says their names in perfect English. He is the only one that does that. I think he is the only one that can do that. When he randomly gets a match, he doesn’t understand the significance. He smiles, looks baffled, and puts the cards down.

Another one is the letter-guessing game called hangman, which I change to a cheerier version with a little girl flying a kite. This always stumps Mr. Kojima who can’t seem to understand that he needs to say a letter when it’s his turn. Yet, his face lights up when he looks at the incomplete word on the chalkboard and guesses the correct answer, impressing everyone present with his English vocabulary.

At these times, I do an internal dance of joy.

After class, Mr. Kojima shakes my hand, smiles, and says, “Thank you! See you next week!” then hobbles back to his seat, unstable, helper by his side to assist him. There he sits, head down slightly, face blank. Back to default. His intellect hidden behind a wall of dementia.

He’s 62 years old.

Because of the pandemic and the flu season that preceded it, I have not seen dear Mr. Kojima for nearly three years. I hope he is well.

Click this link to read about Japan’s wonderful tradition of honoring their elderly.

The post He was Helped into my Seniors’ Classroom and Happily Surprised Us All first appeared on More Than Tokyo and is written by Diane Tincher.

Hiro’s “Perfect Death”

I have come to admire the Japanese concept of mono no aware, an awareness of the impermanence of life. Life is more beautiful and profound when viewed through the lens of its transience. This was never brought home to me more than when my dear friend Akiko’s husband passed away.

Last joyful day

At 85 years old, Hiro was tired. He had spent the afternoon playing with his grandchildren and missed his nap. Though a stroke a few years ago had reduced his mobility, his grandchildren have remained a tremendous source of joy. It had been a perfect Sunday.

No longer able to spend time on the golf course breathing the fresh air, feeling the breeze, and enjoying the company of his friends, his days have instead been spent at elderly “daycare” facilities. Bound to a wheelchair, he watched TV, chatted with the other disabled seniors, and nursed a feeling of deep melancholy. 

Today, his grandchildren had left before dinner to get home to finish their homework for school the next day. The house was quiet, the children’s cheerful chatter gone.

Hiro usually enjoyed his wife Akiko’s cooking, but this night it was hard to even lift his chopsticks to his mouth. He felt very tired, and he had no appetite.

By 8 o’clock, he was ready for bed. 

Akiko helped Hiro into bed and tucked his covers about him. She quietly did the dishes and then settled in the living room to watch TV. 

At 10 o’clock, she heard Hiro get up and go to the bathroom. Minutes passed. More minutes passed. Akiko didn’t hear him return to his room. She walked to the hall to check on him. She saw Hiro standing in the bathroom, holding onto the support bar they had installed, slowly swaying back and forth.

“Are you OK?” she asked.

“I feel a little woozy,” he answered. Akiko helped him into his wheelchair and wheeled him to his bedroom. She again helped him settle in bed and covered him. 

She noticed he was quietly gasping for air.

“Is it difficult to breathe?” she asked him. 

He nodded. 

“Shall I call the doctor?” she asked.

Again, he nodded. 

After calling the doctor, a male nurse arrived at their house. He checked Hiro’s oxygen levels. 

“His oxygen levels are low. Shall I call an ambulance?” he asked.

Hiro nodded.

The nurse called the ambulance. Then he turned to Hiro and asked which of several hospitals he wanted to go to.

Hiro had been in the hospital before. Due to the coronavirus pandemic, visitation was restricted. Being in a hospital would mean he would not be able to see his family. He changed his mind.

“Well, if you don’t want an ambulance, shall I ask the doctor to come?” the nurse suggested.

Another nod from Hiro. 

While the nurse was busy on the phone canceling the ambulance and calling the doctor, his wife Akiko called their children that lived nearby. She explained that their dad was having difficulty breathing and that they should come right away. 

Before the doctor had even arrived, the children were at their father’s bedside. They had immediately dropped what they were doing and rushed to see him. Akiko sat beside Hiro, holding his hand and stroking it gently, comforting him. 

A few minutes later, the doctor arrived and pulled out his stethoscope. 

“There is no heartbeat,” he said. He checked the pulse.

“There is no pulse.”

The family hadn’t even realized that their father had died. 

“I have never seen such a peaceful death in all my life,” the nurse whispered.

After a peaceful death

Following the tradition of respect for the deceased, Hiro’s children went to get warm washcloths to clean his body. They gently wiped him, changed him into fresh pajamas, and then left him to rest for the night.

Arrangements had been made previously with the neighborhood funeral home, so they were aware of Hiro’s wishes for a quiet funeral with just his immediate family in attendance. When Akiko called them in the morning, people from the funeral home promptly came, carefully wrapped Hiro’s body in a white cloth, and lifted him onto a stretcher which they placed in the back of their vehicle. They brought him to the funeral home and prepared him for his otsuya, Buddhist wake. 

Akiko’s daughter called her friend who is a Buddhist priest, and he agreed to come to conduct the wake. That evening, the family lit incense, and the priest chanted and rang a large brass gong, releasing Hiro’s spirit into the next world. They placed flowers around him in the coffin and encouraged him to be strong and persevere in his journey into death.

The following day, they returned to the funeral home, placed more flowers around Hiro’s body, and said their goodbyes. The funeral home worker closed his coffin which was then carried to the hearse. Akiko rode in the hearse and her children followed in their cars, a quiet procession to the crematorium. 

Cremation

Hiro’s coffin was placed on a table with beautiful flower arrangements on either side. After Akiko and her children said a final farewell, a crematorium worker pushed Hiro’s body into the mouth of a giant furnace, and the thick metal door was securely shut.

Akiko pushed the button to start the fire. They heard a terrific roar as flames engulfed Hiro’s body. 

While they waited for the fire to do its work, Akiko and her children sat at a long table in another room of the crematorium and ate packed lunches. Other groups were seated around other long tables, eating and reminiscing while waiting for their loved ones’ cremations to finish.

After an hour or so, an announcement called for Akiko and her children to come to receive Hiro’s bones. His body had been pulled out of the furnace and now lay on a table. The coffin, flowers, and much of Hiro’s body were reduced to ash. Only the scorching hot bones remained.

The attendant held out a cloth to Akiko upon which lay a set of new, still green, long bamboo chopsticks. He repeated this with each of Hiro’s family members. They then pulled their chopsticks apart, breaking the thin white strips of paper that held them together at each end.

Starting at the feet, Akiko picked up pieces of bones one by one and passed them with the chopsticks to her children, who in turn used their chopsticks to place them in an urn. From the big toe, shin, thigh, all the way up to the “Buddha bone” of the throat, the hyoid, Hiro’s family placed a selection of bones in the urn. Lastly, they reached the skullcap, which the crematorium worker crushed, as is customary, and a piece of the skull was the final bone placed in the urn. 

The crematorium worker fitted a lid on the urn and placed it in a box. He wrapped the box with a white cloth and presented it to Akiko. 

She brought the bones back to her house and placed them on a makeshift altar in front of a large photo of Hiro. She lit incense for her husband’s spirit, praying for his strength during his first week of self-reflection in the afterlife.

49 days at home

During Hiro’s first seven days in the afterlife, he will reflect on his life and come to terms with his death. On the seventh day, he will meet the Buddha at a crossroads and choose the path which he feels best. During the next weeks, Hiro will meet with various apparitions and difficulties which he must fight to overcome. The prayers and incense of his loved ones will give him strength.

After 49 days of self-reflection, struggle, and overcoming, Hiro will be able to enter into the heavenly realm. On that 49th day, his bones will be taken to the family temple where they will be interred in the temple ossuary. 

Akiko will remain at home, keeping her husband company during the first 49 days. She will light incense for him. She will offer him tea, snacks, and his favorite beer. She will encourage him and pray for his strength.

Once Hiro is interred, he will have plenty of company among both the living and the dead at the temple. Akiko and his family will not forget him. They will visit him, and continue to hold regular memorial services for him.

How to express condolences in Japan

I searched for the proper words to write my friend Akiko after she told me that her husband had died. In case you find yourself in a similar situation, here is how to express condolences in Japanese:

この度は誠にご愁傷様でした。心よりお悔やみ申し上げます。お大事にしてください。

This is roughly equivalent to: “I am sorry for your loss. Please accept my sincerest condolences. Please take good care of yourself.”

Then, before visiting Akiko for the first time after her husband’s death, I wrote:

もし時間があればお伺いしてもよろしいでしょうか。ご主人様にお参りしたいです。

“If you have time, I would like to visit you and also pay my respects to your husband.”

Ten days after Hiro’s death, I visited Akiko. I knew she would have plenty of lilies, so I brought an assortment of spring flowers — plum blossoms, daffodils, and narcissus.

I placed a traditional envelope of a few used thousand yen bills on the altar for her husband. “Incense money,” it is euphemistically called. New money is reserved for celebratory occasions. Old money is exclusively used for funeral gifts. Three thousand yen is generally appropriate, as a too-generous gift could evoke an unwanted sense of the need to reciprocate.

I lit incense before Hiro’s photo and wished him well in the afterlife.

Respect for ancestors

How beautiful to be able to have such a relationship with one’s beloved after they have passed on. The family cleaning and preparing their father’s body for his final rest strikes me as natural and a perfect way to say goodbye and to start to gain closure after such a deep loss.

The 49 days with your loved one’s bones at home, as well as the regular visits to the grave and the various memorial ceremonies, seem to help the surviving family members ease into the loss of their loved one. They have time to grieve and to cope with their loss.

I wish I had had a similar opportunity to say goodbye to my parents instead of them having been whisked away to a morgue immediately after death. I said goodbye to my embalmed father in his coffin, then left him at the funeral home. After a church service the following day, he was buried in a large cemetery.

I dropped a rose onto his coffin in the grave while handfuls of dirt were tossed down by others.

In America, groundskeepers and volunteers maintain the graves, while in Japan the deceased’s family does. This is not to mourn their passing, but rather to pay their respects and keep them company.

After many years in Japan absorbing the culture, my children and I make it a point to visit my parents’ grave whenever we are able and likewise spend a little time with them, keeping them company.

Out of respect for Hiro and Akiko, I have not used their real names.

The post Death in Japan first appeared on More Than Tokyo and is written by Diane Tincher.

Elderly Japanese Woman Shares Unexpected Perspective

One day some years ago, I was sitting next to Sumiko after class at the Senior’s Day Care center where I have been teaching English for 26 years. Between bites of matcha pudding and sips of tea, she shared with me a little about her life.

Sumiko was born in Taiwan during the days of Japanese occupation in the early 20th century.

“I went to an all girls’ school in Taiwan. We were not allowed to mingle with boys. That was improper. When I came of age, I was married to a boy whose family was also from Kagoshima.”

“Did you have to marry someone from Kagoshima?” I asked.

“Yes, that was the way it was done in those days. We didn’t marry people from other prefectures. Our parents arranged the marriage. I had never even seen my husband before our wedding day.

“When I was 26, we moved to Osaka. I made uniforms in a garment factory before and during the war. My husband was sent to the war.”

She wasn’t happy with the government in those days. She hated its militarism, but like everyone else, she kept quiet.

There was very little food. Any metal she had, even cooking pots, was given to the military to be made into machines of war. Life was hard. Many died of starvation.

Like all the common people, Sumiko rejoiced when the war ended. “It was good we lost the war,” she said, echoing the words I have heard many times from those of her generation. “If we hadn’t lost, we would have all starved.”

At the end of 1945, Sumiko’s husband returned and they moved to Kagoshima, stepping foot for the first time in their ancestral city, now completely flattened by fire.

“We could see from one end of the city to the other,” she told me.

Sumiko endured the hardships of building a home and a life from the ashes of war while subsisting for months on nothing but sweet potatoes. She fought through the tough times, raised her family, and has survived into old age.

Now, in her 90’s, Sumiko says, “I’m enjoying the happiest days of my life. I live off my pension. I don’t need work or bother my kids for money. I am free. I can do whatever I want each day.”

“The happiest days,” she repeated, sighing contentedly.

See also Gratitude Never Grows Old.

The post “The Happiest Days of My Life” first appeared on More Than Tokyo and is written by Diane Tincher.