In Spiritual Japan Journal, I have often written about the Kojiki（古事記） and the places connected to Japanese mythology. Amanoiwato（天岩戸）, Izumo Taisha（出雲大社）, and ancient shrines across Japan.

Through these field visits, I have come to feel that these places cannot be described simply as “tourist sites.” They offer clues for understanding how the gods of Japan have been spoken of, and how they have been connected to nature, land, and the lives of people.

To understand Japanese culture deeply, the Kojiki is an essential entry point. The stories recorded there offer important clues to how people in ancient Japan understood the land, nature, life, and death.

Among these stories, the gods deeply connected to the birth of the land and the gods are Izanagi Ōkami（伊弉諾大神） and Izanami Ōkami（伊弉冉大神）. In the Kojiki and the Nihon Shoki（日本書紀）, these two deities are described as the gods who carried out Kuniumi（国生み）, the birth of the land, and Kamiumi（神生み）, the birth of the gods. They are said to have given birth to the Japanese islands and to many of the gods connected to them. They are also indispensable for understanding the mythological flow that later leads to Amaterasu Ōmikami（天照大御神）.

The place deeply connected to these two deities is Izanagi Jingū（伊弉諾神宮） on Awaji-shima（淡路島）. Awaji-shima has long been described as the island said to have been born first in the Kuniumi myth. And Izanagi Jingū is a special shrine that enshrines these two deities.

Why did this story become connected to the real island of Awaji-shima? And why does it still remain today in the concrete place of worship known as Izanagi Jingū?

With the landscapes I photographed, walked through, and experienced on site, I will trace that history.

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Awaji-shima and Izanagi Jingū

Izanagi Jingū is located in Taga, Awaji City, Hyōgo Prefecture. It is known as the Ichinomiya（一宮）, or highest-ranking shrine, of the former Awaji Province, and it is an old shrine whose name also appears in the Engishiki（延喜式）.

In the Kuniumi myth recorded in the Kojiki, Izanagi and Izanami stir the sea with the Amenonuboko（天沼矛）, the heavenly jeweled spear. The drops that fell from the tip of the spear are said to have formed Onogoro Island（淤能碁呂島）. The two deities descended to that island and began the birth of the land.

The first island they are said to have created was Awaji-no-ho-no-sawake-no-shima（淡道之穂之狭別島）, the island understood to correspond to present-day Awaji-shima.

What matters here is that Awaji-shima was not only a stage in myth. Since ancient times, it was also an important island in terms of maritime routes and food culture. Bronze objects such as dōtaku（銅鐸） have also been excavated on the island, showing that Awaji-shima is important when considering ancient history. It also held the role of Miketsukuni（御食国）, a region that supplied food to the imperial court.

Walking around the island, I noticed that traditions connected to mythology still remain. Izanagi Jingū should also be seen within that context. The two deities who gave birth to the land in myth are still enshrined as part of the faith of Awaji-shima. Through this, the stories of the ancient texts and the actual land begin to appear connected.

The myth of the island of beginnings. The lives of people who have lived with the sea. Traditions that remain in different places. Visiting Izanagi Jingū was also a way of confirming, with my own feet, the memory of Awaji-shima as a land where these layers overlap.

Walking Through Izanagi Jingū

When you arrive at Izanagi Jingū, the first thing that comes into view is the large torii gate standing at the front. It is about 8.2 meters high. Among shinmei-style torii gates made of granite, it is said to be one of the largest in Japan.

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At first glance, these may look like nothing more than anime character names or English words placed side by side. Yet all of them have actually been given as names to children in Japan.

There are other examples as well, such as Prince (王子) and Pooh (黄熊), names so unusual that many people would not even recognize them as names at first sight. In recent years, such examples have sparked major public debate in Japan.

Around the world, it is not uncommon to hear news of actors, singers, athletes, and other celebrities giving highly distinctive names to their children.

Japan, however, is somewhat different.

Put dramatically, it can feel as though someone wrote a single letter like “X” and declared that it should be read as “Jackson.”

You look at the characters and cannot read them. You hear the pronunciation and still cannot know which kanji are being used. In Japan, there was long a cultural freedom for parents to place their own readings onto characters according to meaning and personal intention.

Then, in 2025, a major turning point arrived in that unusually complex history of naming.

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This week, alongside the feeling of Japan today, I would also like to share a little about a new personal challenge of my own. If you are interested, I speak more about it later in this article.

April in Japan is a season of many changes. Schools begin their new academic year, companies enter a new business year, and many people step into new environments. School entrance ceremonies, new jobs, transfers, moving homes. In the streets, many people wear expressions of quiet tension, and within the spring air, there is a sense that new stories are beginning to move forward.

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As I mentioned in a previous article, many children in Japan enter school in April. Seeing them dressed in brand-new uniforms or carrying new randoseru backpacks, standing beside their families for commemorative photographs, is one of the scenes that belongs to this season. For adults as well, April is often a turning point. Many begin life in a new workplace, a new department, or with a new title.

Yet every new beginning brings fatigue as much as expectation. Unfamiliar relationships, days filled with things to learn, and rhythms of life different from before. Apart from the brightness of spring, small burdens begin to gather in both mind and body.

That is when Golden Week arrives. In Japan, several national holidays fall between late April and early May, allowing many people to take an extended break. The length of the holiday changes each year depending on how the holidays align with Saturdays and Sundays, and whether people choose to take leave on weekdays in between. In some years, it becomes a break of four or five days, while in others it can stretch to nearly ten days.

The main holidays during this period are Shōwa Day（昭和の日）on April 29, Constitution Memorial Day（憲法記念日）on May 3, Greenery Day（みどりの日）on May 4, and Children’s Day（こどもの日）on May 5. There is also a system known as Kokumin no Kyūjitsu（国民の休日）, in which a weekday between national holidays becomes a holiday itself, sometimes extending the break even further depending on the calendar.

The name “Golden Week” is not an official legal term. It is said to have spread in the 1950s as a commercial phrase used by the film industry, after noticing that cinema attendance and revenue rose sharply during this holiday period. It later became widely established in everyday society, and today it is Japan’s best-known name for a long holiday season.

Some people travel with family or friends, while others return to their hometowns. Some may simply look forward to resting quietly at home without making any special plans. For many, it is finally a chance to pause after working hard through the first weeks of a new life. Crowded stations and airports, and news reports of traffic jams on expressways, are also familiar scenes of this season.

Just as April in Japan is a month of beginnings for many people, it was the same for me.

In an article in January, I wrote that I had left the job I had held for many years. Leaving a place where I had spent so much time brought uncertainty, but it also became an opportunity to think again about how I want to use my time, and how I want to live.

Now, I am gradually exploring a way of working outside a company structure. It is not yet a finished shape. I am still trying, learning, and reconsidering things as I go. It may not be the most stable path, but there is a different kind of reality in days that I choose for myself and take responsibility for myself.

And this spring, I began something new. I started a personal vlog on YouTube.

This is a separate personal project from Spiritual Japan Journal. Through SJJ, I research and write about aspects of Japan that are not often fully conveyed in ordinary travel magazines: Japanese culture, history, shrines and temples, and the landscapes of regional Japan.

In the vlog, however, I record daily life in Japan from a more personal perspective. If Spiritual Japan Journal is a place where I share Japan through reporting and writing, this is a small record where people can see my everyday life through film.

For those who are interested, you may also find my vlog here:

Through beautiful visuals and words, I preserve fragments of the day’s atmosphere and ordinary life. Time spent at home, time spent going to work, small things that catch my eye within the changing seasons. Even in such ordinary moments, I feel that something distinctly Japanese appears naturally.

I wanted to share, in another form, the hours of daily life that never appear in guidebooks, and the feeling that someone is truly living in this country. For those who are interested, it may be another way to experience Japan, different from reading my articles.

Recently, more new readers have found this place, and I am truly grateful. To those who have been reading for some time, and to those who have only just arrived, I wanted to share a little of the changes in my own life this spring, which is why I wrote this piece today.

Through writing and through film, I hope to continue sharing Japan in many different forms.

What kind of season has this spring been for you? Have you started something new, or is there something you hope to begin soon? If you would like, I would love to hear the story of your life right now.

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—Written by Sumire

The person who brought the word Bushido to the world was Nitobe Inazō (新渡戸稲造). Born in 1862, he lived through the transition from the end of the Edo period to the beginning of modern Japan. He stood at a turning point, when the age of the samurai was ending and the shape of the country, along with its values, was changing dramatically.

In 1900, Nitobe published Bushido in English. Behind it was his wish to convey Japan’s moral outlook to the outside world. One of the questions that led him to write it came from the Belgian scholar Émile de Laveleye: “In a country where religious education is not strongly emphasized, how do people learn morality?”

In many countries, religion plays a major role as the foundation of ethical values. In Japan, by contrast, many people do not think of themselves as belonging to a specific religion. Even so, people overseas continue to express surprise at Japanese politeness, respect for time, public order, and calm behavior.

One of the answers Nitobe arrived at in order to explain that background was Bushido. It was not simply an old code for samurai. It was also a word that reflected what the Japanese people had regarded as virtue over a long span of time.

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Why did the samurai’s way of life, built on risking one’s life, endure beyond its own age?

Bushido was not originally a moral code for all Japanese people. It began as an ethic required of the samurai class.

The responsibilities placed upon them were heavier than most of us today can imagine: loyalty to one’s lord, the honor of one’s house, obedience to orders, and the resolve to give one’s life without hesitation. In an age of warfare, hesitation could lead to defeat, and betrayal could lead to the destruction of an entire family line.

For samurai, honor was not an ornament. It was something close to the very reason for living.

One symbol of this, known overseas as well, is seppuku (切腹). To take one’s own life in order to accept responsibility and wipe away shame seems extraordinarily severe from a modern perspective. Yet in samurai society of the time, there truly existed a way of thinking that valued honor above life itself.

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Did you know that at this time of year in Japan, fish can be seen swimming through the sky? In home gardens, at schools and kindergartens, in parks and shopping malls, fish of all sizes sway in the wind.

Their name is Koinobori（鯉のぼり）, carp streamers.

In a previous article, I introduced Hinamatsuri（ひな祭り）.

It is a familiar scene of spring in Japan, where hina dolls are displayed and prayers are offered for the healthy growth of girls.

If there is a day associated with wishing for the growth of girls, then of course there is also a day associated with wishing for the growth of boys. That is the approaching Tango no Sekku（端午の節句）. During this season, koinobori are displayed, and homes are decorated with kabuto helmets and Gogatsu Ningyō（五月人形）, May dolls.

May 5, the day of Tango no Sekku, is now a national holiday known as Children’s Day（こどもの日）. By law, it is defined as a day to respect the character of children, promote their happiness, and express gratitude to mothers.

However, this day was originally celebrated as Tango no Sekku, a day to pray for the healthy growth of boys. For that reason, even now, many people still hold the impression that Hinamatsuri is for girls, while May 5 is for boys.

At this time of year, koinobori begin to appear across the Japanese sky. Black, red, blue. The carp are arranged like members of a family, swelling in the wind, and they seem as if they are truly swimming overhead.

When speaking of the meaning of koinobori, the best-known reference is the Chinese tale of Tōryūmon（登竜門）. It tells of a carp that climbs a rushing waterfall and becomes a dragon. From this story, the carp came to symbolize overcoming hardship, growing stronger, and achieving success. People place that wish into the form of these fish, hoping children too will grow strong and resilient.

Yet the origin of koinobori is not explained by this tale alone. In Edo-period Japan, society was divided by class, with different roles and ways of life. The warrior class governed politics and military affairs, while townspeople lived in cities as merchants and artisans. Where people lived, what they wore, and what they could own also differed greatly. Even within the same town, daily life could look very different.

Tango no Sekku was originally an especially important occasion in warrior households. When a boy was born, banners and streamers were raised in front of the home to celebrate the birth of an heir and pray for his healthy growth. For warrior families, the growth of a son carried great importance, as it meant continuing the household line and protecting the family name.

As Edo cities prospered and merchants and artisans built lives of increasing comfort, townspeople also came to wish to celebrate the growth of their own children. However, displaying crested military banners or armor in the manner of the warrior class was not realistic for them. Instead, they turned to the carp, a creature associated with good fortune and familiar to ordinary people, and began raising decorations shaped like carp.

In that sense, koinobori were born when the seasonal customs of warrior society were transformed into a new form within the townspeople culture of Edo. What began as a celebratory scene in samurai households gradually spread into the sky as the wishes of ordinary townspeople.

For that reason, the koinobori that swim above Japan today carry not only the hopes of families wishing for the growth of their children, but also the layered history of a changing society.

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Inside homes, some families also display kabuto helmets and Gogatsu Ningyō. They are especially common in households with boys, and the helmet carries the meaning of protecting a child from misfortune. In the past, many families displayed large, elaborate sets, but today smaller pieces that fit on a shelf, along with simpler designs suited to modern homes, have become more common.

Walking through the city, one can also sense changes in the form of koinobori themselves. In earlier years, it was common to see large carp streamers raised in home gardens. In urban areas today, smaller versions for balconies have become more common. Some still swim across wide open skies, while others move gently beside apartment windows. In both forms, the wishes of each family seem to remain.

At the same time, there are places where this tradition continues to be preserved by the whole community.

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Last year, I visited Tsuetate Onsen（杖立温泉）in Kumamoto Prefecture. This area is loved for the quality of its hot spring waters, the steam rising from the ground, and the nostalgic atmosphere of its old-fashioned hot spring town. It is also known for the scale of its spring koinobori display. Around 3,500 carp streamers are raised above the Tsuetate River that runs through the town.

I remember watching the carp swim as though weaving through the pure white steam rising from the riverside inns. The scent of sulfur mixed with the sound of the streamers snapping in the wind, and the sheer power of the scene was unforgettable.

Koinobori displayed at home carry the wishes of a family. The koinobori of Tsuetate Onsen carried the joy of an entire community welcoming the season. It felt like a place where tradition was being preserved while also nurtured into a new landscape. I introduced it in more detail in last year’s article as well.

Scenes like these remind me that Japanese seasonal traditions are not simply preserved unchanged from the past. They adapt to changing homes, gain new charm through local creativity, and settle naturally into modern life.

In March, hina dolls are displayed. In April, new lives begin. In May, carp streamers swim through the sky. Spring in Japan is a season in which scenes wishing for the growth of children continue one after another.

Looking up at the koinobori overhead, I find myself hoping that children will grow up healthy, and that the families watching over them may live peaceful days. Even as times change, perhaps the wish for children’s happiness continues to be passed on unchanged.

Are there seasonal traditions where you live that wish for the growth of children or the happiness of families? If so, I would love to hear about the spring scenes of your own country.

—Written by Sumire

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At that time, I was far away from Ishikawa.

I was not directly affected myself. Yet I still remember the repeated images from the disaster area shown amid what should have been a celebratory New Year atmosphere: collapsed buildings, severed roads, and people spending anxious hours in evacuation shelters. At a time when words of celebration should have filled the air, many people were facing hardship.

I felt helpless being so far away, and it deeply pained me.

Time passed, and this year, I visited Ishikawa.

The first thing that made me happy on this journey was seeing so many international travelers at the airport and at Kanazawa Station. I heard English spoken in many different accents, from the United States, the United Kingdom, Australia, Canada, and beyond. A bright sense of travel had returned to the city.

Of course, it would be wrong to say that Noto, the region most affected, has fully recovered. There are still areas where lives are being rebuilt and infrastructure restored. The earthquake has not become a thing of the past.

Even so, when people visit Ishikawa, dine here, stay here, experience its culture, and carry home memories of its charm, that surely becomes a source of strength for the region. Tourism is not only leisure. It is also a practical cycle that supports local communities.

What I saw on this journey was not only Ishikawa as a tourist destination.

I saw a place that continues to protect beauty.
A place that rebuilds what has been lost.
A place that cultivates new value for the future.

Through three places—兼六園（Kenrokuen）Kenrokuen Garden, 金沢城公園（Kanazawa-jō Kōen）Kanazawa Castle Park, and 石川県立図書館（Ishikawa Kenritsu Toshokan）Ishikawa Prefectural Library—I would like to share what I felt there with all of you.

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兼六園（Kenrokuen）Kenrokuen Garden

Japanese gardens are a cultural form developed to express natural scenery within a limited space, to feel the changing seasons, and to calm the mind while walking through them. Samurai families, court nobles, and temples created gardens not only to receive guests, but also to engage with nature and seek spiritual richness.

That aesthetic vision did not remain within Japan. It spread widely overseas as well. Japanese gardens have been created in countries such as Canada, Australia, the United Kingdom, and Germany, often in places with deep ties to Japan or Japanese communities. Many of these gardens are cherished both as symbols of friendship between nations and as places where local people can experience Japanese culture.

Kenrokuen Garden is one of the finest examples. It is known as one of Japan’s Three Great Gardens, alongside Kairakuen in Mito and Korakuen in Okayama, and it was developed over many years by successive lords of the Kaga Domain.

The name “Kenrokuen” comes from the Chinese classic Luoyang Mingyuan Ji and refers to six qualities considered essential to an ideal garden: spaciousness, seclusion, human care, antiquity, abundant water, and fine views. The name itself contains the ideals this garden sought to embody.

Because of our filming schedule, we entered the grounds early in the morning. With few people around, Kenrokuen had a calmness different from the daytime hours.

Sunlight filtered through the trees, light shimmered across the pond, and we walked through the clear morning air. That time itself felt like an experience.

What I noticed again and again while walking was that every direction formed a complete scene.

The placement of bridges, the breadth of the pond, the height of the trees, the curve of the paths, the arrangement of stones. Much of what appears accidental was in fact shaped through human design. Yet it never felt artificial. Wind moved through it, light entered it, trees grew, and moss spread. Nature had added its own force.

The beauty shaped by human hands and the beauty added slowly by time and nature came together to create the landscapes of Kenrokuen.

One of the garden’s most famous sights is 徽軫灯籠（Kotoji Tōrō）, standing beside Kasumigaike Pond. This stone lantern has a distinctive two-legged form and is said to be named after its resemblance to the bridges of a koto, the traditional Japanese zither. It has become one of the most recognizable symbols of Kenrokuen.

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This week in Japan, entrance ceremonies for elementary schools were held across the country. In many parts of the world, it may not be common to celebrate entering school as such a large formal occasion. In Japan, however, the entrance ceremony is one of the defining scenes of spring, and it is regarded as an important milestone for both children and their families.

Japan uses an age-based school system, so children who are six years old as of April enter the first grade of elementary school at the same time. From there, everyone advances together each year. This system is one reason why the entrance ceremony is widely seen as a shared starting line across Japanese society.

On this day, a special atmosphere surrounds the schools. Children stand beside their families dressed in formal clothes, wearing small suits or dresses, with slightly nervous expressions. Parents accompany them in formal attire, and it is not unusual to see grandparents there as well. In front of the school gates, signs reading “Entrance Ceremony” are placed, and families line up one after another to take commemorative photographs. The sight of families smiling around their children can be seen throughout Japan at this time of year.

In recent years, even live television broadcasts have reflected a change in attitude. Celebrities and announcers sometimes say, “I will join a little late because of my child’s entrance ceremony,” and many viewers accept it naturally. I believe this growing respect for family events is also part of the reason entrance ceremonies continue to hold such importance in Japanese society.

I still remember my own entrance ceremony day. It was many years ago, but I walked to school with my parents wearing a blazer, feeling proud, as though I had stepped a little closer to adulthood. I still clearly remember taking a family photograph in front of the school gate.

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Surrounded by spring cherry blossoms, children stand in line with their new randoseru backpacks on that bright and celebratory day. Then, from the very next morning, a new daily life begins. In Japan, walking to school is the standard form of commuting for elementary school students. Many children make their way to school on their own, without their parents accompanying them. At this time of year, local volunteers stand at crosswalks to watch over first graders who are walking the route for the first time. It is also common to see older students walking beside younger ones, adjusting their pace to match them.

The fact that children can ride public transportation alone or walk to school by themselves is also a symbol of Japan as a relatively safe society. There is a system in place in which not only schools and families, but the wider local community also supports children. At the same time, changes have begun to appear in that sense of safety. Whenever incidents or troubling news involving elementary school children are reported, many parents feel anxiety. More families are giving children GPS devices or driving them to school, reflecting the complex realities facing Japan today.

And spring also brings its own difficulties. While many bright and pleasant days continue, there are increasing days when the air appears hazy. The outlines of distant mountains and buildings blur, and the blue sky sometimes looks faintly white. The causes are fine particles such as yellow dust and PM2.5. In addition to seasonal pollen allergies, concerns about the health effects of airborne particles such as yellow dust and PM2.5 seem to be growing year by year.

Spring should be a season that makes people want to step outside, yet it is also a time when we must face issues of air quality. Watching children begin their new lives, I am reminded how much I hope for a society where they can walk freely beneath clear skies without anxiety. Children commuting safely, and families quietly watching over their growth. I hope such ordinary days will continue into the future.

In the place where you live, what kinds of worries or seasonal challenges come with spring? Is it pollen, changing weather, or perhaps a completely different landscape? If you would like, I would love to hear the story of spring where you are.

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—Written by Sumire

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The Etymology of “Kobe”

Kobe is widely known as a port city, and also as a city where traces of foreign culture remain. The character for “god” in the name of this city was not something added later as decoration.

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There is a word in Japan called “Osusowake（お裾分け）.”
It is a gentle custom in which people share a portion of something they have, whether it is delicious food, a small joy, or a moment of happiness. Even if it is something simple, offering just a little to someone else allows that feeling to be shared.

Today, I would like to share a piece of Japan’s beautiful spring with you.

Yesterday, I visited Miyajidake Shrine（宮地嶽神社） in Fukuoka.
As I approached the grounds, soft colors spread through the spring air, and the cherry blossoms were in full bloom.

Miyajidake Shrine enshrines Jingū Kōgō（神功皇后） and is said to have been founded approximately 1,700 years ago. It continues to be a place of prayer rooted in daily life, cherished by many people.

Around 3,000 cherry trees are planted within the grounds, and in spring, the entire shrine is enveloped in gentle shades of color.

Climbing the steps that lead to the shrine and turning back, I could see a straight path stretching all the way to the sea.
This perfectly aligned approach, extending toward the ocean, is one of the symbolic views of the shrine, a place where visitors naturally pause and take in the scene.

Turning forward again and continuing into the grounds, cherry blossoms spread overhead.
The branches were filled with flowers, layering softly and subtly changing the color of the sky.

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As I approached the worship hall, a large shimenawa（しめ縄） hung prominently, and standing before it, I was struck by its scale and presence.
This sacred rope is known as one of the defining features of the shrine.

Walking along the approach and looking up, the sight of cherry blossoms overlapping with the shrine buildings forms a distinctly Japanese landscape.
It is not a place arranged solely for tourism, but a scene that exists within the continuity of everyday life.

Beyond the main hall lies an area known as Okunomiya Hassha Meguri（奥之宮八社めぐり）.
Here, visitors can walk through the grounds and pay respects at eight small shrines, one after another, following a tradition that has continued over time.

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Walking quietly through the wooded paths, pausing at each shrine, and offering a prayer.
These small acts, one by one, seem to shape the atmosphere of this place.

Further behind, there is a pond and a small park, where cherry blossoms were also in full bloom.

Under the blossoms, many people had gathered, each spending their time in their own way.
Some groups had spread large sheets on the ground, sitting in circles with relatives and friends, sharing food together. Dishes brought from home were arranged, conversations flowed, and laughter overlapped. It felt as though people were sharing this brief spring moment with one another.

In another area, couples sat side by side on benches.
Even without many words, they shared the same view, quietly passing time together. That sense of distance carries a calmness that feels unique to this season.

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Children ran beneath the cherry blossoms, sometimes stopping to pick up fallen petals, then running again.
Each time the wind blew, petals drifted through the air and settled gently on the ground. Watching them play within that scene is something that can only be seen at this time of year.

There is no special event taking place—just time spent beneath the cherry blossoms.
This is one of the ways spring is experienced in Japan.

The sight of a shrine standing alongside cherry blossoms feels natural, and carries a quiet sense of calm.
Its beauty does not come from extravagance, but from how it blends into everyday life.

I share this scene of Japan with you.

In daily life, many difficult and incomprehensible things continue to happen.
Even so, I hope that a scene like this might gently ease someone’s heart, somewhere.

I would be glad if these photographs could offer you a moment of rest.

—Written by Sumire

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At first glance, they may appear to be nothing more than small, delicate sweet treats. However, Wagashi are more than just desserts. They are a direct physical expression of how Japanese people have faced nature, felt the seasons, and practiced hospitality toward others.

During the cherry blossom season, pale pink sweets line the shops; in autumn, designs reflecting the crimson leaves are born. Each one is created with the premise of being savored with the eyes before being eaten. Wagashi is a uniquely Japanese form of expression that encompasses not only taste, but also sight and the sense of time.

How was this culture shaped? From the era of eating nature’s bounty as it was, to the court culture, the tea ceremony, and its spread into the lives of commoners, Wagashi has slowly transformed. This time, while tracing its origins, we will look at the Wagashi culture nurtured across Japan and the aesthetics still being passed down today.

To deepen my understanding, I also participated in a Wagashi-making experience at an established shop in Kyoto. I will share my reflections on that experience in the latter half of this article. While Wagashi is food, it is an existence that does not end there. By touching upon the thinking behind it, the outlines of Japanese culture become more clearly visible.

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The twenty-four solar terms have entered Shunbun (Spring Equinox), and within the seventy-two micro-seasons, we have reached Sakura Hajimete Saku (桜始開), the time when cherry blossoms first begin to open. Japan is now approaching the season of cherry blossoms.

The temperature is rising, and the sunlight has become softer. It is a time of year when you feel inclined to go outside or open the windows to refresh the air in your home. However, there is another change during this season that often surprises those visiting Japan.

It is the sudden increase in the number of people wearing masks in the city.

On station platforms, in business districts, and in residential areas, many people are wearing masks, even though they do not appear to be unwell. Among foreign residents living in Japan, there are many who find this sight puzzling. The reason is not illness, but pollen, known as Kafun (花粉).

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Kafunshō as Part of Everyday Life in Japan

Kafunshō (花粉症) is an allergic reaction to plant pollen. It is known in the United States as hay fever, but in Japan its impact is particularly significant.

Although the figures vary depending on the study, it is said that more than 40% of the population in Japan experience some form of Kafunshō. From my own observation, it feels even more widespread than the statistics suggest. Looking around, many people appear to experience some level of symptoms, such as rhinitis, itchy eyes, or skin irritation. Rather than being regarded as a special illness, it has become a familiar part of the spring environment in Japan.

In contrast, the prevalence in the United States is often cited as being around 10% to 20%, depending on the study. This suggests that the impact is more widely felt in Japan.

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Changes That Affect Foreign Residents in Japan

Living in this environment, foreign residents in Japan may also experience similar changes. When they first arrive, they may be surprised by the number of people wearing masks, and may view it as part of local customs or habits.

However, after a few years, they may begin to notice symptoms such as sneezing or itchy eyes. In fact, there are reported cases of people developing Kafunshō about three to five years after moving to Japan. As a result, they become part of the same scene that they once observed from the outside.

Why Is There So Much Pollen?

The main causes are trees such as Sugi (Japanese cedar) and Hinoki (Japanese cypress). These were planted across Japan during the post-war reconstruction period as materials for housing. Today, these trees have matured, and in spring they release pollen across wide areas.

Pollen is not an air pollutant like yellow dust or exhaust emissions. However, because many people experience symptoms, measures against Kafunshō have become widely established in Japan.

There are also regional differences within the country. For example, 釧路市 is known as an area with very few Sugi trees. As a result, it is considered a place where the impact of pollen is relatively low, and is noted as a region where this season can be more comfortable.

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The Spread of Countermeasures and Medical Care

During this season, drugstores in Japan display a wide range of products designed to address pollen. These include high-performance masks, eye drops, nasal sprays, and other items. There are also products such as clothing that resists pollen adhesion and sprays applied to the face.

Japan’s public health insurance system also supports medical care for Kafunshō. Many people visit medical institutions and receive prescription medication tailored to their individual needs.

In recent years, additional treatment options have become known, such as sublingual immunotherapy, which gradually builds tolerance to allergens, and antibody treatments for more severe cases.

A Season When Cherry Blossoms and Pollen Arrive Together

Spring in Japan is characterized by the overlap of cherry blossom season and pollen season.

For those with Kafunshō, it is a time when preparation is necessary before going outside. At the same time, for those without symptoms, it is a comfortable and pleasant season.

If you are planning to visit Japan, this is a time when you can enjoy the seasonal scenery. Surrounded by cherry blossoms, you will be able to experience one aspect of spring in Japan.

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—Written by Sumire

The great torii gate and shrine buildings standing over the sea are now widely recognized as one of Japan’s most iconic landscapes. However, simply viewing this striking scenery without understanding why it exists here, and in this particular form, does not allow one to reach the essence of this place.

This is a place where the idea of “how one approaches a sacred realm” has taken physical form.

The Center of Faith

Itsukushima had already been recognized as a sacred place long before shrine buildings were constructed. The mountains centered around Mount Misen (弥山), the terrain covered in primeval forest, and its isolated form surrounded by the sea—within all of these, a spiritual presence was perceived, and nature itself became the object of worship.

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This article is part of the Life in Japan series, published on Saturdays. Unlike the in-depth Tuesday features, this series shares observations from everyday life and the atmosphere of Japan as it is today.

Through seasonal moments, small changes in society, and ordinary scenes from daily life, these essays aim to convey the feeling of living in Japan right now.

This week in Japan felt like a week when emotions quietly shifted.

On March 11, Japan marked the 15th anniversary of the Great East Japan Earthquake. Moments of silence were held in many places across the country. When this day arrives each year, it feels as if not only the news, but even the atmosphere of the streets grows a little quieter. For many people in Japan, March is a time to remember the past.

At the same time, March is the season of graduation. Schools hold ceremonies, and students say goodbye to friends and teachers as they prepare to move on to new places. It is a curious season when happiness and sadness exist at the same time.

Soon after that, a new season begins. In Japan, most schools and companies start their new year in April. For this reason, the period from March to April is a time when many people experience major changes. Some graduate from high school and move on to university or vocational school, while others begin their first jobs. For people of all generations, this transition marks a season of significant change.

A new school. A new job. A new town.

Amid these changes, there is a word often used in Japan: “debut.” In Japan, people say “high school debut,” “university debut,” or “working-adult debut.”

Originally, “debut” refers to a performer appearing on stage for the first time. In everyday Japanese, however, it has a slightly different meaning: changing your appearance or style when entering a new environment to start as a different version of yourself.

The sociologist Takayoshi Doi explains in his book Children Who Become / Are Made into Characters that in Japanese schools, people are often recognized as certain “characters.” Within a group, impressions form—the cheerful one, the quiet one, etc. Once these images settle, it is not easy to change them because of the expectations of those around you.

However, when the environment changes, those characters are reset. In a place where no one knows your past, you can begin again.

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You can see this in Japanese cities during this season. Spring is the busiest time for hair salons because many people want to change their image before starting a new chapter. Household surveys also show that spending on clothing increases in March and April.

However, “debut” is not always positive. Sometimes people say, “He had a high school debut,” in a teasing or sarcastic way, pointing out someone who suddenly changed their personality.

I had a friend in high school who was described this way. In middle school, she was a quiet girl who wore thick glasses. But in high school, she switched to contact lenses, began wearing makeup, and became very energetic. Someone who knew her in middle school laughed and said, “That’s quite a high school debut.”

In his book The Study of Air, the critic Yamamoto Shichihei explains that in Japan, an invisible pressure called “Kuuki” (the air) influences people’s behavior. The tendency to avoid standing out is one expression of that.

Looking back, many of my friends from childhood stayed with me through middle and high school. Because of that, I feel I had few chances to make a “debut.” Even if I wanted to change, too many people already knew who I was.

Even without trying to change, a new environment can naturally change your position. Sometimes I imagine that if I had gone to a high school where no one knew me, I might have become a slightly different version of myself.

From March to April, many people in Japan move on to new places. In those changes, they might feel a desire to try a new self. In Japan, we call this small act of courage a “debut.”

In your country, when people start a new school or job, do they also try to become a different version of themselves? I would love to hear about the culture in your country as well.

—Written by Sumire

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Yet just north of Kyoto’s city center, deep in a narrow mountain valley, there is a shrine that has long held a special place in Japanese spiritual tradition.

That place is Kifune Shrine.

The Kamo River, which flows through the city of Kyoto, begins in these mountains. Kifune Shrine stands near that source, and for centuries people have come here to pray to the deity of water. It is considered the head shrine of more than two thousand shrines across Japan that are dedicated to water deities.

What Kifune Shrine Is

The main deity of Kifune Shrine is Takaokami no Kami, a god associated with water and rain.

The character okami (龗) is an ancient word that refers to a dragon. In Japanese mythology, this deity governs rain, flowing water, and the springs that emerge from the mountains.

Kyoto itself was built in a basin surrounded by mountains, and its agriculture and daily life have long depended on water flowing down from those mountains.

Because rainfall was essential to the survival of the city, the imperial court regarded Kifune Shrine as an important place for prayer. Historical records tell us that emperors sent offerings here during times of drought to pray for rain, and during long periods of rain to ask for clear weather.

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The Name “Kifune” and Its Meaning

The name Kifune was once written with the characters 「気生根」.

These characters mean “the root where energy is born.” In other words, it refers to a place where the vital energy of the earth emerges.

Today the place name is often pronounced Kibune, with a voiced sound in the middle. In fact, the nearest train station is called Kibuneguchi Station.

However, the shrine itself is pronounced Kifune, without the voiced sound. The official English name used by the shrine is also Kifune Shrine.

In Japanese, it is common for sounds in the middle of a word to become voiced—for example, “fu” changing to “bu.” But because this shrine is dedicated to the deity of water, the pronunciation has traditionally been kept clear and unvoiced.

It is said that this reflects a simple wish: that the sacred water of the deity should never become clouded or impure.

The Approach to the Main Shrine

When visitors arrive at Kifune Shrine, one of the first things they notice is the stone staircase leading to the main shrine.

The approach begins at the second torii gate and climbs 87 steps, lined on both sides with red lanterns. This scene has become one of the most recognizable images of Kifune Shrine.

At the top of these steps lies the main shrine building.

The Origin of Ema Prayer Plaques

Within the grounds of the main shrine, you will see many wooden plaques known as ema.

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In Japanese society, March is widely embraced as the most emotional month of the year. It marks a significant turning point where one story concludes and the next chapter begins. It is the season of “Kadode“—a spiritual departure or “setting out” that the Japanese people have cherished since ancient times.

Graduation ceremonies in Japan differ slightly from the high-energy, jubilant celebrations seen elsewhere. They are quieter, more introspective occasions. It is a day to reflect on the time shared with peers, to mourn the parting from friends with whom one has worked hard, and to offer deep gratitude to teachers, the school, and the environment that provided support. Fueled by that gratitude, it is a solemn day of independence where each individual steps forward into an unknown future on their own two feet.

In this season, when cherry blossom buds begin to swell, we intentionally pause, bow deeply to the past, and organize our hearts. This week, I would like to share the spirit deep within Japanese culture regarding this milestone and the “scenery of a certain March” etched into my memory.

Why the Japanese Sing at Graduation

There is a specific “soundscape” indispensable to any Japanese graduation. During the ceremony, it is common for all graduates to raise their voices together in song.

A unique feature of Japanese education is that almost every school, from elementary to high school, has its own unique “school song“ (Koka). The culture of singing these songs at milestones like entrance ceremonies, as a symbol of the community to which one belongs, is deeply rooted. However, at graduation, in addition to these, “graduation songs” sung by the students to express their final feelings play a vital role as the ceremony’s climax.

A Growing Treasury of “Songs of the Heart”

In Japan, there are numerous graduation songs that almost every Japanese person can hum. What is fascinating is that old songs do not simply disappear; rather, songs from new eras are added one after another, creating a growing treasury of shared music across generations.

• “Augeba Totoshi”: A prestigious song from the Meiji era expressing respect and gratitude toward teachers.

• “Tabidachi no Hi ni” (On the Day of Departure): Created by junior high school teachers in the 1990s, it has become a modern anthem loved across generations.

• J-POP Anthems: In recent years, songs by popular artists, such as “March 9th” by Remioromen or “Seikai” (The Correct Answer) by RADWIMPS (known for the film Your Name), have become staples, sung for decades.

While the songs people feel most strongly about may differ by generation, the older classics are never forsaken. Instead, the repertoire of songs that Japanese people can sing together continues to expand with time.

When voices unite in the final moments of graduation, a sense of unity is born that transcends words. As each individual with their own unique personality places their thoughts into a single melody, they offer gratitude for the past and share the courage to move toward the future.

This harmony is the very aesthetic of parting that the Japanese people hold dear. However, for me, this beautiful resonance was once interrupted by an unexpected and violent tremor one spring morning.

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March 11, 2011

Japanese graduations follow a unique and strict “form.” For weeks leading up to the day, students practice repeatedly. The speed of walking during entrance and exit, the timing of sitting down in perfect unison, the tone of the response when one’s name is called—this process of refining every movement into harmony is one of the iconic scenes of Japanese school culture.

In March 2011, as a junior high school student in Hokkaido, I was in the middle of such a practice in the school gymnasium. Amid the cold air and the repeated drills of singing our graduation songs, the quiet tension was suddenly shattered by a violent shaking from beneath our feet.

The wide gymnasium creaked loudly, the straight lines of students broke, and an ominous air instantly dominated the room. Fortunately, the area of Hokkaido where I lived was spared from catastrophic physical damage. However, the sights I witnessed after the shaking stopped fundamentally overturned our “ordinary daily life.” That was the Great East Japan Earthquake.

Through the television screen, I saw unbelievable images. I could only watch in silence as schools and towns, where someone surely had been waiting for their graduation just the day before, were swallowed by the dark waters.

From that day on, my heart wavered violently. I felt the overwhelming terror of nature and the utter helplessness of humans against it. While we were practicing for our graduation, there were people losing their lives or their loved ones. I remember spending unstable days, my chest tightened by deep sorrow and the frustration of being able to do nothing but pray.

Even now, 15 years later (as of 2026), there are people whose wounds from that day have not healed. In this disaster, approximately 20,000 precious lives were lost, including disaster-related deaths, and even today, more than 2,500 people remain missing. Furthermore, residential damage caused by the tsunami and other factors reached approximately 400,000 houses, including those completely or partially destroyed.

A Prayer for Peace

Every year, when the month of March returns, the feelings I experienced that day quietly resurface. It is the realization of how precious our peaceful daily lives are, and that the ability to welcome tomorrow together is a miracle built upon countless fragile moments.

Looking across the world today, there are many people whose lives have been torn apart by conflict or disaster, and who are not even permitted the quiet rituals of “parting” or “starting anew.” Working hard alongside friends, praising each other’s efforts, and stepping forward into the future—the scenes we took for granted in Japanese graduations were, I now deeply realize, irreplaceable moments that could only exist upon a foundation of peace.

I want to transform the “will to never forget” that I have carried since that day into a prayer. It is a vow not only to mourn the past but also to never forget to be grateful for living in this moment and for having an environment where I can say “thank you” to those who matter to me.

I sincerely hope that the season of graduation does not end as a mere memory of parting, but that a gentle spring arrives for everyone, everywhere in the world, so they may walk toward tomorrow with hope.

Carried on the winds of March, I close this article with the hope that these memories may serve as a source of comfort to someone, somewhere.

If you feel comfortable sharing, I would love to hear about graduation traditions in your country.

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—Written by Sumire

Today, March 3rd, is Hina-matsuri (ひな祭り). Also known as Momo no Sekku (桃の節句) — Peach Festival, it is a radiant day of celebration to welcome the coming of spring. Walking through the streets of Japan, you will see dolls dressed in brilliant, ancient costumes displayed in department store galleries, hotel lobbies, and through the windows of private homes. During this season, the entire country seems to be enveloped in soft pink hues and festive colors.

In my own home, the Hina-ningyo (雛人形) — Hina dolls were always brought out at this time of year. As a young child, I loved sitting in front of the tiered platform, gazing at the heavy beauty of the 十二単 (Junihitoe) — Twelve-layered ceremonial robe worn by the Empress doll, and the exquisitely crafted miniature furniture. I still vividly remember my mother sternly scolding me whenever I reached out to touch them, captivated by their beauty.

These dolls are not “toys” in the sense of a Barbie doll that a child might pick up and play with. They are meant for quiet appreciation and serve as silent, guardian-like figures that protect the young girls of the household from misfortune. There is a certain sense of “taboo” in knowing they are not to be touched, yet one cannot help but be drawn into their elegant, serene expressions. This unique sense of distance is deeply etched into the memories of Hina-matsuri.

In Japan, it is a cherished tradition for families to prepare a set of Hina dolls for a girl’s first festival to show their deep love. However, these are by no means inexpensive. Even a simple set featuring only the Emperor and Empress can range from 70,000 to 300,000 yen ($450–$2,000 USD). A full multi-tiered display with fifteen dolls or a masterpiece handcrafted by a renowned artisan can easily exceed 1 million yen ($6,500+ USD). Even in today’s rational, modern lifestyle, the passion and resources Japanese people pour into these “dolls for appreciation” reflect a deep-rooted spirituality that views March 3rd not just as a festival, but as a place for sincere prayer for a child’s lifelong well-being.

The dolls are carefully displayed starting after the beginning of spring in February. Then, once the celebrations of March 3rd are over, they are packed away all at once, as if a magic spell has been broken. Why do these expensive and beautiful dolls appear for such a short time only to vanish so quickly? To solve this mystery, we must unwrap a thousand years of history hidden behind this colorful scenery.

What is the Peach Festival? Its Origins and History

The Hina dolls we see today did not start out as such luxurious decorative objects. Their origins can be traced back to the ancient Chinese “Joshi Festival.” Traditionally, on the first “Day of the Snake” in March, people would go to the water’s edge to purify themselves and ward off the evil spirits that were thought to emerge at the changing of the seasons. When this custom reached Japan, it merged with the indigenous culture of 禊 (Misogi) — Ritual purification.

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This is because Japan has a wind with a rather dramatic name: 春一番 (Haru Ichiban) - The first spring storm.

Haru Ichiban marks the moment when the heavy doors of winter are forced open by a powerful surge of southern wind. This term is more than just a nickname; it actually has a precise definition set by the Japan Meteorological Agency. It refers to the first strong southern wind (blowing at a speed of 8 meters per second or more) that occurs between 立春 (Risshun) - The first day of spring (February 4th in 2026) and 春分 (Shunbun) - The spring equinox (March 20th), accompanied by a distinct rise in temperature from the previous day.

This year, the storm was first observed in the Kyushu and Shikoku regions on February 15th, followed by Hokuriku on the 18th, and finally reaching the Kanto region on the 23rd. In the wake of these violent winds, a certain lukewarm sensation lingers in the air. Through this physical sensation, we find the certainty that the long winter is finally coming to an end.

In the silence that follows the wind, the streets are currently graced by the colors of 梅 (Ume) - Japanese apricot/Plum blossom. Looking up at the trees blanketed in white and pale pink, even those of us living here sometimes mistake them for cherry blossoms. However, if you step a little closer to observe them, you will notice the unique personality each flower possesses.

For instance, the 梅 (Ume) petals are rounded at the tips and appear to bloom pressed directly against the branches. Their fragrance is much stronger than that of cherry blossoms; the scent wafting through the cold air feels like a “dignified beauty” that has endured the winter. On the other hand, the 桜 (Sakura) - Cherry blossom, which will soon take center stage, has petals with a small split at the tip, blooming in clusters at the end of long stalks.

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As mentioned in our previous article (From White to Blue: Crossing Japan’s Seasons from North to South), Japan is a slender island nation stretching approximately 3,000 kilometers. Consequently, spring does not arrive all at once.

As Haru Ichiban chases winter out of each region, a new term begins to appear in Japanese weather forecasts: 桜前線 (Sakura Zensen) - Cherry blossom front. This refers to the lines on a map connecting the predicted dates of the first blooms, which appear to move northward across the archipelago like a wave.

According to the latest forecasts from private weather companies, the 2026 cherry blossoms are expected to bloom significantly earlier than usual nationwide. In Tokyo, blooms are predicted for mid-March, reaching full bloom by the end of the month. For the Japanese people, checking the position of this “front” every day is not merely about gathering information. It is a unique emotional habit—listening for the footsteps of spring from a distant land, much like waiting for the arrival of a dear friend.

Once the Ume signals the end of winter and the Sakura take over the relay, the entire country is swept up in a special sense of excitement known as 花見 (Hanami) - Flower viewing. Parks and riverside paths suitable for Hanami can be found all over Japan, and they teem with visitors once the trees reach full bloom.

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This tradition of Hanami has a very long history. It originally began in the Nara period (710–794) as a way to appreciate the newly introduced Ume from China. However, by the Heian period (794–1185), people’s interest shifted toward the Sakura native to Japan. The aristocrats of that era would compose poems about the beauty of the blossoms, lamenting their fleeting nature.

Over time, this elegant custom spread to the samurai class, and finally to the common people during the Edo period (1603–1868), evolving into the lively banquet style we see today. 浮世絵 (Ukiyo-e) - Woodblock prints from that time depict people vibrantly singing and dancing under full-bloom trees, with tiered food boxes spread before them. The elation we feel under the cherry blossoms today is perhaps strikingly similar to what the people of Edo felt hundreds of years ago.

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What is fascinating is how this culture is deeply rooted not only in private life but also as a corporate or organizational event. It is not uncommon for companies to include Hanami in their annual calendar, alongside year-end and New Year parties. When holding a banquet under the trees, the most vital role belongs to the “Kanji” (organizer). A classic spring scene in Japan involves junior employees arriving at parks in the chilly early morning to spread out tarps and secure a spot large enough for the whole team. The effort required to procure food and drinks and ensure everyone enjoys themselves often seems far greater than organizing a typical dinner at a restaurant, yet it serves as a testament to the passion people hold for the cherry blossoms.

Couples, friends, families, and colleagues—all sorts of people gather under the Sakura to share a joyful and delicious time. Making full use of Japan’s environment, where drinking outdoors is permitted, this custom of sharing a drink while appreciating the flowers has become one of the most liberating and happy seasonal traditions for the Japanese.

We have long cherished the spirit of cherishing and appreciating life rather than simply consuming it. To refrain from touching the branches, to enjoy the moment quietly, and to leave no trace of trash behind—these are the quiet manners of the Japanese, born from a respect for the shifting seasons.

We hope to share with you the richness of this “time spent waiting,” in the interval between the passing of the violent winds and the return of color to the world.

Along with these floral tidings, Japan will soon welcome a season celebrating a truly charming culture where young girls take center stage. I look forward to bringing you that story—of an elegant and warm tradition that invites a small piece of spring into the home—in our next issue. Please stay tuned.

—Written by Sumire

When you enjoy Japanese food, do you ever find yourself drawn to the small jars or side plates on the table? Perhaps when a steaming bowl of ラーメン (Ramen) or a beautifully arranged serving of 蕎麦 (Soba) is placed before you.

“I’d like to awaken the aroma today, so I’ll add a sprinkle of Shichimi.” “This rich, fatty cut of meat would pair perfectly with a sharp touch of Wasabi.”

This is a creative, liberating moment where you take a dish crafted by the chef and color it to suit your own palate. Here, I would like to share the secrets to enjoying Japanese food even more deeply.

Wasabi: A Green Gem to Sharpen the Senses

When most people think of Japanese food, 寿司 (Sushi) is likely the first thing that comes to mind—and わさび (Wasabi) is its indispensable companion. It is equally essential for 蕎麦 (Soba). That vibrant green hue is more than a mere stimulant; it draws out the sweetness of the ingredients and cleanses the palate with a refreshing clarity. If you are trying it for the first time, the sharp sensation that travels through your nose might surprise you, but it often leaves you craving a second bite.

While the tube-style wasabi found in many kitchens is convenient, I highly recommend experiencing freshly grated 本わさび (Hon-wasabi)—true wasabi—if the opportunity arises.

To prepare it, a traditional grater surfaced with 鮫皮 (Same-gawa) is used. This grater is covered with fine-grained sharkskin, which has a unique, sandpaper-like texture that is essential for breaking down the wasabi cells at a microscopic level. This process releases its full aroma and creates a creamy, delicate paste. As you grate the root in a slow, circular motion, the fragrance that arises is entirely different from the processed version. Behind that sharp, sinus-clearing sting, you will discover a surprisingly fruity and fresh flavor.

Taking the time to grate wasabi by hand transforms a simple meal into a much richer experience.

Wasabi is more than just a flavor; the environment in which it grows has become a captivating destination for travelers. At the 大王わさび農場 (Daio Wasabi Farm) in Nagano Prefecture, the sight of crystal-clear water from the Northern Alps flowing through beautiful wasabi fields is a scene to behold. Here, you can feel the vitality of the plants growing in pure, cold streams.

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This month, my work as a journalist took me to the snowfields of my hometown in 北海道 (Hokkaido). Just a few days later, I found myself standing on the sandy shores of 沖縄 (Okinawa) for a personal vacation. This journey, spanning approximately 3,000 km (about 1,860 miles) from the northern tip to the southern reaches of Japan, was more than just a trip—it was an experience of “crossing borders,” as if jumping between two entirely different seasons.

On one side was a fierce blizzard making national headlines; on the other, an early summer warmth that made me forget it was still February. This extreme contrast, brought about by just a few hours of flight, reminded me once again of the profound diversity of Japan. Today, I would like to share my record of these two extremes: the rugged beauty of the North through the eyes of a reporter, and the liberating warmth of the South as a traveler.

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Hokkaido: Snowy Daily Life and the Memory of Reporting

The first half of my journey was a trip back to Hokkaido for a reporting assignment. February in Hokkaido is the most beautiful time of the year, but also the most unforgiving.

During my stay, Hokkaido was hit by a severe winter storm. At New Chitose Airport, heavy snow and poor visibility led to over 130 flight cancellations in a single day. The JR trains were also suspended for several days, primarily around the Sapporo area. Outside my window, the world was often lost in a ホワイトアウト (Whiteout)—a wall of pure white where you can’t see more than a few meters ahead. My planned trains were halted, and colleagues were delayed by canceled flights. It was a time that reminded me of the reality of a Hokkaido winter: things rarely go as planned. However, even in such harsh conditions, I was fortunate enough to catch moments of clear weather to complete the coverage I’ve shared with you.

In the midst of these storms, my mornings at my family home were defined by 雪かき (Yukikaki) - Snow Shoveling. Since I was staying at home rather than a hotel, clearing the driveway and the front of the house was an unavoidable daily chore. Silently moving layers of snow that had fallen tens of centimeters deep overnight became a meditative ritual. In the profound silence, only the sound of the shovel biting into the snow echoed—a rhythm that, in a way, felt like it was resetting my mind.

During my assignment, I visited two iconic winter events: the さっぽろ雪まつり (Sapporo Yuki Matsuri) - Sapporo Snow Festival, where giant snow sculptures line the city streets, and the 支笏湖氷濤まつり (Shikotsuko Hyoto Matsuri) - Lake Shikotsu Ice Festival, featuring mystical ice structures created from the crystal-clear waters of Lake Shikotsu.

After finishing my work in the freezing cold, the ultimate reward was always a warm meal. Whether it was the fragrant spice of スープカレー (Soup Curry), a rich bowl of 味噌ラーメン (Miso Ramen), fresh お寿司 (Oshushi) - Sushi, or the robust flavor of ジンギスカン (Jingisukan) - Grilled Mutton, every bite was exceptional. But above all, the simple, warm meals prepared by my mother were the irreplaceable flavors of home that truly healed me.

Leaving this world of white behind, I found myself enveloped in a vivid “blue” just a few days later.

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Okinawa: Spring at the Other End of 3,000km

Immediately after returning from Hokkaido, I headed to Okinawa for a private getaway. The moment I stepped out of the airport, I stood still in surprise. The texture and temperature of the air against my skin were entirely different from where I had been just hours before. A humid, warm southern breeze greeted me.

This February in Okinawa was particularly special. Temperatures soared to nearly 25°C (77°F), leading to news reports of a 夏日 (Natsubi) - Summer Day, a level of heat rarely seen this time of year—some called it a “once-in-a-decade” occurrence. It felt like a lifetime ago that I was in Hokkaido, wearing thick socks and gloves, fully geared up for shoveling snow. The emerald green sea stretching out before me was so vibrant it made me forget the very concept of winter. The sense of liberation from being able to spend the day in just a T-shirt was the most shocking moment of the trip.

One of the highlights of this Okinawa visit was watching the 春季キャンプ (Shunki Kyanpu) - Spring Training Camp for professional baseball. I visited the stadium to see the 北海道日本ハムファイターズ (Hokkaido Nippon-Ham Fighters)—my local team and the former home of Shohei Ohtani before he moved to the MLB. Watching a team based in Hokkaido sweat under the bright Okinawan sun made me realize how vast Japan is and how each region plays its own role in the nation’s fabric. The sharp crack of the bats and the shouts of the players felt like the true footsteps of a spring that still felt so far away in the North.

Such a drastic environmental shift in just a few hours of travel is perhaps the greatest charm of journeying through the long, slender archipelago of Japan.

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Travel Advice: Finding Your “Best” Season

Reflecting on this journey, I realized once more that every prefecture in Japan has a “golden window”—a perfect time to experience its charms to the fullest.

If you plan to visit Hokkaido, the winter scenery I experienced is truly peerless. However, you should prepare for the risk of transportation delays caused by heavy snow. I recommend leaving an extra day in your schedule and embracing any delays as part of the “northern initiation.” On the other hand, Hokkaido in summer is an excellent retreat from the heat. While the rest of Japan swelters, Hokkaido offers a refreshingly cool breeze. Just a note: if you are looking for a beach holiday like in Okinawa, be aware that the swimming season in Hokkaido is incredibly short. It is best enjoyed by driving through vast landscapes or visiting the brilliant flower fields.

Other regions also offer distinct seasonal “best” moments. For instance, 京都 (Kyoto) is at its most poetic during the 桜 (Sakura) - Cherry blossoms of spring or the fiery 紅葉 (Koyo) - Autumn colors. The architectural beauty of temples and shrines is most striking when framed by these natural hues.

Japan is a country deeply rooted in its 祭り (Matsuri) - Festival culture. If you are planning a trip to Japan, please let me know! I might be able to suggest the best destinations or hidden culinary gems for that specific time of year.

From white to blue. My journey this time was not only about feeling the scale of Japan but also about accepting the different timelines each land holds. Even within a single country, the experience changes entirely depending on when you visit. This unpredictable diversity is exactly why a journey through Japan never truly feels finished.

—Written by Sumire