Category Archives: Katsushika

Thoughtful Rain, Equal Moisture

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As part of Hatsumode, it is a longstanding tradition in Japan to visit a temple or shrine during the first three days of the New Year. This involves returning and cremating old amulets, purchasing new ones, having a fortune taken, and making the first prayer of the year. To avoid the crowds, I have chosen to visit a peaceful temple in Shibamata, located in Katsushika Ward. I awake early, the air still cool and filled with the moisture of the early morning dew, and make my way to the temple to begin the new year with a sense of serenity and reverence.

As I approach the temple, I am welcomed by Taishakuten-Sando, a row of traditional Japanese shops flanking a narrow street that leads to the temple. This street and temple survived the bombing of World War II, offering a glimpse into Japan’s history. As I stroll along the 200-metre stretch, the aroma of simmering oden fills the air and I pass shops selling mochi, pancakes, and rice crackers. Taishakuten-Sando serves as the main shopping street for the quaint town of Shibamata.

Upon arriving at Shibamata Taishakuten, I join the short queue of people making their first wish of the New Year. To make a play on words, I have carefully prepared four ten-yen coins and one five-yen coin (totalling ¥45, which is pronounced Shiju-Goen in Japanese, meaning “always lucky”). As I reach the front of the line, I throw in my coins, ring one of the large bells, and follow the customary ritual of bowing twice, clapping twice, and bowing again before praying for nothing at all.

At the temple, there is a large pine tree called Zuiryu-no-Matsu, meaning “dragon of fortune pines.” It towers in front of the main hall and is shaped like a dragon. Its trunk grows straight towards the sky, and its long branches extend north, south, and west. The west branch extends as if the dragon is crawling on its belly on the stone pavement, while the north and south branches spread as if guarding the Taishaku-do Hall. The tree seems to come alive, appearing as a dragon taking flight towards the sky.

The temple was founded in 1629 by a Buddhist monk named Nichiei Shonin, who stopped in Shibamata and, upon discovering a sacred fountain under the grand pine tree, decided to build a hermitage there. The dragon of fortune pines is said to be over 500 years old, stands tall and proud. The Japanese gardens, a later addition in 1926, provide a peaceful and serene atmosphere.

As I leave the tree behind and make my way to the rear of the temple, I come upon the opportunity to purchase a ticket for ¥400, granting access to both the museum and the picturesque Suikei-en Garden. The entrance to the garden is adorned with intricate wood carvings above each tatami mat room, inviting me to step into a peaceful outdoor paradise. The garden boasts stone bridges, flowers glistening with the hanging moisture of the early morning, a charming pagoda statue, a breathtaking lake as its centrepiece, and even a tranquil waterfall.

As I stand before the waterfall, I find myself trying to pinpoint the source of my unease. Could it be the way the water flows so slowly, as if in mimicry of rain? The offerings and coins at the base of the waterfall appear unremarkable, yet something about them feels off. And then I see it – the poorly translated notice above, urging me to “simply wash my hands without water” to prevent infection from the ominous Coronavirus. The absurdity of the statement only adds to the disquietude that lingers in the air.

As I enter the museum, my eyes are immediately drawn to the stunning wood carvings that adorn the walls. Each one tells a part of the tale of the Lotus Sutra, with two chapters represented in each intricate, three-dimensional carving. The language used to describe the carvings is nicely written, and one line stands out to me in particular: “We people are like children busily playing in what is a burning house, without any fears.” The artistry and wisdom captured in these carvings leaves me in awe.

Chapter five, entitled “Thoughtful Rain, Equal Moisture,” was carved by Shinko Ishikawa and depicts the following: “The deeply benevolent teaching of the Buddha is similar to the gentle rain that everywhere dampens the soil. Here, the God of lightning and the God of wind appear, and together they let it rain. The great earth is then embraced with a blanket of foliage in which varieties of flowers proudly bloom. With this, the heavenly beings also joyfully dance down to the paradise below.”

As I leave Shibamata Taishakuten, I step into a large retro sweet shop filled with rows of colourful candy in glass jars. The air is thick with the scent of sugar, and there are every type of sugary treat imaginable. I wander up and down the aisles, passing old arcade machines and pinball tables. On the second floor is the Shibamata Toy Museum, featuring games from the Showa-era. I explore the museum, including a room with a display of dolls depicting the tale of “Momotaro,” or Peach Boy. I eventually head back downstairs to purchase a bag of gummy worms at the counter, before leaving the shop.

The gummy worms turn out to be a lot stickier than I had anticipated, but I have a solution: I’ll just wash my hands without water.

Reflections on a Winter’s Day

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As I walk along Hikifune Water Park Street, I can’t help but feel a sense of nostalgia wash over me. It’s been five years since I lived in Katsushika Ward, Tokyo, and revisiting my old neighbourhood brings back a flood of memories. The winter morning air is crisp and chill, and my breath turns to white wisps of fog that swirl and still as I make my way to my first destination.

The street itself is unremarkable. It used to be a train line, but now it has been transformed into a park that stretches from the Arakawa River all the way to Ohanajaya. As I begin to walk its length, I can’t help but enjoy the sense of familiarity.

As I wander down the street, memories of my past come flooding back. On a late night walk home with a friend, we had stopped to rest on one of the park’s benches, halfway through our journey. My friend was convinced he heard the sound of a train echoing down the length of the park. It’s said that at night, a ghost train can be heard thundering down where the old train tracks once were, and I’ve heard similar accounts from others. It’s a story that has stuck with me, and one that has been corroborated by others who have experienced it.

As I continue my leisurely walk, I pass Ohanajaya Station, its name, meaning “Tea and Flowers,” imparting a sense of charm. However, every time I pass by, the song “Govinda” by Kula Shaker runs through my head, as I rhyme its catchy refrain of “Ohana Jaya Jaya.” Eventually, I arrive at the picturesque inner reservoir of Mizumoto Park, my gaze drinking in the peaceful surroundings and the stunning reflection on the water’s surface.

Mizumoto Park is the largest park in Tokyo. Bursting with lush gardens and natural beauty, with a large pond at its centre. The park boasts an aquatic plant garden, a bird sanctuary, a babbling stream field, and three car parks. In early spring the park becomes awash with the gentle pink hue of the cherry blossoms.

I make my way over to one of the ponds and sit upon a bench for a time. I watch as a turtle gracefully swims through the water, its movements causing ripples to spread across the surface. The reflections of the surrounding trees dance and shimmer upon the water, creating a mesmerising visual display. The soothing sounds of chirping insects and rustling leaves add to the peaceful atmosphere, and I am content to sit and take it all in.

As I sit on this bench, surrounded by the tranquil beauty of the pond and the trees, I can’t help but feel a sense of melancholy wash over me. I reflect, thinking back on the year that has passed, and the ephemeral nature of time. I realise that I don’t have any plans or dreams for the future, and the thought fills me with a sense of sadness. All I know is that for now, I want to keep exploring the hidden corners of Japan and sharing my adventures through my words. But in this moment, the weight of my own insignificance and the impermanence of everything feels almost overwhelming.

As I continue my peaceful walk through the park, I come across a telephone box nestled amongst the flowers. Legend has it that this particular telephone box is also haunted, and that at dusk a ghostly figure can be seen lurking inside. However, as I peer closer, the only ghost I find here is the reflection of Mount Fuji in the glass. It’s a breathtaking sight, and I stand for a moment, mesmerised by the beauty of it all. For some reason, the mountain is not visible to the naked eye here; it exists only in the glass of this haunted phone box.

As I wait for the sun to set and darkness to envelop the park, I am treated to a daily ritual at 5 o’clock. The speakers throughout Katsushika emit a creepy, slowed-down song accompanied by an eerie chime. The song echoes throughout the park, reminding me that the day is coming to a close and it’s time to return home. The pealing bell of the mountain temple beckons me, promising the sight of a bright, round moon shining down and illuminating the sky in twilight, filled with the brightest stars as the birds begin to dream.