Japan unfolds like a delicate, living haiku, a place of striking contrasts and subtle details. The streets are immaculate, every corner meticulously cared for, reflecting a deep cultural respect for cleanliness and order. Neon lights pulse in the night like slow heartbeats, while temple bells ring softly at dawn, mingling with the distant hum of trains arriving precisely on schedule. The scent of incense drifts through narrow alleys, blending with the fresh, cool air that carries faint notes of cherry blossoms in spring or crisp leaves in autumn. In Tokyo, life moves with exacting precision, each moment measured and orchestrated down to the second, from the silent bow of a shopkeeper to the swift, coordinated efficiency of the subway system.

Rituals are part of everyday existence — from the morning cleansing at shrines to the quiet offerings left on family altars. This deep-rooted reverence for tradition operates alongside cutting-edge technology, creating a unique harmony between the ancient and the modern.

Japan has become like a second home to me. I lived there for several years, a couple of decades ago, drawn into a world where bodies and movement carry stories of impermanence, loss, and transformation. Over the years, I’ve returned many times, each visit deepening my understanding of how this culture holds death close, folding it into the fabric of everyday life with care and precision.

During my time living in Japan, I was often among the first to arrive after someone had died by suicide. The stillness in those moments left a lasting imprint on me. The heads that turn away, the unspoken grief, and the rituals that followed shaped how I began to see death as a complex, layered presence felt throughout daily living.

Tokyo offers a striking mix of the ancient and the hypermodern—a city where centuries-old temples sit beside sleek, automated columbaria, where tradition and technology meet in unexpected ways. I’ve witnessed memorial altars that glow softly with LED-lit Buddhas, and silent, minimalist spaces where cremains rest behind card-activated drawers. I’ve walked through quiet rows of Jizō statues, each one clothed in red bibs and hats, guarding the souls of lost children with gentle care.

I’ve also connected with the trauma cleaners who respectfully prepare homes after solitary deaths, absorbing the weight of lives ended alone, and came to understand the delicate ritual of kotsuage, where families gather to collect the bones of their loved ones with chopsticks—an act of deep connection and farewell.

In Japan, death exists quietly, often unspoken and kept at a distance, yet deeply embedded in rituals and daily practice. It shapes moments both public and private, carried through subtle acts and silent prayers in spaces that feel both tender and precise. This complex relationship has shaped my perspective, inviting me to listen closely to the many ways grief, memory, and presence are lived beneath the surface.

命は水のように流れ、死はその流れの一部である。
Life flows like water, and death is a part of that flow.