Shrines and Festivals — Familiar Places of Childhood
As a child, the local shrine was part of everyday life. It stood near my primary school and was where my friends and I would often play. The chief priest showed us how to bow correctly and warned us of certain taboos — not to fish for koi in the pond, or peek behind the main sanctuary. I think it was then I first sensed something sacred in the air, especially around that quiet pond.
The shrine festival was the highlight of the year in our small town. We children carried the mikoshi, shouting “Wasshoi!” as we marched through the streets. Though the wooden beams dug into our shoulders, I felt a strange pride as we passed the crowds. Back then, the high street was still full of life.
On festival days, the shrine path was lined with colourful food stalls. Drawn by the glow of lanterns and the smell of grilled snacks, I’d slip away from my parents and lose myself in the bustle. I gambled away my pocket money on silly games, and didn’t mind one bit. For a schoolboy, the energy of the festival was a thrilling world of its own.
Later, I drifted away from shrines for many years. But in my forties, I began visiting again — first at a shrine near my office in Tokyo. Surrounded by city noise, the shrine offered quiet and shade beneath green trees. It felt like a place to breathe and recharge.
In Japan’s countryside, where communities are shrinking, both shrines and festivals have lost some of their former vigour. Yet local people continue to care for them. Even those who’ve moved away often return home for festival days. I imagine taking part again brings back childhood memories. Even for adults, the festival remains something joyful and grounding. Shrines and festivals have long been emotional anchors for their communities.
I believe everyone has their own memories of shrines. These are mine — and I hope they might encourage others to reflect on what shrines mean to them.
Places Where Wishes Are Heard
After the Noto Peninsula earthquake, I once saw a TV report of people rebuilding a collapsed shrine. One man said, “We need a place to pray if we’re going to move forward.” His words struck a chord. In Japan, where natural disasters are common, rebuilding a shrine often becomes a symbol of hope and recovery. A well-known case is Aso Shrine, which was restored after the 2016 Kumamoto earthquake.
Even in ordinary life, people visit shrines. You might see someone clapping twice, bowing, then standing quietly in prayer. Whether asking for family safety, business success, protection from accidents, or good exam results, they seem genuinely sincere. Shrines clearly offer comfort in uncertain times and help people face the future.
The first shrine visit of the year, known as hatsumode, is a tradition followed across the country. People also visit shrines for life events — to mark a child’s birth, the Shichi-Go-San festival, or to hold weddings and other ceremonies.
Every shrine has its own character, shaped by its history. In some rural places, sacred kagura dances are still performed, and old rituals praying for good harvests or protection from illness continue today. The fact these traditions have been passed down for centuries feels nothing short of miraculous.
Shrines remain essential to community life — places of prayer, celebration, and togetherness.
The Japanese Sense of Religion
In recent years, shrines like Fushimi Inari and Itsukushima have become popular with visitors from abroad. I’m often asked about the history of Shinto, or whether Japanese people are religious. It can be a hard question to answer.
I usually explain that Shinto has no founder or doctrine, and in that sense, doesn’t quite fit the Western idea of “religion.” But this doesn’t mean the Japanese lack a spiritual side. Many homes had both a kamidana (Shinto altar) and butsudan (Buddhist altar), and people prayed daily. During the summer Obon season, families welcome ancestral spirits. Visiting graves during equinoxes is still common.
The instinct to pray — to gods, nature, or ancestors — is strong in Japan. It just takes different forms.
I remember visiting Ise Grand Shrine and crossing the Uji Bridge into the sacred forest. There, at the site where a new shrine would be built for the next Shikinen Sengu ritual, I was moved by something quiet and deep. It seemed to me that Japanese spirituality is rooted in awe for nature — not abstract ideas, but the very trees and stones before us.
In my view, kami — the Shinto deities — reflect this feeling. They are not singular gods, but countless presences: the god of the sea, of the mountain, of rice. They represent nature’s blessings. Gratitude towards these forces has shaped the Japanese sense of the sacred. Shinto is a nature-based belief, blended with ancestor worship and Buddhism. It fosters a gentle, harmonious outlook on life.
Shrines and the Community
For centuries, Japan — rarely invaded from outside — has nurtured a quiet, open spirituality, in tune with its rich natural surroundings.
Shrines have also played political roles in Japan’s history, linked to state affairs. But above all, they have supported local communities, helping preserve bonds through festivals and seasonal rituals.
Shrines are living parts of Japanese culture. The history and traditions of each shrine are worth cherishing and passing on. I hope visitors from abroad, when stepping through the torii gates, can feel something of the spirit that Japanese people have long held dear.