Damp eyes
In my feels at Meiji Shrine and surrounds.
I inhale, feel the chill on my cheeks, bow and cross the threshold. I exhale, and my eyes are damp.
The sun has only just begun to fall from the height of a crisp Tokyo sky, but the leaves lining my path forward are already illuminated by lanterns. I take a moment to look around and bask in the delicious mix of natural and artificial light seeping across my view. Then, realising that the river of tourists ahead will accompany me on this sacred journey with more care and sincerity than could ever be embodied by Google maps, I tuck my phone into my pocket and merge in.
Swanlike, I glide along, soundtracked by the collective crunch of feet on gravel. I pause only to read the poetry billboarded alongside me, intrigued to learn of the Japanese Imperial Family’s tradition of writing a style of poem called “waka” that follows a specific syllabic pattern.
Colourful flowers
may well beautifully adorn
the hair of a woman
but fragrance of sincerity
is the heart’s real elegance.
- Waka poem by Empress Shoken
The trudging of the collective slows only in the moments that each individual lays eyes on Meiji Shrine itself. A bold and ornate building bookended by a plump pair of trees, standing before it is a striking and humbling experience for us mere mortals. I take another moment, I’m making sure to clasp onto plenty this trip, letting each experience make its mark on my mind before I photograph it.
The tidy arrangement of desks, paper and pens to the right of the shrine piques my attention. As per the detailed instructions, I put pen to paper. I try not to overthink it, a difficult feat for me, and what results is a request “to bless my loved ones with health, joy and safety - and extend this to all souls globally who feel scared, unsafe and unsettled”. If this is the first time the Shinto Gods are laying eyes on me, I figure I should probably thank them for having me in their space, so I do it in both English and (limited) Japanese for good measure.
In the same moment that my paper wish joins its fellows in the wooden box of offerings, the magnitude of such a treasury strikes me in the chest, sharp. Countless pieces of paper. Countless questions. Countless prayers. I feel the weight of the presence of those around me who have been able to make their requests to the Gods in person, the wood of the shrine and the trees bearing witness. And then I think of those whose wishes are screamed into the sky in vain, during moments of terror, of which there are too many. I inhale and I can hear their pleas, forced out by the fear squeezing their hearts. Sometimes soft, sometimes hoarse, always raw. I exhale, and my eyes are damp.
I let myself glide once again along the human river, my brain continuing to churn over my angst. My imminent tears threaten to defrost my icy cheeks, and clog up the optimism in my chest, until I am faced with the entrance of Yoyogi park. I welcome a rare opportunity in a month of living in a bustling city to lay eyes on nature, to marvel at the ways the Tokyo folk I pass are spending their Sunday evening among it.
Two children play badminton with their parents against a background of bare branches and glowing orange sky, a third older child sneaking peeks of their joy from behind a thick book. The sweet giggles of a man and small child float up to my ears as they run past me, bound together in play. I inhale, struck by the memory of how it felt to be that small. This sweet pair reminds me of how my sister and I would gaze up into the kind eyes of my Dad or my Grandad, as they sighed in amusement and joined whatever delirious games we dreamt up. I exhale, and my eyes are damp.
Night has truly settled itself in now. I begin to meander in the direction of Shibuya crossing, since I haven’t yet witnessed its chaos for myself. Down a bright and narrow side street a pop-up bookshop catches my eye. I stumble eagerly into its ready embrace, overjoyed to be presented with such an eclectic tapestry of books and trinkets. Nestled among the library of beautiful Japanese novels that I cannot decipher, I find a small blue photo-book titled ‘Tokyo Toilets’. It makes me think of my beautiful housemates, because I know they’d also find it cute and funny. I chuckle as I flick through the pages. It’s an easy decision to buy it.
I turn then and notice a collection of bottles that strike me as familiar - an unusual feeling for me to experience here. It’s a tiny and random selection of Aesop products consisting of hand-creams and perfumes, including a tester bottle labelled Marrakech. I inhale, sharply this time, and I quickly look around to check that no one is paying too much attention to me. The bold and delicious scent my darling used to wear when we first met has found me all the way in Tokyo, and I simply have to douse myself in his perfume and the accompanying nostalgia. I spray my sleeve, my skin, my scarf - overwhelmed with joy and disbelief that I’m able to breathe him in even though we’re so far apart. I exhale and my eyes are damp.
Your housemates love you desperately. I read this and my eyes are damp.