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A content marketing strategist and consultant. Passionate about storytelling for great teams and products. Co-founder of Business 3. Thanks for sharing your trip, Athena! Looking forward to day 2! Like Like. I was away for the weekend in another rural village, Gujo-Hachiman. Like Liked by 1 person. I was at Gujo Hachiman last weekend and have even more photos! You are commenting using your WordPress.

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a personal introduction to Japanese photography

First, arrival and food! The thing that caught my eye.

The Neighbourhood Gathering

And the sound that caught my imagination. The Fujifilm X gave me black and white again. Final approach to the main worship hall. The courtyard and the prayer hall where visitors make their prayers. Ame no Kagoyama no Mikoto, great-grandson of Amaterasu Omikami, is the enshrine deity here. The usual sake offerings found in big temples. Each is from a local brewer. A private moment at a specific shrine. May this lengthy wish come true. This small moss-covered thatch hut is a national treasure. Stone guardians Then, being a history junkie, I headed off into the Treasure Hall.

Many blades in the treasure hall had their hilts removed. The blades on display in the treasure hall.

Photo Essay Under The Tokyo Sky Two Japanese Edition -

With that, I headed off to more temple-hopping. Like this: Like Loading Athena Lam A content marketing strategist and consultant. Also love your photos too! Thank you! Thank you Jasmine! Will publish Yahiko Day 2 first! Hope you had a good trip! Pingback: Looking back in photos from Part 2 April-June.

Tokyo Photography - Night & Day

Pingback: 15 tips for travelling rural Japan — The Cup and the Road. Leave a Reply Cancel reply Enter your comment here Even now, there is something haunted about the sakura; it is associated with death in a way that people cannot articulate to their satisfaction. There are bodies buried beneath the cherry trees.

Oh, yes, you can take my word for it. How otherwise do you think the blossom could bloom so splendidly? You mark my word! Just try imagining that each of these cherry trees, with its riotous mass of blossom, has a corpse buried beneath it. What can be responsible for such petals, for such pistils and stamens? I seem to see the crystalline fluid, drawn up by the tendrils, advancing dreamlike in quiet columns through the veins of the trees.

The idea of the cherry blossom as a Japanese citizen, willing to sacrifice his life for the country, was an appropriative convenience. Four years after he published his story, Kajii was dead of tuberculosis.

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He was Or maybe it would be more accurate to say not that he was dead, but that he had become a cherry tree. Not reborn, quite, but remade. Every tree in Japan is therefore not just a symbol of the dead, but a manifestation of them. A wave, an earthquake, a typhoon — anything can be destroyed, no matter how cherished or how hard-fought. But a cherry tree promises that despite the destruction, there will always be more, more, more.

Or, even better: Again, again, again. One day I rode the train out to the suburbs to see the Edo-Tokyo Open Air Architectural Museum, a acre campus with 30 well-preserved or renovated Japanese houses dating from the s through the s. The museum is one of my favorites in Japan, and after I had spent the morning there, I bought a soft-serve ice cream sakura flavored and walked through the large surrounding park. Here and there were a few plum trees, their flowers dazzlingly fuchsia. Cherry trees had been planted in long, stately rows, and there was a wooden sign listing the different varieties and their expected bloom date: The first group of them would flower in 10 days, but by then I would already be back in New York.

About 20 minutes into my walk, I encountered a cherry tree in bloom, its branches a penumbra of white. It was a spindly, boastful thing, and yet a dozen people sat beneath it, chatting and murmuring, briskly unpacking elaborate lunches. Up close, I saw that each flower had a deep-pink throat, and it was this, as well as the tiny dots of pink that topped each stamen, that gave the blossom its color. The petals were so thin that they spun, rather than floated, to the ground, where they plastered themselves to the asphalt walkways like damp tissue. Try to press one and it spoils, smearing the pages of your book with brown.

I saw plum trees and camellia bushes and, everywhere, glossy black-barked cherry trees, their branches blistered with unopened buds, people circling hopefully beneath them as if they might at any moment burst into bloom. Then I returned to Tokyo; the following day, I would go home.

Stolen Child

Back in the city, it was humid again. At the train station, I hailed a taxi and stared out the window as the car wound its way through the light midday traffic, working its way to the west of the city, where I would spend my final night. We were in Shinjuku now.

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The car turned down one unremarkable thoroughfare, and then another. And then it turned again, and suddenly we were on a street ablaze with cherry trees in luxuriant, excessive bloom. There they were, a dozen on each side of the street, all of them shaggy with flowers, the air around them swarming with floating petals, as if the petals were affixing themselves to the branches. We as parents spend much of our waking hours working, making a living, running the home and just generally being busy, while our kids are tied up in school, faced with an endless stream of homework and exams.

Some days, we work late, and by the time we are home, the kids are asleep. And when the kids wake up for school at 5am because the school bus comes at 5. Which leaves the weekend, or late in the day, to know each other. No plans, no fixed itinerary, and no luggage. Yes, we had no luggage.