A bright afternoon view of a modern urban streetscape in Taito Ward, Tokyo, Japan, featuring a mix of contemporary office buildings, hotels, and commercial structures with a clear blue sky in the background. The elevated highway and distinctively shaped streetlight add depth to the cityscape.
Location: Ueno Station, Taito-ku, Tokyo
Timestamp: 15:05・2024/12/10
Fujifilm X100V with 5% diffusion filter
ISO 320 for 1/320 sec. at ƒ/8.0
Classic Chrome film simulation
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A late afternoon scene near Ueno Station in Taito Ward, Tokyo, Japan, capturing an urban pedestrian overpass with commuters walking and pausing to view the passing train on the Keihin-Tohoku Line. The backdrop features a mix of modern high-rise buildings, commercial signage, and the warm hues of autumn foliage under a clear blue sky.
Location: Ueno Station, Taito-ku, Tokyo
Timestamp: 15:06・2024/12/10
Fujifilm X100V with 5% diffusion filter
ISO 1250 for 1/250 sec. at ƒ/8.0
Classic Chrome film simulation
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A vibrant stained-glass mural inside Ueno Station in Tokyo, Japan, showcasing a colorful design of flowers, starry skies, and Japanese fans. The illuminated artwork adds a touch of artistry to the busy transit hub, while directional signs guide commuters to exits, subway lines, and nearby attractions.
Layers of Motion: Tokyo’s Urban Flow from Above 交差する歴史：東山道から国道4号線へ
This intersection is a typical example of how multiple two-lane streets converge from three or more angles in Tokyo. It’s quite different from cities like Sapporo in Hokkaido or Nagoya in Aichi Prefecture, where most streets that I have driven on follow a grid layout with clean 90-degree intersections.
Driving through central Tokyo—especially on a rainy night—can be daunting for the uninitiated. Navigating these multi-street intersections, where three or even five roads merge at a single point, requires careful attention.
In this photo, northbound traffic is zipping by on National Route 4, a toll-free highway that originates in Nihonbashi, Tokyo’s historic commercial district, and stretches 738.5 kilometers (458.9 miles) to the northern tip of Honshu. This makes it Japan’s longest national toll-free highway. Roughly half of Route 4 follows the path of the much older Tōsandō, a historic road dating back to the Asuka period (538–710).
Nihonbashi itself is named after a bridge located just a few blocks from the Imperial Palace. In 1604, the Tokugawa shogunate designated it as the starting point for major transportation routes. Later, during the Meiji era (1868–1912), it was officially recognized as the reference point for measuring distances on all national highways. Even today, when driving along these highways, you’ll notice slender signposts marking how far you are from the center of Nihonbashi Bridge.
Beneath the asphalt in this scene, Ueno Station’s Tokyo Metro Hibiya Line runs underground. In Tokyo and my home city of Yokohama, it’s common for stretches of subway lines to follow the same routes as surface-level streets, weaving through the dense metropolitan landscape.
Above me, where I took this shot, the Ueno Route of the Shuto Expressway runs overhead. This elevated toll road is part of a vast network of expressways looping around Tokyo, consisting mostly of overpasses that wind between high-rise office towers and apartment buildings, with occasional underpasses and tunnels.
I still remember my first drive on the Shuto Expressway in 1985, just after its circular loop was connected to the Joban Expressway in Saitama Prefecture. That night, five or six of my car-enthusiast friends and I took our tuned sports coupes and sedans onto the freshly paved expressway, enjoying the thrill of driving under a starry summer sky.
Even now, I find myself amazed by the ingenuity of the engineers who designed and built these transportation networks—stacking them high above the ground, threading them through the urban core at street level, and tunneling deep underground, all within the space constraints and astronomical costs of a city like Tokyo.
Urban Geometry: The Lines and Curves of Pachinko 東上野：パチンコ玉を象ったモニュメント
After a long meeting with a colleague near Ueno Station in Tokyo, Japan, I took a short break before heading back to my office in Yokohama. As I made my way back to the station, I took the opportunity to capture some street photography, documenting scenes around Ueno Station.
In this shot, standing at over 7 meters tall (more than 24 feet), is a striking stainless steel "U"-shaped sculpture crowned with a reflective steel sphere.
The "U" represents Ueno, a well-known district in Tokyo’s Taito Ward. The sphere on top? It’s designed to resemble a pachinko ball, a nod to one of Japan’s most popular mechanical arcade-style games. Pachinko involves launching small steel balls into a machine, with the goal of winning as many as possible. These balls can be exchanged for prizes, which—through a legal loophole—can then be exchanged for cash at offsite locations, sidestepping Japan’s strict gambling laws.
This sculpture isn’t just a random artistic installation—it reflects the deep-rooted connection between Higashi-Ueno and the pachinko industry. This area is home to a high concentration of pachinko machine manufacturers, many of whom have offices and showrooms here. Given that Ueno Station serves five bullet train lines, the location is ideal for industry professionals commuting between Tokyo and manufacturing hubs in other prefectures.
As a result, Higashi-Ueno has earned the nickname "Pachinko Village" among enthusiasts. The massive pachinko ball atop the "U" serves as a tribute to an industry that employs many in this neighborhood and attracts pachinko parlor owners looking to test and evaluate the latest gaming machines in nearby showrooms.
Urban Geometry: Lines and Shapes Beneath an Overpass
交差する線と形：上野の歩道橋の下で
After a long meeting with a colleague near Ueno Station in Tokyo, Japan, I took a short break before heading back to my office in Yokohama. As I made my way back to the station, I enjoyed some street photography, capturing scenes in the surrounding neighborhoods.
After photographing a Buddhist temple and two Shinto shrines, I approached the pedestrian overpass leading directly to Ueno Station.
As I climbed the steps to the pedestrian deck, this intricate scene beneath the overpass came into view—a striking mix of lines, angles, and contrasting round and flat shapes. With the original scene nearly devoid of color, I felt monochrome was the perfect choice to emphasize its geometric complexity.
Ryueiinari-jinja: A Hidden Inari Shrine in the Heart of Tokyo 隆栄稲荷神社：下谷神社の境内に佇む小さな稲荷社
Ryueiinari-jinja is a small Inari shrine located within the same shrine courtyard and tucked away under some trees of Shitaya Shrine, which I have introduced in recent posts. While Shitaya Shrine is a traditional Shinto shrine, Ryueiinari-jinja is specifically dedicated to Inari, the deity of rice cultivation and harvest.
Inari shrines can exist independently, but they are often found within the grounds of larger Shinto shrines. This made me wonder—why would an Inari shrine be located in this urban neighborhood of Tokyo, a city that has been a major metropolis for over a century?
To answer this, it’s important to remember that not all of Edo (modern-day Tokyo) was fully developed. By the mid-1800s, Edo had a population exceeding one million, making it one of the largest cities in the world at the time. However, some areas still had land dedicated to agriculture.
While researching historical maps, I came across two—one from 1824 and another from 1854. The older map depicted numerous rice paddies north of the imperial palace, along with many Inari shrines concentrated in what is now the Asakusa area of Tokyo. By 1854, the map showed a much more urbanized landscape, with fewer rice paddies and a noticeable decline in the number of Inari shrines.
Yet, despite these changes, both Shitaya Shrine and Ryueiinari-jinja remained, even though the remaining rice fields had shifted farther north, beyond the Sumida River. This suggests that while the immediate area may have transitioned away from agriculture, the shrine continued to serve the community, preserving its historical and spiritual significance.
Standing before the small shrine today, several traditional elements caught my eye. Hanging from the eaves is a thin shimenawa (標縄), a sacred rice straw or hemp rope that marks a ritually pure space. Attached to it are shide (紙垂), zigzag-shaped paper streamers, which further signify the presence of the divine.
In front of the shrine, a thick rope hangs for ringing the suzu (鈴), a round, hollow bell with a jingling sound, used to call upon the deity before offering prayers. Below it sits the saisenbako (賽銭箱), a wooden offering box where visitors leave monetary donations.
Flanking the shrine are two stone fox statues, each adorned with a red bib. In Shinto belief, the kitsune (fox) serves as Inari’s messenger, protecting rice fields and ensuring bountiful harvests. One theory suggests that foxes earned this role by hunting rodents in rice paddies, inadvertently safeguarding the precious crop. The red bibs, commonly seen on Inari shrine foxes, are thought to ward off illness and evil spirits, reinforcing their protective role.
Ryueiinari-jinja may be small, but it offers a fascinating glimpse into Tokyo’s past—one where agriculture and urban life coexisted, and where traditions persist even as the landscape changes.
Floral Panda at Shitaya Shrine’s Water Font 下谷神社の花手水：パンダの彩り
Most Shinto shrines include a small, roof-covered purification font called a temizuya (手水舎; sometimes read chōzuya). This freestanding stone basin provides running water and ladles for shrine visitors to rinse their hands and mouth in symbolic purification.
The name temizuya comes from te (hand) and mizu (water), referring to the act of purifying one's hands under a small covered structure (ya). Bamboo ladles are commonly provided for washing the hands and cleansing the mouth. Regardless of faith, all visitors are welcome to take part in this purification ritual when visiting a shrine.
During the pandemic, many temizuya were temporarily closed to prevent the spread of infection. However, shrine staff had a wonderful idea—they repurposed the font as a flower vessel, filling the water basin with freshly cut flowers. This practice quickly gained popularity, and due to its widespread appeal, many shrines have continued the tradition. The beautifully arranged flowers now attract visitors of all ages, leading to the temizuya being affectionately renamed hanachōzu (花手水; hana meaning flower and chōzu meaning water font).
Shitaya Shrine, where this photo was taken, often incorporates a panda motif in its floral arrangements. This is a nod to the twin pandas, Xiao Xiao and Lei Lei, who reside at the nearby Ueno Zoo. The shrine’s Instagram feed regularly showcases its latest flower displays, delighting visitors with each new creation.
This particular arrangement caught my eye due to the striking contrast between the dark stone water font and the bright, delicate flower petals floating on the water. In the background, deep vermilion torii gates and flags add an additional layer of visual depth. While the scene is cluttered with lines, patterns, and colors—much like the energy of a Tokyo neighborhood—narrowing my focus to just the flowers brings a sense of calmness and joy. It’s heartwarming to think that someone carefully arranges these flowers simply for the enjoyment of shrine visitors.
Subtle Craftsmanship of Shitaya Shrine 下谷神社の唐破風と飾金具・小口金物
The Shitaya Shrine in Higashi-Ueno, Tokyo’s Taito Ward, caught my eye with its use of a curved gable called karahafu. This elegant architectural feature has been used on the roofs of Shinto shrines, Buddhist temples, and even Japanese castles since the late Heian period (794–1185), originally signifying prestige and importance.
Shitaya Shrine follows a more traditional design, using unpainted wood that is lightly decorated with bright metal fittings. These fittings, placed at the ends of rafters extending to the eaves and at the base of pillars, not only add visual interest but also help protect the structure from weathering.
I was particularly drawn to the long, narrow ornamental fittings nailed horizontally along the frame members. The golden accents contrast beautifully with the dark, aged wood, creating a harmonious balance between decoration and simplicity. Unlike more elaborate shrine embellishments, the metalwork here is used sparingly—enhancing the shrine’s elegance without feeling excessive.
Such fittings are often made of iron, copper, or gilt bronze. While they serve a decorative purpose, they also reinforce and protect structural elements, ensuring the longevity of the shrine’s intricate craftsmanship.
Large Torii Gate Nestled Within the Urbanscape 下谷神社の大鳥居：町内の景観に溶け込む歴史の象徴
The large vermilion torii gate is one of two such gates marking the entrance to Shitaya-jinja—a local Shinto shrine with origins tracing back to the year 730, making it one of the oldest inari shrines in Tokyo. This rich historical legacy stands in stark contrast to the surrounding urban environment.
Today, two buildings, each over six stories high, occupy the street corners near the torii gate. The gate has likely stood here since the shrine's reconstruction in 1934, following its destruction in the 1923 Great Kanto Earthquake.
The building on the western side of the torii is astonishingly close to the tip of the top lintel (the horizontal beam). My immediate thought was: how has the building avoided damaging the gate during Tokyo's frequent earthquakes?
The vermilion gate may appear slightly out of place amid the modern urbanscape, yet this juxtaposition feels quintessentially Tokyo—a city where centuries-old traditions coexist seamlessly with cutting-edge infrastructure.
Location: Shitaya Shrine, Taito-ku, Tokyo
Timestamp: 14:23・2024/12/10
Fujifilm X100V with 5% diffusion filter
ISO 1000 for 1/250 sec. at ƒ/9
Provia/Standard film simulation
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Shinto Shrine Nestled Within the Urbanscape 下谷神社：町内の景観に溶け込む歴史の象徴
Shitaya-jinja—a local Shinto shrine with origins tracing back to the year 730, is one of the oldest inari shrines in Tokyo. This rich historical legacy stands in stark contrast to the surrounding urban environment.
A Walk Through Time and Motion in Higashi-Ueno, Tokyo・台東区東上野5丁目の街歩き
A short walk around 5-Chome of Higashi-Ueno in Tokyo’s Taito Ward revealed three moments that captured my eye—each telling a story of the area's history, contrasts, and vibrancy.
Amid the gleaming, modern skyline of office buildings, residential condominiums, and hotels, a humble mixed-use building quietly persists. This relic of the Showa era, with a shop on the first floor and residential space above, feels like a lonely survivor of a bygone era. Surrounded by parking lots and overshadowed by towering developments, it seems destined to make way for yet another sleek office block or high-rise apartment building. Yet, for now, it stands, hinting to me a nostalgia of a different Tokyo—one of small mom-and-pop shops and tightly knit communities.
Across the street from where I had just finished a meeting with a client, another piece of history caught my eye. An old wooden residence, likely the home of the monk or caretaker of Ryūkoku-ji Temple, exudes a quiet elegance. This traditional structure, with its graceful tiled roof and weathered wooden exterior, is thought to have been rebuilt alongside the temple after the devastating Great Kanto Earthquake of 1923. Standing next to a gleaming steel-and-glass high-rise, this residence preserves centuries of culture and tradition in contrast to the rapid modernization that defines much of Tokyo today.
A few blocks away, the quiet hum of the city was suddenly interrupted by the shrill sound of alarms and a booming announcement over a loudspeaker. Firefighters sprang into action, swiftly donning their gear as fire trucks roared to life. The energy was intense as I hurriedly took photos, trying to capture the scene. Among the many frames, only one was sufficiently sharp: a firefighter securing his oxygen tank, a moment of focus and readiness amidst the chaos. Though my slower shutter speed made sharper shots difficult, this one image managed to freeze the motion just enough to convey the urgency and determination of the moment.
Higashi-Ueno’s 5-Chome, a small triangular-shaped subdivision that includes about 21 blocks of cramped buildings, isn’t much different from the thousands of other small subdivisions scattered throughout Tokyo’s 23 wards, where the past and present coexist in fascinating ways. From the quiet resilience of old buildings to the rapid pulse of a modern city at work, I was able to catch a glimpse of Tokyo’s layered character during my short break before returning to my office in Yokohama. My walk around this corner of Taito Ward reminded me of how much life unfolds in even the smallest details of a city’s urbanscape.
Itatōba: From India to China to Japan 板塔婆の旅路：インドから中国、そして日本へ
While enjoying a short break from a business meeting near Ueno Station in Tokyo, I took a short break to wander through the local area before heading back to Yokohama. My meandering walk brought me to Ryūkoku-ji Temple, a small, nondescript oasis in Taito Ward, Tokyo.
Compared to my family’s cemetery in rural Shizuoka Prefecture, which is surrounded by bamboo groves and rice paddies, this cemetery in central Tokyo struck me as surprisingly similar. Despite being nestled within the urbanscape of high-rise towers made of glass, steel, and concrete, it felt just as calm, quiet, and peaceful as the one back home in Shizuoka minus the croaking frogs.
As is quite common at most Buddhist cemeteries in Japan, wooden grave markers stood upright behind family gravestones or leaned against them. These markers, known as itatōba (板塔婆), hiratōba (平塔婆), or sotōba (卒塔婆), all essentially mean the same thing: flat, wooden grave markers.
Unlike similarly looking markers found at Shinto cemeteries, these markers feature five notches on either side, symbolizing the five elements of Japanese Buddhist thought: sky, wind, fire, water, and earth, from top to bottom. A vertical inscription in Sanskrit further hints at their Buddhist origins.
The history of these markers originated in India from where they made their way to Japan via China. Over the centuries, the symbols and their designs evolved, yet the reference to the five elements has remained a constant connection to the spiritual traditions they represent.
During this late afternoon, the clear, bright sky provided beautiful contrasts, with the dark shadows and bright areas facing the sun creating a dramatic effect. I felt this scene would be good for a monochrome shot, capturing not only the details of the itatōba but also the quiet atmosphere of the cemetery.
Engatou: Decorative and Protective Roles of Pendant Tiles in Japanese Temples and Shrines 「台東区にて、炭黒の『龍』と鮮やかな銀杏の葉」
Upon wrapping up a business meeting in Tokyo, I crossed the street from my client’s office and stepped into the courtyard of Ryūkoku-ji Temple (龍谷寺) in Taito Ward, Tokyo.
Originally established in 1616, the temple was relocated to its current site in 1655. However, the original structure was severely damaged during the Great Kanto Earthquake of 1923. The temple we see today was reconstructed after the earthquake—just one of many symbols of Tokyo’s history and resilience.
Adjacent to the temple grounds, I noticed a small pile of round eave-end roof pendant tiles, known as engatou (円瓦当). Each tile features a circular pendant inscribed with the kanji character “Ryū” (龍), the first character of the temple’s name.
Pendant tiles like these are a common feature on the eaves of roofs in Shinto shrines and Buddhist temples throughout Japan. Not only do they serve a decorative purpose by forming a symmetrical finish along the eaves, but they also provide functional protection by preventing rainwater from seeping between and under the roofing tiles and the roof sheathing.
What immediately caught my eye was the striking contrast between the charcoal-black engatou and the vibrant yellow ginkgo leaves scattered around them. Adding to the scene’s charm was the use of “seal script” for the kanji character imprinted on the tiles.
This style of writing, called tensho-tai (篆書体) in Japanese, is akin to a specialized font for kanji. It is widely used in Japan on banknotes, passports, and official seals (known as ginko-in, or bank hanko stamps). Tensho-tai’s elegance and historical significance make it a fitting choice for temple ornamentation.
As I admired the scene, I couldn’t help but wonder about the story behind these tiles. Were they spares, waiting to replace damaged ones? Were they broken, or perhaps removed during a renovation? Where are such tiles manufactured, and how expensive are they to produce? Why was tensho-tai chosen for the inscription, instead of one of the other scripts commonly used in Japan?
These unanswered questions have left me eager for a future visit. Perhaps next time, I’ll have the chance to speak with a monk or the temple’s groundskeeper to learn more about the history and craftsmanship behind these captivating tiles. It’s remarkable that, despite living in Japan for over 40 years and seeing these tiles on roofs everywhere I go, this is the first time I’ve looked at them up close and begun to wonder about their story. Reflecting on this, I can’t help but feel a small twinge of regret for not being more curious about them decades ago.
Embrace of Autumn: Vibrant Reds and Twisted Arms of Momiji 庭先の紅葉：鮮やかな赤とねじれ曲がった枝
After a long hike across trails weaving over rivers and across the steep slopes of Hikawa Gorge, we finally made our way back towards the parking lot, content from capturing the autumn colors of the gorge from Moegi-bashi Bridge.
As we retraced our steps, I stumbled upon an old Japanese maple tree (紅葉・momiji), its branches twisting skyward from the yard of a house nestled atop a steep slope above the Tama River.
The fortunate residents of this home are able to wake up each day to a a lovely panorama of vibrant, lush forests sprawled across the opposing slopes of the gorge, with the Tama River gently winding far below.
I would love to wake up to such a view every morning, if only building an earthquake-resistant home in this picturesque location were within reach.
The Okutama region features two major steep ravines formed by the Nippara and Tama Rivers. These steep gorges, collectively known as Hikawa Gorge (氷川渝谷), have limited industrial development, preserving much of the natural landscape.
The forests and landscapes of Hikawa Gorge have been further protected from industrial development and large-scale logging by Tokyo Prefecture to maintain the purity of the water, as these headwaters are a primary source of Tokyo’s drinking water.
In 1944, Okutama Station (originally named Hikawa Station) on the JR Ome Line was established to help locals develop a tourist industry focused on the region's rich scenery. For decades after the station’s opening, development of tourist-oriented infrastructure progressed slowly.
In fact, a friend who visited the area as a boy in the 1970s recalled fishing, hiking, and enjoying the outdoors. Back then, there were no developed campsites, large parking lots, and most hiking trails were basic footpaths with little to no safety railings or protections against landslides.
Nowadays, the paths are well-maintained and developed to such a degree that they are easily accessible to both young and old. Numerous suspension bridges allow visitors to safely explore all the trails while enjoying grand views of the gorges, which are especially popular during the autumn season.
Moegi Bridge: A Scenic Crossing to Autumn Splendor 紅葉風景へのもえぎ橋
Located within a short 8-minute walk from Oku-Tama Station, Moegi Bridge, a pedestrian suspension bridge, offers stunning views of Hikawa Gorge, especially during autumn. Although a little late in the autumn season, the landscape of colors along the steep shores of the Tama River headwaters in the rural town of Okutama, Tokyo Prefecture, created a photogenic scene that immediately caught my eye.
Next year, I hope to visit a few weeks earlier in the season to catch the vidid reds and oranges that have mostly faded from this scene.
Moegi Bridge (もえぎ橋・Moegi-bashi), which opened in July 1998, made it easier for local hikers and campers to cross the Tama River and access the popular hot spring resort, Moegi-no-Yu.
This pedestrian bridge is similar to the other suspension bridges I traversed on this photowalk, all lightweight structures with no truss or girders, making them susceptible to strong winds. To counteract strong winds, many of the pedestrian bridges in Hikawa Gorge incorporate stretched cables attached to the deck to help control torsional vibrations.
When bridges sway too much, my border collie gets scared and refuses to cross with me. On this day, she confidently crossed all three suspension bridges without fear!
Old Money Architecture: Glimpse into a Traditional Japanese Storehouse 古い蔵—祖先の富の象徴
A traditional white Japanese kura, or storehouse, stands with its characteristic earthen walls, designed for fire prevention. The back proudly displays a decorative crest, visible to hikers on the Toke Trail, indicating the heritage of the family, who likely reside in the adjacent house. This charming scene is set deep in a serene mountain village in the westernmost part of Tokyo Prefecture, Japan.
A kura is a type of traditional storehouse built to protect valuables from fire, a significant risk for traditional Japanese wooden houses. The structure typically features a wooden frame covered with 20 to 30 cm thick mud daub, finished with a smooth coat of white or black plaster. The roof’s extended eaves protect the plaster from heavy rains.
Openings are minimal, with only a few small windows for security. Today, spotting a kura still in use is a testament to a family's ancesteral wealth, as it not only signified the need to protect valuables but also the resources to build and maintain such a robust structure.
Beyond valuables, the thick earthen walls helped maintain a stable internal temperature, making the kura ideal for storing rice, wine, sake, soy sauce, and similar goods.
The decorative crest on the back of the storehouse in my photo most likely reads "Yamada" (山田), translating to "mountain" + "rice paddy/field." I appreciate how the kanji for "yama" (山・mountain) is replaced with two mountain peaks above the character for "da" (田・rice paddy/field). Written vertically, it evokes an image of fields nestled below mountain peaks, reflecting the actual landscape along this part of the Toke Trail.
The surrounding land is farmland, suggesting that the Yamada family has deep roots in this mountain village, possibly deriving their name from ancestors who farmed these mountain slopes centuries ago.
Jizo Bodhisattva & “23rd Night” Stone Tablet 地蔵尊と「二十三夜塔」
Leaving the Toke Trail, I climbed down from the nearby mountain into a small mountain farming village before traversing one more peak to reach the parking lot. It was here that I came across this very typical rural scene.
※ Bodhisattva Seishi (Tsukuyomi-no-Mikoto)
On the far left and right are stone engravings of Bodhisattva Seishi, a Buddhist deity believed to be the incarnation of the moon. It is said that the light of wisdom Bodhisattva Seishi possesses illuminates everything, freeing people from suffering and giving them strength.
In the Shinto tradition, this deity is also known as Tsukuyomi-no-Mikoto (月読尊) who is the god of the moon in Japanese mythology, and is also revered as the god of agriculture and fishing.
Second from the right is a stone lantern with an engraving I couldn’t decipher.
※ Jizo Bodhisattva (O-Jizō-sama)
In the middle are two Jizo Bodhisattva statues with red hoods. Affectionately known in Japan as O-Jizō-sama (お地蔵様) or Jizō-san, this beloved Japanese divinity is the patron of children, expectant mothers, firemen, travelers, and pilgrims.
O-Jizō-sama represents the Buddhist Bodhisattva who has vowed to delay his own Buddha-hood until all suffering souls are freed from the underworld. He is often depicted as a humble monk.
Throughout Japan, you can see these statues near cemeteries, roadsides, and hiking trails. They are frequently adorned with red caps and bibs, symbolizing prayers for the safety and well-being of children.
※ 23rd Night Monument
The primary object at this site is the stone tablet with the engraving of 「二十三夜塔」 (23rd Night Monument). This phrase references Tsukimachi (月待ち), a folk tradition where local villagers would gather to eat and drink while waiting for the moon to rise on the 23rd day of the lunar month to pray for a bountiful harvest.
Since the location was used for the village gathering of Tsukimachi, it became clear to me why there were two Bodhisattva Seishi and two O-Jizo-sama statues.
Tsukimachi was actively practiced from the Edo period (1603-1868) to the early Showa period (1926-1989), but it has almost completely disappeared in modern times.
In our day and age, smartphones and cameras are used to take commemorative photos when friends and communities gather to record tangible memories. However, during the heyday of Tsukimachi, instead of taking a photo, building a stone tablet was the way to commemorate such gatherings.
