This article is written in English for international readers.
A recent article about the Omiwatari phenomenon on Lake Suwa brought back memories of my years living there, Nagano. (The rare winter ritual itself—in which a ridge of ice forms across the frozen lake, traditionally seen as a path for the gods.)
The news reminded me not just of the rare winter ritual itself, but of the personal distance I always felt from the life around me.
I used to describe myself as a machine operating with zero battery. I didn’t know why I kept moving, and there was no way to recharge at home. I just kept going, cutting pieces of myself, surviving somehow. On my walk home late at night, I would often look up at the moon. “If I can still find the moon beautiful,” I would tell myself, “then maybe—just maybe—a part of me is still alive and okay.” It was a quiet, desperate consolation for a self already stretched far beyond its limits.
Even now, I crave space—mental slack, empty room to breathe. I have learned that culture and tradition are products of “asobi”, a Japanese concept that refers not just to play, but to the intentional slack or margin in life—much like the Daoist idea of “the usefulness of the useless.” Culture can only exist where there is excess: time, energy, attention. When every day is a struggle just to keep moving, there is no room to play, to engage, to appreciate.
I knew about the local festivals, the rituals, and the ancient history of Suwa. I even liked the stories behind them. But at the time, I had no capacity to participate. Society demands constant effort, and leisure is often judged as laziness. I remember my boss telling me to use my days off for “self-improvement” and study. It was as if my very existence was a project that needed constant fixing, even when I was already falling apart. In that moment of absolute exhaustion, I felt a deep sense of despair. I realized then: I had already broken.
Culture, I have come to understand, is a luxury of those who have room to play. I didn’t have that room, and so I watched from the sidelines—not out of indifference, but out of necessity.
Sometimes I feel a quiet regret for what I couldn’t experience. But I also accept that this was my life, lived on zero battery, and that even in that emptiness, there is a story worth telling.
Thank you for reading this article.
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