The Things You Bow To

It began with an umbrella that wouldn’t close.

A cheap, black one I’d bought at Ichinoseki Station because the snow had turned to rain, and my coat—already too thin for February—was losing the battle. When I arrived at the entrance of the forest path to Haguro Shrine and tried to fold the umbrella—nothing. The spokes were caught in some invisible resistance. I shook it. Spoke to it. Nothing.

A man walking past, in a navy work jacket and mismatched gloves, glanced at me, then at the umbrella, then back at me.

“Mujō desu ne,” he said with a dry smile. Impermanence.

Then he kept walking.

I eventually forced the umbrella shut and left it under a pine tree like an offering. That was when I noticed the sound.

Not wind. Not birdsong.

A hum. Low and electrical, like an old vending machine just out of sight.

—

It was my last evening in Tōhoku.

I hadn’t meant to visit the shrine at all.

The plan had been to catch the train back to Tokyo that night. Bags packed, room cleaned, goodbyes quietly muttered. But at check-out, the hostel owner—an older woman with a black apron and the voice of someone who used to sing—told me about a place locals rarely spoke of unless asked.

“Most people only go when they’re lost,” she said.

“Lost how?” I asked.

She only smiled and handed me a hand-drawn map. “You’ll know.”

And so, with no luggage and the faintest sense of deadline, I walked through slush and back roads to the trailhead.

It was nearly dusk. Not golden-hour-beautiful, but blue-hour-honest. The trees—sugi, tall and stoic—stood like monks who had long since stopped speaking. My breath made fog in the air. There were no other hikers, no tourists, just the occasional rustle of some small animal staying out of sight. It felt like a place I wasn’t meant to be. Or maybe a place meant only for people like me.

—

At the top, the shrine waited. Not grand, not imposing—just quiet. A structure older than anything I’d touched in years. I stood at the base of the steps for a long time, staring up.

That’s when I heard the voice.

“You don’t look like the praying type,” it said.

I turned. No one.

“You look like the waiting type.”

There, just beyond the temizuya water basin, was a vending machine. Coke, Pocari Sweat, green tea. And leaning against it: a boy, maybe twelve years old, barefoot, holding a rice ball.

“Did you say something?” I asked.

He nodded toward the shrine. “It doesn’t care if you believe. Just cares if you bow.”

—

“Do you live here?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Sometimes.”

“And you hang around vending machines?”

“Only the working ones.” He bit into his onigiri.

The moment passed. I bowed. Not for anyone. Not for anything. Just because it felt right. The snow had started again, lightly, as if it were unsure. I could smell cedar and rusted coins.

When I turned around, the boy was gone. The vending machine, too.

Just a water basin. And steam from my breath.

—

Back in town that night, I ducked into a kissaten. It had the kind of yellowed menu with handwritten prices that hadn’t changed in years. The old man running it poured my coffee without asking what I wanted. No cream. No sugar. Just the cup and his silence.

I thought about the shrine. The boy. The voice. Maybe he was a spirit. Maybe just someone who’d wandered too long.

Or maybe he was just me, ten years ago. Saying things I wish I’d heard sooner.

—

A Quiet Religion

I never prayed growing up.
But I’ve always noticed things.

The way light pools on cracked tile.
The softness of tatami in an empty room.
The hush in a forest too old to name.

That’s my faith, I guess.

Not godly. But real.
A belief in small reverent acts.
The bow of a head,
the hush of trees,
a barefoot boy reminding you that life doesn’t need to be believed in to still be sacred.

—

Wabi-Sabi, and the Things You Can’t Force Closed

• Sometimes, broken things don’t need fixing. They need noticing.
• Not every strange moment needs explanation. Some just need to be lived.
• Reverence isn’t about rules—it’s about rhythm.
• You don’t need to know why you bow. Only that you chose to.

—

When I returned to the station the next morning, my umbrella was still where I’d left it. It folded easily, without a sound.

The vending machine was back, humming faintly.
But the boy was gone.
Or maybe he never left.