Numerous lanterns were hung at Okunitama Jinja Shrine

When I stepped out of Fuchū Station, there was a faint scent of wood mixed into the air. It seemed the preparations for a festival had already begun. As I walked down the street, it gradually turned into an approach leading to Ōkunitama Shrine. Countless lanterns hung from the gate, white paper shades lined with rows of bold black characters. There were so many lanterns that whenever the wind blew, they rustled softly—as if the gods were whispering among themselves.

According to tradition, Ōkunitama Shrine was founded during the reign of the 12th emperor, Keikō. If that were historical fact, it would place its origins somewhere in the second century. Thinking that nearly two thousand years have passed here evokes not reverence but something slightly comical. After all, even Emperor Keikō himself sits on the dubious border between myth and history. Still, people choose to believe what they want to believe. Faith is the contradictory act of pressing one’s hands together while harboring doubt.

Beyond the gate, the main hall stood quietly. The shadows of ancient trees swayed gently across the stone pavement. Just then, an elderly man appeared, pushing a rusted bicycle as he strolled beneath the lanterns. A hat pulled low over his brow, a plastic bag in one hand—it was a calm Fuchū afternoon, just before the festival’s bustle would arrive.

Okunitama Jinja on Google Map

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