Myofukuji (妙福寺) in Twenty Shots

Myofukuji is a Nichiren Buddhist temple tucked away in a residential area of Nerima, Tokyo. Riding along the Shirako River last week, I came to this rather large place and happened to have my camera. Before entering the outer gate (sōmon) I felt an otherworldly energy overhead, or in the woodwork, and it watched. Perhaps it was merely an undertow of anxiety, at my being the only visible soul around, with also something of an odd desire to trespass opposed by an equal measure of reluctance to go one step further. Or maybe the religious architecture and well-groomed grounds naturally makes one feel as if they are in the presence of the unnatural. In any event, something felt lopsided or off-kilter. And now, this very moment, I notice the soft jawline and thin lips and choppy hair of what might be an apparition, gazing down on me that day as I pressed the button and unknowingly captured her with my lens.

Entering the second gate, or Niōmon, I pass the Kongōrikishi, or Niō, a pair of frightful figures standing on either side of me. Misshaku Kongō glares at me from my right, with mouth open to voice the “A” sound, the first in the Devanagari, a set of characters based on ancient Brāhmī script. Naraen Kongō, the statue to my left, has closed his mouth upon uttering the final sound in the set. Birth and death are thus symbolized by the basic elements of language, like alpha and omega, and all existence, all creation, is contained within the syllabary. And through I go.

Small tower called a shōrō, constructed to house bonshō (Buddhist bells)

Bonshō, or Buddhist bell, made of copper in 1664 by recasting the old bonshō. Japan’s oldest bonshō, nearly 1,000 years older than the one pictured here, was cast in 698. Known as the Okikicho bell, it is still in use at Myōshin-ji in Kyoto. Many believe the sonorous, solemn sound of bonshō can summon the dead. Their earthly functions, however, are mainly to call the living, indicate the time, or sound an alarm.

Far side of main hall

Statue of Nichiren, 13th century Buddhist priest who formed his own branch of Mahayana Buddhism. I’ve read that he was outspoken, and often angry, especially for a sage.

Noir filter

Pails and ladles for grave cleaning

Old vermilion mailbox in front of monks' living quarters

Yoyogi Koen Crow

Location: 35°40'11.0"N 139°41'46.3"E

After leaving the Laos festival by Yoyogi park's outdoor stage on Sunday, I spotted a crow near the park's rose garden. Sunday was hot, and this fella quenched its thirst for a good two to three minutes. Not sure why it was spraying the water with a foot. Perhaps to break up the stream for an easier drink, or to cool its feathers at the same time.

Nerima Veggie Vending

Location: 35°46'11.8"N 139°36'33.1"E

Tokyo has 23 wards (ku), each unique in its own right. I’ve lived in eight: Bunkyo, Minato, Edogawa, Suginami, Shinjuku, Nakano, Shibuya, and Nerima, or nine if I count all those absinthe-fueled nights in Toshima back in the 90s. Now I reside in Nerima with my beautiful, oftentimes ill-tempered wife and two gorgeous, interminably quarrelsome kids, not to mention five ravenous goldfish, foisted upon us by the kindergarten one by one annually.

Where was I heading with this…? Ah, yes, cabbage. And Nerima, the ku where I bought a house three years ago—before the metropolitan government expanded the local landslide hazard zone to include my property, without an iota of concern for resale value or the exorbitant mortgage I’d only weeks before committed to. But I hear the optimists call out, Stay positive! And so back to the cabbage...

Nerima has superb cabbage. I mean, world-class in its crisp crunchiness and mild spicy-sweetness. What’s more, you can buy a whole cabbage head from any of the veggie vending machines scattered about the ku.

Like a wooden cabinet with pitched roof, the machine pictured is adjacent to the grower’s house on the border of Nerima-ku and Saitama Prefecture. It requires no electricity to operate. And leeks, Japanese “daikon” radish, broccoli, spinach and more are on offer in accordance with the season. Basically, the veggies are planted, harvested, and transported by hand. How’s that for carbon footprint?

On the consumer side: Local (me) rolls up on his rusty mamachari bicycle with aforementioned gorgeous, interminably quarrelsome kids in tow, along with a hankering for kyabetsu. He pops a 100-yen coin into a slot to unlock a little windowed door, opens it—much to the jaw-dropping awe of the youngsters—and booyah! A cabbage is released, plopped into a rusty mamachari basket, and taken home by pedal for lunch. Fresh. Crunchy. A taste of home.