Around the World in Stories: Journey to Japan’s Legends and Blossoms

In Japan, there is a legend of the Gashadokuro, a giant skeleton ten meters tall, made entirely of human skulls. Last week, Admin, we stood together under the vast, open sky of the Australian Outback. Today, we are somewhere else entirely. The air here is cool and smells of damp stone and sweet blossoms. We’re in Morioka, a city in the north, and before us is a sight that makes you hold your breath. A four-hundred-year-old cherry tree, an Ishiwari-zakura, that has grown straight through a massive granite boulder, splitting it in two.

It’s a testament to patience. To quiet, unstoppable strength. But it’s not the story I came here to tell you. That one is about a different kind of strength. It’s the story of a girl named Hanano, who lived long ago when shoguns ruled and a daughter’s future was not her own to decide. She was seventeen, and her father had arranged her marriage. Hanano refused. She was in love with someone else. So she ran, not with her feet, but with her heart, to the Musubi-no-Kami temple—a place watched over by the god of love.

There, in the temple courtyard, stood a sacred cherry tree. Hanano prayed beneath its branches as the pale pink petals drifted down around her like soft snow. In Japan, they say a life is lived like a sakura petal falls… beautifully, and quickly. She prayed for a sign, for hope, for a path that was HERS. The story goes that the spirit of the tree heard her, and her wish was granted. It’s a tale of rebellion, a whisper of defiance from a time when such things were nearly impossible. It reminds you that even the most delicate blossom has roots that can split stone.

Walking away from the tree, I see something that makes me smile. Tucked by a shop entrance is a small, ceramic statue of a tanuki. It’s a raccoon dog with a round belly and a mischievous look in its eye. It’s a yokai, a spirit from folklore. Not a terrifying one like the Gashadokuro, but a trickster, a shapeshifter known for bringing good fortune. He looks like he knows a secret. And seeing him, I suddenly feel… hungry. That’s how I find myself in a small workshop, the air sharp with vinegar and the sea.

Chef Andy Matsuda, a man whose hands move with the grace of a musician, is teaching a class on how to make sushi. He shows us how to cup the warm rice, how to press it just so. Not too hard, not too soft. It’s a craft of millimeters. Of feeling. My first attempt is clumsy. My second is a little better. By the third, I place a sliver of glistening tuna on the rice, and for a moment, it feels PERFECT. Holding it, I think of the stone-splitting tree, and of Hanano’s prayer under the falling petals. One is about enduring power, the other about fleeting beauty.

And here, in my hand, is a piece of sushi. It takes years to master, but it’s gone in a single, perfect bite. It all makes sense together. The strength, the beauty, the moment you have right now. Where should we go next, Admin? The world has so many more stories waiting for us.