soft boiled #124 – On Prayer

It’s better than you think

Greetings from Japan. Before I could finally start writing, I had to make several trips to the rooftop of our artist-in-residence. I now refer to this as my 'FUJI FOMO'—fear of missing out on glimpsing Mt. Fuji.

Since I arrived at Fujiyoshida on Monday, the holy mountain has been mostly hiding behind the clouds, and the sight of her peak still feels very precious. She’s a bit like a drama queen, but once the clouds lift, it looks stunning. The mountain from my porcelain saucer is real. It’s very present. It’s beautiful yet somehow surreal, a myth that floats above the city.

In July I wrote about entering the Unknown, and since I came to Japan, I had this strange sensation of anything being new and familiar at once.

I still haven’t dared to explore all the functions of the high-tech toilet, but I’ve immersed myself in other local rituals. This August letter is about traveling far to find a spirituality that feels closer than ever before.

Katarina 

On Prayer

Standing still, I clap my hands twice and watch thousands of minuscule water droplets fill the air. They sparkle in the bright sun, hovering for a few seconds. As I watch the silver mist evaporate, I realize I never clapped my hands when they were wet before, and it feels so good. 

It’s early morning in Osaka, August 2. As I stand at the temizuya, still savoring the sensation, a man in a suit approaches the stone basin beside me. He picks up the wooden ladle and washes his left and right hand before his prayer. 

In silence, I hear him walking to the main shrine, the gravel path rustling under his shoes. His bows are inaudible, but then comes the soft clap–––clap. The sound echoes in the air, filling the stillness, and the brief silence in between feels almost tangible.

Later, I noticed that some Shinto shrines offer guidance for foreigners, written on a paper next to the altar. If you want to pray to kami – the deity – you follow a specific sequence. After washing your hands at the entrance, you approach the altar and toss a coin into the offering box. You might also choose to ring the bell by pulling on the thick, woven cord. Then, you bow twice and clap your hands twice, a gesture that expresses both joy and reverence toward the deity. With your palms still pressed together, you say your prayer, ending with a deep, final bow.

Shintoism, the original religion of Japan, has deep roots in animism. It revolves around the belief that the spirits – kami – inhabit natural elements. In the shrines, there are no faces of suffering saints. In Shintoism, everything sacred is something you’ve already encountered—trees, rocks, animals—things you’ve touched with your own hands. The worship of kami, who dwell in natural elements, is about honoring something tangible, inherently familiar. It feels close, it feels true: the life of a tree holds as much value as your own. At the heart of Shinto belief is a profound empathy for everything non-human.

As I walk through Shinto shrines in other cities, what I see often brings to mind my beloved cherry tree that once stood in our garden. My landlord cut it down this spring, just before it blossomed. The tree already had thick white buds when he chainsawed it into pieces. He said it was in his way when he walked up the stairs, that he’d hit his head on its trunk at least three times. His simple logic—that the tree had to go—left me mourning for days.

At the Yoyogi Hachimangu Shrine in Tokyo—the very spot where Hirayama in Wim Wenders' Perfect Days enjoyed his lunch—we observe people pressing their palms against a towering giant tree beside the shrine.

This tree, like all sacred trees known as shinboku, is adorned with a special rope called shimaside, softly embracing its body. Carefully cut and folded papers are tied to it, hanging loosely, shiny white against the dark bark. 

Since I first saw shide, this simple paper decoration made of washi paper, I’ve been captivated by its s beauty. Its shape seemed so pure yet vital, alive. The shape is ancient and some sources say the zig-zag is visually connected to thunder and lightning. It must be the cleansing power of thunder. It is the cleansing resonance akin to the clapping that echoes in your chest. 

Reflecting on that morning in Osaka, I realize how I inadvertently messed up the sequence of my prayer by clapping at the wrong moment. It felt good anyway. The essence of Shinto shrines—their humbleness and simplicity—makes one feel close even before you get familiar with the rituals.

The way Shintoism permeates everyday life mirrors the setting of the shrines themselves. They are open, porous structures. Everything can flow in and out. The space breathes and invites you; it says ‘Come as you are’. 

The shrine lacks walls and a roof, except for the solid wooden buildings housing the altars. The shrine encompasses everything you see. Rocks, trees, gravel paths, ponds with fish. There is no fence except for the entering gate, which only serves as a symbolic marking of the space. Torii never closes – it has no door. It counts on the idea that no thick walls are needed to raise respect. The respect must come from within. The openness and porousness of Shinto shrines co-create the vitality of the space, the vibrant aliveness. The threshold between the secular and the sacred is marked by simple elements made of rice straw and paper—pure, basic materials. Thick moss grows on large rocks inscribed with symbols, and cats often lounge around the shrine, napping beside centuries-old sculptures.

I think of the Gothic cathedrals and how very different they make me feel. Undeniably beautiful, yet their space feels cold and authoritarian, instilling a sense of smallness and of imminent sin.

Unlike churches and cathedrals, Shinto shrines don’t make you feel small. They are spaces you can temporarily inhabit. There’s the formal sequence to the prayer, but there’s also a tree nearby that is very alive and eager to be touched. I see these places as both solemn and playful, a space anyone can connect with in their own way. 

***

A week later, standing with my friend Saša at the expansive Meiji Jingu shrine—Tokyo’s quiet eye of the tiger—she remarks that the clapping of hands makes something with the body, within the body, it makes the chest vibrate, resonate. Clapping, as part of the prayer sequence, not only calls the attention of kami, but also brings you back to your body and awakens your mind. It connects you with yourself intimately. 

I like to listen to people clapping their hands at various shrines throughout the day. I notice that I particularly enjoy when there’s a short pause between the claps.

Clap —— clap.

The pause evokes intention and awareness, reflecting a consciousness of both the movement and the meaning of the ‘negative’ space. Clap —— clap. The gap is satisfying, akin to pausing at the peak of a breath before exhaling, creating a moment of spaciousness.

Why clap twice? To balance the contrasts and acknowledge the duality of existence. Perhaps to bring to peace the past and future? Between the two claps lies the brief sacredness of the present moment. 

The other day, I received a prompt from the astrology app Co-Star: ‘Time is what prevents everything from happening all at once.’ Doesn’t a prayer allow everything to happen simultaneously? Between the two claps of my hands, the sound pierces through my past, present, and future. I’m grateful for what has been and joyous about what will follow. I stand still in the middle, yet the middle itself does not exist independently.

In Japan, I daily observe mundane prayers, small rituals of utmost focus. Packing things is a form of prayer, too. Done with care, it marks the transition of an object. In Tokyo, I see an elderly man wrapping a tea bowl for his customer with a precision that seems almost sacred. The care he takes in folding the corners of the wrapping paper makes the act as significant as the bowl itself. I’m watching him from behind a shelf, sensing his vibrant joy. 

What is a prayer? A vessel that can take on many shapes, filled with gratitude or a wish. Prayer as an essence. Praying: setting up a fire, immersing oneself into a cold lake, smoking a cigarette. 

The Japanese tea ceremony consists of a series of intricate, small prayers; mixing the matcha in the bowl being one of them. One day, I sent my mother a photo on WhatsApp, telling her I had drunk matcha from a 200-year-old tea bowl. The bowl will remember you, as it remembers those who drank from it before you, she responded. 

On that early August morning in Osaka, as I clapped my hands at a shrine for the first time, my mother was still asleep. She hadn’t liked seeing me leave for Japan; I imagine she feared the imaginary umbilical cord might be too short to keep her protective grasp on me. Little did she know that in Japan, surrounded by sacred trees, stones, and other yorishiro, I would come to realize that she was my first, unappointed Shinto priestess. 

The land of sacred trees, stones, and birds with souls, that she created for me as I was growing up, now materialized on the other side of the world. 

It’s already morning in Japan; I imagine her sleeping and snoring in her apartment, the curtains lifting with the night breeze. I imagine touching her shoulder from afar, whispering: Mom, Japan feels like coming home. I’m closer to you than you think. 

(Note: The images in this text were taken at various Shinto shrines in Kyoto, Kanazawa and Tokyo.)