June in Tokyo. The breeze, heavy with moisture, slipped through the leaves like a soft exhale. That morning, I found myself walking along the southern approach to Meiji Shrine. The quiet air, rich with the mingled scent of earth and wood, felt like a barrier that cut me off—suddenly and completely—from the noise of the city.
I was in Tokyo on an extended business trip from New York, where I work in marketing. Though the city is undeniably thrilling and convenient, its constant movement had left me weary, almost breathless.
“Why don’t you visit Meiji Shrine?” a Japanese colleague had suggested. “It’s not just a shrine—it’s more like a forest,” she laughed.
Just a short walk from Yoyogi Station, the first torii gate alone left me speechless. Built from centuries-old cypress trees, it stood 12 meters tall, framing the sky in a narrow sliver surrounded by green. As I stepped beneath it, I felt as though I had crossed into an entirely different world.
Towering trees lined both sides of the gravel path, their presence solemn and still. My footsteps crunched steadily beneath me. Even the people I passed seemed to instinctively lower their voices. That quiet seeped gently into me, dissolving a restlessness I hadn’t realized I was carrying.
I can’t believe such a peaceful place exists in the middle of Tokyo.
Something shifted inside me, as if a cool breeze had finally found its way through the noise.
I paused at a spot where rows of colorful sake barrels were stacked high. They had been offered in dedication, I learned, and though bright and festive in appearance, there was something sacred in the air around them. A quiet sense of awe stirred in me—at the layered, subtle richness of Japanese culture.
As I continued toward the main hall, I met a woman standing beside me. She wore a light beige dress and white sneakers, her hair gently tied back. She had just folded up a sun umbrella.
“The light’s beautiful at this time of day,” she said, her voice soft and warm.
Her name was Sayaka. A Tokyo native who worked in publishing, she told me she often came here on weekends to escape the intensity of her job. We were close in age, and as we talked, a quiet sense of camaraderie began to grow.
“This forest is actually man-made,” she said. “Over a hundred years ago, trees were brought from all over the country and planted here.”
“Really? It looks completely natural.”
“That’s the idea—it was designed to look like untouched nature. A forest for the future. Isn’t that amazing?”
She smiled as she nudged a small stone with the toe of her shoe.
Meiji Shrine was built in 1920 to enshrine Emperor Meiji and Empress Shoken. But more than a religious site, it seemed to welcome people from all walks of life. As I listened to Sayaka, I began to sense the quiet gravity of this place—something far deeper than a tourist attraction.
In front of the main hall, I joined my hands in prayer. I didn’t know what to wish for, but closing my eyes, I felt a subtle calm begin to rise within me. Standing beside Sayaka in silence felt oddly comforting.
“Are you hungry?”
She smiled as she asked, and we left the path for a nearby alley, where an old-style Japanese restaurant stood quietly among the trees. The wooden sliding door glowed softly, and inside, a low-beamed ceiling stretched above a wooden counter, behind which an elderly chef welcomed us with a gentle smile.
I chose the grilled mackerel set meal—perfectly salted fish, steaming white rice, miso soup fragrant with dashi, and homemade pickles. Every bite felt like nourishment for the soul.
“My grandmother used to bring me here,” Sayaka said, her gaze thoughtful. “I still come sometimes, even after she passed away. You know how certain tastes bring back memories?”
Her eyes shimmered with warmth and nostalgia.
After the meal, we returned to the shrine grounds and wandered toward the Treasure House on the eastern side. A wide lawn stretched out before us. I sat on a bench, letting the scent of grass and the sound of birdsong wash over me. Every touch of wind across my cheek felt like something inside me was slowly being released.
“I used to think travel was all about seeing new sights,” I said. “But coming to a place like this… it feels like I’m finally able to face myself.”
Sayaka gave a soft, surprised laugh. “I know exactly what you mean. When we come into contact with stillness, our hearts can’t help but respond.”
Just before sunset, we visited Kiyomasa’s Well—a sacred spring deep within the shrine grounds.
Filtered sunlight danced on the water’s surface, and the gentle sound of the spring seemed to cleanse the very air around us. I stood in front of the well, closed my eyes, and let myself simply be—free from thought, held in a stillness that seemed to suspend time.
Eventually, we made our way back to the main path.
“I’ll head this way,” Sayaka said with a smile, pointing toward the Yoyogi exit.
“Next time you’re in Tokyo—” she began.
“—We’ll meet again at Meiji Shrine,” I finished with a nod.
We waved lightly and parted ways. My steps toward the north approach felt lighter, as if I were floating.
I stopped at a café along Omotesando for one last treat—a matcha rare cheesecake. The creamy sweetness of the cheese, paired with the bittersweet flavor of green tea, was the perfect final note to this quiet journey. The café’s wooden warmth and modern elegance mirrored the balance I had just found within.
As I walked back to my hotel, the scent of Meiji Shrine’s forest lingered in my memory. That silence had truly left something inside me. A forest hidden in the heart of the city, shaped by a hundred years of human prayer and remembrance. The fact that I could still feel something in response to it—it gave me a quiet sense of relief.
This journey taught me that stillness is not a place we run to, but a place we return to. Somewhere deep in that forest, my long-lost capacity to feel had gently awakened.
And the next time I find myself in Tokyo, I know I’ll walk that forest again. If I listen closely, I’m sure the light, the wind, and the trees will speak to me once more.
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