Postcard from Osaka

An Evening of Winter Candlelight

Candles fill the park at the Nishi Umeda Candle Days.

The Siberian winds have reached Osaka.

Sharp, frigid air, born from a frozen plain thousands of miles away, a vast stretch of remote land suspended at the edge of the map. Sweeping southeast, they eventually flow over the warmer Sea of Japan, gathering moisture that will later fall as snow. Arriving on land once more, they usher in biting temperatures that often feel much colder than the thermometer suggests.

And I, as usual, am unprepared for that icy air, even surprised as it greets me upon landing. At this point in my career, I’ve flown to Japan many times, yet I consistently underestimate the winter temperature. Thankfully, my flying partner did not, and has an extra windbreaker to offer me.

But among the coldest of evenings, I was surprised to find a bit of warmth.

On the way into the city from the airport, we begin to notice groups of candles all along the sidewalks. At first, they appear only here and there, but soon they seem to be flickering everywhere. Suddenly, the cold no longer matters, and we are eager to get outside and explore.

A magical, illuminated art walk is glowing throughout our district. Plazas, sidewalks, and building entrances: all part of a singular community event that invites people to turn off the electric lights and experience this normally hectic city in the stillness of candlelight.

The Nishi Umeda Candle Days.

Enchanted, I wander the streets in the bitter cold. Although I can’t read most of the signs, it’s not altogether necessary; the individual expressions come through in a beautifully haunting way. Handwritten messages, drawings, and even paper bags glowing from within. People of all ages, cheering each other on.

Occasionally, using my phone to translate a phrase or two, small stories emerge. A child drawn with mittened hands, wishing their sore throat would go away. Notes of encouragement and Zen phrases. Smiling, I notice a crayon sketch of a 747 bound for distant places; a dream I have shared as well.

The temperature continues to drop as the evening winds down. Still wandering, I now see displays being taken down, candles blown out, and packed away. A few groups linger, wrapped in scarves and hats, as the last of the displays disappear.

Finding a late-night spot for hot tea, my flying partner and I linger for a while, absorbing the heat as I warm my hands against the mug.

Tea finished, we step outside once again, and the stillness on the sidewalks has returned. The Siberian winds continue to follow me, but so does the warmth of community spirit and stories shared, carried by hundreds of lights, in a place far from home.