ある日富み お次の日には また貧しさ aru hi wa tomi otsugi no hi ni wa mata mazushisa[2]
via ChatGPT
Having money invested in the stock market might be a smart move for financial health, but it can be more stressful if not careful.
I think the first rule of investing is don’t look at your balance. Well, maybe not the first rule, but one of them. Warren Buffett has said that if we believe in our investments, the day to day value shouldn’t make any difference and that we should in fact ignore it.
Easier said than done, eh?
I wrote the haiku the other day when I noticed one of my investment accounts had dropped by over $1000 USD. Far from “and now I’m poor”, but what is poetry if not dramatic, eh?
I am actually more of the Buffett mind and I wasn’t really that worried[3], It’ll bounce back (I hope). But I’ll take any inspiration for a haiku that I can get.
In Japan, there’s a concept called yakudoshi (厄年), usually translated as “unlucky years” or “calamitous ages”. It’s one of those quietly ever-present beliefs—not shouted from rooftops, but woven into the background fabric of life. And once you know about it, you’ll start noticing it everywhere: in temple rituals, at New Year’s shrine visits, even in the way people hesitate about certain birthdays.
So what exactly is yakudoshi, and should you be worried?
What Are the Yakudoshi Years?
Traditionally, three ages are considered especially unlucky:
For men: 25, 42, and 61
For women: 19, 33, and 37
The middle age in each set — 42 for men and 33 for women — is considered the most dangerous. Coincidentally, the word for 42 in Japanese is composed of shi-ni (四二), which can sound like “to death” (死に). Likewise, 33 is sometimes linked to san-zan (散々), meaning “terrible” or “disastrous”.
These beliefs aren’t just old superstitions buried in books. Even today, many Japanese people—especially those raised with more traditional or Shinto-influenced values—take them seriously. And when I say seriously, I mean you’ll find 42-year-old men lining up at temples for purification rituals.
The Maeyaku and Atoyaku
Here’s where it gets more elaborate.
Each yakudoshi year is bracketed by two additional “danger zones”:
– Maeyaku (前厄): the year before the unlucky one
– Atoyaku (後厄): the year after
So in total, each unlucky year becomes a three-year span of misfortune. That means if you’re a man hitting 42, you’ve actually got to worry about 41, 42, and 43. The same for women turning 33.
This explains why you’ll often see yakuyoke (厄除け, “bad luck prevention”) talismans for sale or special blessings being offered for people in these years. In fact, some temples post large signs near New Year’s that list the current yakudoshi ages by birth year so people know whether to come in for a ritual.
So Where Did This Come From?
The origin of yakudoshi is a bit murky.
Some scholars trace it back to ancient Chinese cosmology and numerology, where odd-numbered ages were associated with danger or imbalance. Others point to native Japanese beliefs around age transitions and physical maturation.
The logic is sometimes practical: age 42 might coincide with midlife stress, job changes, or health problems. For women, age 33 often aligns with childbearing stress and hormonal changes. There’s a sort of folk-scientific logic beneath the surface.
But over the centuries, whatever its origin, it became canonized into temple rites and woven into how people think about aging.
What People Do About It
There’s no official rulebook, but some common responses to yakudoshi include:
Visiting a temple or shrine to receive a yakuyoke blessing
Buying protective charms
Avoiding major life changes during those years (e.g., starting a company or getting married)
Holding a special party or gathering to “ward off” the bad luck
Donating to temples or shrines — just in case
You’ll also hear stories of people who had terrible luck during their yakudoshi and are now firm believers. Others laugh it off entirely. Like many things in Japan, it lives in that gray zone between tradition and modernity — where you don’t really believe in it, but you don’t exactly want to test it either.
Should You Believe It?
Maybe not in a literal sense. But then again, even in the West, we have “milestone” years people dread—turning 40, or 30, or retiring at 65. And astrology, with its Mercury-in-retrograde panic cycles, has never exactly gone away either.
What yakudoshi offers, perhaps, is a built-in moment to pause and reflect. A reminder that some years are harder than others. That there’s value in rituals, even if they don’t have scientific backing. That we all sometimes need to step out of our usual rhythm and ask: Am I doing okay?
There’s something healthy, even grounding, about acknowledging those transitions. Even if you don’t buy the metaphysics, the ritual itself can serve a purpose.
Final Thoughts
I’ve always found these old Shinto ideas and rituals fascinating. They are the kinds of things that most people will say they don’t believe in and will dismiss as superstition nonsense, yet things the same people will still follow and do, ostensibly for fun and because of tradition, but some admit it’s because of “just in case”.
I sometimes join in — sometimes not. It often depends on if I have time, if I have money (these charms at shrine are expensive), or if I even remember. For my 42nd year I had intended to go do the shrine thing, but then I completely forgot at first and then just never got around to it. Finally one of my students actually bought me a charm because she was worries about me.[1] If memory serves, I did go to the shrine and buy a charm for my 41st year, but didn’t do anything for my 43rd. I don’t remember any terrible luck hitting me. Hmmm.
I’m a ways from my 61st, but when it comes will I do anything? Maybe. You know — just in case.
She was an old women. Older people do tend to believe these things more than young folks. ↩
June 13th marks the death of Miyamoto Musashi, arguably Japan’s most legendary swordsman. He died in 1645, nearly four centuries ago, yet his life and philosophy continue to capture imaginations around the world — sword students, strategy enthusiasts, martial artists, and even corporate executives still study the writings he left behind.
A Life in the Sword
Musashi was born around 1584, though the exact year remains uncertain. He grew up during a time of civil war — the final chaotic decades of the Sengoku period, just before the Tokugawa shogunate unified the country under one rule.
Musashi fought his first duel at the age of 13. His opponent was a grown man, a professional samurai. Musashi killed him. This was not a boy besting another kid with a wooden sword; this was a real, lethal match.
That duel set the tone for his entire life.
He would go on to fight over 60 duels, never once losing. Among his most famous victories was his duel against Sasaki Kojirō on Ganryūjima, a small island between Honshu and Kyushu. The story is near-mythic: Musashi arrived late, carved a wooden sword from an oar on the way over, and struck Kojirō dead with a single blow. His timing, strategy, and psychological manipulation were as deadly as the sword itself.
Unlike other swordsmen, Musashi didn’t align himself permanently with any one lord. He was a rōnin — a masterless samurai — wandering the land, fighting duels, studying the art of combat, and refining his style. That style eventually became known as Niten Ichi-ryū, or “The School of the Two Heavens as One”, based on the simultaneous use of both long and short swords.
But Musashi’s fame today is not just about violence. He’s remembered not just as a killer, but as a thinker.
In his later years, Musashi turned increasingly inward, focusing on the underlying principles behind combat. He understood fighting as more than just technique — it was strategy, mindset, and clarity. This culminated in his short book Dokkōdō (“The Path of Aloneness”) and his more detailed manual Go Rin No Sho (“The Book of Five Rings”).
These weren’t just manuals for swordsmanship — they were guides to life, steeped in Zen influence and honed through decades of deadly experience.
The Final Days
In 1643, Musashi retired to a cave called Reigandō near Kumamoto. His body was failing — likely due to cancer — but his mind remained sharp. It was there, in that cave, that he wrote “The Book of Five Rings”, dictating it to a student in the months leading up to his death.
On June 13, 1645, Musashi knew his time had come.
According to legend, he put on his armor one final time and sat in the formal seiza posture, his sword at his side. Facing east, he waited calmly for death, just as he had calmly faced every opponent in his life. He died not on a battlefield, but in meditation — still, poised, unshaken. Like everything else in his life, he met death with full awareness.
He was around 60 years old.
His body was buried in armor, upright, with a sword at his side — still ready, even in death.
Legacy
Today, Musashi is remembered as more than just a samurai. He is a kensei — a sword saint.
His writings are still in print. “The Book of Five Rings” is fairly famous in the West, so if you have any interest in martial arts or even in self-improvement, you’ve probably come across it in the bookstore.
His duels are reënacted in film and fiction. His name appears in manga, anime, business manuals, and even self-help books. His grave near Kumamoto remains a place of pilgrimage. And his advice — on how to see clearly, how to win without falling into ego, how to act decisively and without hesitation — still resonates.
He lived by the sword, yes. But he also lived by insight. And that is what keeps him alive today.
If you have any interest in his life, I recommend “Musashi” by Eiji Yoshikawa. The English translation is pretty good. Eiji Yoshikawa was a very popular author of historic fiction, and this was one of his best novels. It takes some liberties, as historical fiction tends to do, but it stays remarkably true to the spirit and arc of Musashi’s life. It’s a fantastic read.
It’s the sort of thing that seems too small to matter — a quick flick of the wrist, an unconscious motion made dozens of times a day. But that’s the point. Because it is unconscious, because we do it without thinking, a tiny gesture like a beckon can be one of those tell-tale signs that you’re not from around here. And it can trip you up in ways you wouldn’t expect.
In the West[1], if you want to call someone over, you raise your hand, palm facing upward, and curl your fingers toward you. It’s casual. It’s clear. It says “Come here.”
But do that in Japan, and you might be seen as aggressive — or worse, offensive. That same gesture, when done with palm up and finger curling, is often how you’d call over a dog. Using it toward a person, especially someone older or in a position of authority, can come off as deeply disrespectful.
The Japanese equivalent is almost the exact opposite. To beckon someone over, you hold your hand out with your palm facing down, and then move your fingers toward you in a sort of downward scoop. It usually involves only the fingers — or at least less arm movement — compared to the Western palm-up version. It feels odd the first few times you try it. To Western eyes, it doesn’t look like “come here” at all; it looks like “go away.” And that’s exactly the problem. Japanese people using the native gesture abroad can confuse locals who think they’re being dismissed or shooed.
If you’ve ever seen a Maneki-neko figurine beckoning with a downward palm, you’ve seen this gesture in action. I’m told there are versions of the Maneki-neko that beckon with the palm up, but I’ve never seen any either in Japan or in the US.
Manekineko1003.jpg
But I digress. So you see the problem here. Japanese using the downward version abroad risk being misunderstood, while Westerners in Japan using the upwards version risk coming off as aggressive. I think younger people in Japan are more aware of the Western version, so this isn’t something dire, but still — it is a misunderstanding better avoided.
When I first moved to Japan, I was told about this difference in passing, and I’m glad I was. It saved me from a few awkward situations. Even knowing about it, I still misunderstood the Japanese gesture sometimes, thinking they were shooing me away. We just have nothing like it in the West except “go away” so naturally that is what it looks like until you are used to seeing it.
It’s a small thing, but that’s exactly why it matters. Because if you want to understand another culture — not just visit it, but really understand it — you have to pay attention to the small things.
Well, much of the West but not all. Wikipedia tells me that Italians, Spaniards, and Greeks recognize the downward beckoning gesture just fine. ↩
There are few Japanese words as globally recognizable — and as widely misunderstood — as geisha.[1]
A few weeks ago I wrote a brief post about why geisha wear wigs and paint their faces white. (See it here). A reader sent me a simple comment with the innocent question “Just what is a geisha?” I gave him a simple reply, but it got me thinking. I soon was writing down a much longer bit that became this post.
So let’s talk about just what a geisha is — and what a geisha isn’t.
In the West, the term was long misused, mistranslated, and flattened into something it never was. For decades, many Americans thought a geisha was just a fancy kind of prostitute in a kimono. This confusion wasn’t just a simple cultural misstep. It came from something very real and very specific: after the war, a number of sex workers catering to U.S. soldiers styled themselves as “geisha”, knowing the word carried exotic allure and would command higher prices. These women had nothing to do with the centuries-old geisha tradition, but the damage was done.[2]
It stuck. The myth made its way into pop culture, into movies, into the American imagination — and stayed there.
So… What Is a Geisha?
The word geisha (芸者) literally means “art person” or “artist”. That’s the key. A geisha is not a courtesan, nor an escort, nor a companion in any romantic sense. She is a performing artist. A professional entertainer. A living, breathing vessel of Japanese traditional culture.
She’s trained in the arts of music, dance, song, conversation, etiquette, and seasonal knowledge.[3] She plays shamisen, performs nihon buyō dances, composes haiku, recites classical poetry, and knows the proper way to serve tea or sake depending on the time of year. She’s fluent in the subtle art of being entertaining without being flirtatious — an incredibly difficult balancing act that few in the West fully appreciate.
Traditionally, the role of a geisha was to bring elegance and refinement to a gathering. She might perform at a high-end banquet, a ryōtei (exclusive restaurant), or an intimate ozashiki (tatami-matted room) affair. The mood she creates is artful and often playful — but it is not sexual.
If you think about it, there’s no true Western counterpart. A geisha is part performing artist, part host, part connoisseur, part historian. The closest might be a hybrid of an elite cultural ambassador and a cabaret performer — if the latter had studied for ten years and could recite The Tale of Genji from memory.
The Price of Art
Hiring a geisha isn’t just expensive — it’s exclusive. And it’s a far cry from transactional sex work.
A modest evening with one geisha and one apprentice (maiko) might start around ¥100,000 (roughly $650). But full-scale events with multiple geisha, musicians, and a course meal at a luxury ryōtei easily reach ¥500,000 to ¥1,000,000 ($3,000–$7,000). It’s not uncommon for an evening to hit the $10,000 mark once all expenses are included — food, drink, performance, tip, and more.
This aligns them less with any notion of “escort service” and more with high-end cultural speakers or performers at elite corporate events in the West. Those $10,000 speakers, however, are fairly easy for corporations to find and hire. Geisha are far more exclusive; you can’t just hire one off a website.
Access usually requires a personal referral, known as a tsukiai. The geisha world is built on trust, introductions, and reputation. If you flake on a bill, your name is mud — not just in that district, but potentially across Japan’s entire geisha network. It’s a closed world, where tradition matters, and discretion is paramount.
A Life of Training and Discipline
Becoming a geisha is no easy feat. Traditionally, a girl might begin her training as a shikomi (a sort of housemaid and observer), then become a minarai (learning by watching her older sisters), and finally an apprentice, or maiko in Kyoto dialect. This apprenticeship could last five years or more before she “debuted” as a full geisha.
During this time, she lives under strict rules — no dating, no personal cell phones, no side jobs. Even today, in the few remaining geisha districts of Kyoto and Kanazawa, the expectations remain intense. You live in a shared house, wear traditional clothes, speak with formal language, and learn from your seniors. It’s a life of beauty, yes, but also discipline, self-sacrifice, and physical exhaustion. The hairpieces alone are heavy enough to make your neck ache. And many maiko suffer from burned scalps because their hair must be styled with heated irons and worn for days at a time, including when sleeping on a wooden neck block.
It’s not something anyone casually signs up for. Which is why it’s particularly frustrating to those inside the profession when outsiders casually — or cynically — collapse it into sex work.
The Postwar Misuse
So how did we get here? How did “geisha” become a euphemism for “prostitute” in postwar America?
After Japan’s surrender in 1945, the occupying forces flooded cities like Tokyo and Yokohama. U.S. soldiers with money and curiosity sought out “authentic” Japanese experiences — and were often met by women dressed in kimono calling themselves “geisha girls”. These women were sex workers. They adopted the look and the name because the real geisha were closed off, too expensive, and frankly not interested in entertaining drunken foreign soldiers.
And can you blame them?
Meanwhile, Japan’s shattered economy and power vacuum created an enormous black market, including a vast informal sex industry. Many of these “geisha girls” weren’t trained entertainers at all, but ordinary women trying to survive in a devastated, occupied nation. Still, the term stuck. To the average GI, they were “geisha”. And that’s what they told their buddies back home.
Hollywood took it from there.
Hollywood sealed the myth with films like Sayonara and Memoirs of a Geisha, which romanticized the idea of the beautiful, tragic courtesan. These movies blended aesthetics with innuendo, art with desire — effectively erasing the real role geisha played in Japanese society.
It’s only in recent years that the true identity of the geisha has started to be more widely understood outside of Japan.
Geisha ≠ Courtesan: Understanding the Difference
To really grasp the distinction, we have to go back to the Edo period.
Japan once had a well-defined class of sex workers called yujo (遊女), a term that literally means “play women”. Among them, the most elite were the oiran (花魁), high-ranking courtesans of the licensed pleasure districts like Yoshiwara. Oiran were educated, fashionable, and selective. They performed music and poetry, and their processions down the street were public spectacles. You might be forgiven for thinking that sounds a little like my description of a geisha above. Maybe so, but the big difference being oiran were still sex workers — albeit expensive ones. Think escorts — the kind of call girl that only the rich can afford.
Geisha, by contrast, were originally entertainers who performed alongside these women, not as rivals but as artistic complements. Over time, geisha became independent from the pleasure quarters and formed their own world of performance and culture. By the late 1800s, they had clearly split off into their own category. No sex. Just art.
That line has remained firm in Japan. It’s only abroad where it became blurry.
A Role in Modern Japan
Today, only a few hundred geisha remain active, mostly in Kyoto, Kanazawa, and Tokyo’s Asakusa district. Their numbers have shrunk, but their role remains vital. They preserve traditional dance, song, seasonal customs, and even modes of speech that would otherwise vanish.
You’re unlikely to meet one unless you’re invited to a very formal event or have deep connections in Kyoto. It can happen. I have a foreigner friend who lives in Kyoto and has managed to work himself into the geisha world as a photographer. He goes to their events. He is allowed to participate a little, but he is mostly limited to watching and taking photos.
But even if you manage to do as he has and find yourself invited to a geisha event, it won’t be anything like what you saw in Memoirs. No mysterious seduction. No tragic love story. No sex. Just quiet, practiced elegance. A flick of the wrist. A haunting shamisen note. A perfectly timed seasonal joke.
Geisha are not relics of a lost world. They are practitioners of one still alive — if only barely — amid the noise and neon of modern Japan.
Just to be clear, that is pronounced gay-sha. I think that’s pretty well-known at this point, but I also know many Boomers still insist on pronouncing it as gee-sha, evidently because that is how it was pronounced on McHale’s Navy, a popular sitcom that was on when they were kids. ↩
I have another post in the works addressing this point. In brief: the sex-work industry in Japan for American GIs following the war was huge — and the women providing the services not always doing so of their own free will. ↩
Kind of a lot of the stuff I share here, about the traditional Japanese almanac, about season words in haiku, and so on. The difference is much of my knowledge is in my notebooks (or in my Zettelkasten), whereas geisha have it all memorized and are experts in all of it. ↩
