Higan is a sacred interlude in the Japanese spiritual calendar, observed twice a year during the Spring and Autumn Equinoxes. Rooted in Buddhist philosophy and harmonised with Shinto reverence for nature and ancestors, Higan (彼岸) translates as "the other shore"—a metaphor for enlightenment, liberation, and the crossing from illusion to awakening. It is a time of balance, when day and night are equal, and the veil between the seen and unseen feels especially permeable.
Unlike many festivals that look outward, Higan is deeply inward-facing. It is not tied to dramatic ritual or loud celebration, but to quiet offerings, ancestral remembrance, and self-cultivation. Traditionally lasting for seven days—three before and three after the equinox, with the equinox itself at the centre—Higan creates a ritual container for reflection and spiritual realignment.
In Buddhist thought, the "other shore" refers to the state of nirvana, in contrast to this shore—samsara, the cycle of suffering and rebirth. The equinox, as a moment of celestial balance, becomes an earthly symbol for this spiritual crossing. The journey is not literal but moral and meditative: an invitation to move from ignorance, anger, and desire toward clarity, compassion, and wisdom. This path is embodied in the Six Paramitas—perfections or virtues: generosity, discipline, patience, effort, meditation, and wisdom. During Higan, practitioners may focus on one or more of these, using the equinoctial stillness as a vessel for transformation.
Central to Higan is the veneration of ancestors. Families visit graves, clean tombstones, and make offerings of flowers, incense, and seasonal food such as ohagi—sweet rice cakes wrapped in red bean paste. These acts are not mere cultural habits but spiritual bridges, affirming the continuity of life beyond form. In the Japanese worldview, ancestors are not departed—they are present, woven into the fabric of the living world, watching, guiding, and remembered with gratitude.
The aesthetic dimensions of Higan are subtle yet profound. The season itself becomes the liturgy: the hush of wind through golden trees, the fragrance of incense drifting into twilight, the moment when temple bells echo over quiet fields. Haiku and tanka poetry often reflect this shift, using seasonal imagery to evoke states of impermanence and spiritual longing. In this way, nature becomes both scripture and sanctuary.
In the temples, monks chant sutras not only for the dead, but for the living who seek the path. These intonations are said to open channels between realms, softening karmic ties and illuminating the journey toward the other shore. The act of chanting itself becomes a crossing—each word a boat, each breath a wave.
Higan does not promise sudden illumination. It offers something more enduring: a rhythm of remembrance, a spiritual recalibration anchored to the cosmos. It is a time to remember what endures beyond the changing seasons, to honour those who walked before, and to take one small, steady step toward the quiet brightness on the other shore.
