Roppongi Hills' Christmas festivities commence early to mid-November and culminate punctually on December 25th. The winter event, held within the privately owned public spaces of the Roppongi Hills complex, comprises a range of themed attractions. Highlights include a German-inspired Christmas market at O-Yane Plaza, Christmas trees decorated throughout Mori Garden and West Walk, post boxes placed around the grounds for sending season's greetings, and, indeed, the iconic Keyakizaka Illumination.
Keyakizaka-dōri, a 400-metre east-to-west street lined with Keyaki (欅), or Zelkova, trees, forms a boundary between the commercial and corporate core of Roppongi Hills and its residential towers to the south. The name, translating to "Zelkova Hill", traces its origins to the Edo period, long predating the modern development of Roppongi Hills. Keyaki trees, a resilient species, have become a mainstay of Tokyo's urban landscaping. Keyakizaka-dōri gently slopes downward to the east, revealing an unobstructed view of Tokyo Tower framed by the Zelkovas.
Approximately 800,000 white and blue lights intricately woven through the Zelkovas create a complementary palette with Tokyo Tower's orange glow against the night sky during the designated illumination period. The result is a perfectly designed view corridor, the ideal Christmas card for Tokyo city life. Still, I can't help but feel a certain sadness for the Zelkova trees. These steadfast stewards of streetscapes across the city must endure the adornment of LEDs to claim even a fraction of the admiration lavished on cherry blossoms or plum trees.
I remember a time when the Keyakizaka Illumination was a more tranquil scene, with couples on Christmas dates leaving the shopping centre to stroll arm in arm along the street. Today, it's a busier spectacle—crowds pour into the middle of the road as the traffic lights turn red, each visitor determined to capture the perfect postcard shot on their phone. Passing by last winter, I witnessed the chaos: an ad hoc scene managed by a lone man in high-visibility clothing wielding a loudspeaker, barely able to prevent disruption to the traffic. This year, from the images I've seen online, management seems to have recognised the issue and has introduced more organised measures. A team of marshals equipped with barricades now contains the crowds effectively.
The occasion is fleeting, but Keyakizaka's transience, unlike the ephemeral beauty of cherry blossoms, is deliberate. At Roppongi Hills, proceedings conclude sharply, producing a clean slate from the 26th onward. It is a pattern mirrored by many Christmas events across the city—a swift transition where Christmas aesthetics are no longer needed, having served their purpose. This approach is unsurprising, as Christmas in Japan is a secular, commercially oriented celebration rather than a nationally observed holiday. Though undeniably a charming time to experience Tokyo, the festive season ends with the same rhythmic inevitability as the traffic lights changing on Keyakizaka-dōri.
Hearts, minds, and retail displays quickly pivot toward the approaching New Year. In Britain, whose culture I come from, the transition from Christmas to New Year is relatively indistinct, with the cultural resonance of Christmas often stretching beyond Boxing Day on the 26th. The days from the 27th to the 30th are ambiguous—a mix of quiet moments, late gift exchanges, festive cheer, shopping, and intermittent work shifts. In Japan, however, there is much to do before New Year, making the rapid dismantling of Christmas understandable.
Japan adopted the Gregorian calendar in 1873 during the Meiji Era to embrace modernisation and align with Western practices. Prior to this, the nation followed the Chinese lunisolar calendar, celebrating New Year, or Shōgatsu (正月), with the first new moon after the winter solstice, typically falling between late January and mid-February. Yet, when the Meiji government moved New Year's Day to January 1st, nearly all traditional customs associated with the holiday were retained. The level of preparation remained unchanged, but the timeline advanced by several weeks. The groundwork includes the ritual deep cleaning of homes, the installation of kadomatsu (門松) decorations to welcome New Year’s deities, and the creation of osechi ryōri (おせち料類)—painstakingly arranged dishes presented in lacquered boxes, each with symbolic meaning.
The New Year in London tends to arrive suddenly after an extended period of indulgence. For many, January 1st begins with a hangover, and rather than a sense of renewal, the month is often characterised by lethargy. The return to uninspiring routines deepens this sense of inertia. Though New Year's resolutions stand to combat this, they can sometimes have the opposite effect. Sudden attempts to quit high-dopamine habits can result in feelings of withdrawal. This collective slump is widely recognised as the 'January blues.' It's not the most invigorating way to begin a new year.
Rather than collapsing into this familiar cycle, reframing the days between now and January 1st as a preparatory period can be fruitful. I’ve never felt at ease extending Christmas celebrations past the 26th and have always, on some level, favoured using this time to reset for the year ahead. It can be challenging to sustain this mindset when the prevailing culture encourages a state of post-holiday malaise. Nevertheless, establishing a proactive outlook before New Year's Day improves the chances of sticking to resolutions beyond their typical lifespan of 4–6 weeks. Borrowing from Shōgatsu’s structured practices can offer direction during this transition.
Earlier, I mentioned ritualistic cleaning, which is an effective starting point. Ōsōji (大掃除), which translates directly to "big cleaning," has roots in Shintoism, where cleanliness and purity are vital. The custom enacts the purification of spaces to invite the New Year’s deities, Toshigami (年神), and to secure good fortune for the coming year. Practically speaking, ōsōji was historically tied to agricultural cycles, conducted during the winter lull when farming activities paused. This natural break offered the chance to clean homes and tools after the harvest, transforming idle time into purposeful groundwork for the future.
While ōsōji retains its Shinto roots, it has largely become a secular tradition. The practice is observed across various aspects of contemporary society, from households to schools and workplaces. Although no official public holiday is allocated to ōsōji, municipalities recognise its cultural importance by providing special rubbish collection services to accommodate the surge in waste from decluttering activities. This does not suggest that all Japanese spaces exemplify minimalism—on the contrary, the success of decluttering gurus like Marie Kondo illustrates how many Japanese households amassed overwhelming clutter during the post-war economic boom.
A thorough ōsōji extends well beyond decluttering. It encompasses tasks such as detailed dusting and wiping, down to the light fixtures; washing windows; replacing the paper in shōji screens; vacuuming and mopping floors; deep-cleaning kitchens and bathrooms; and sweeping porches and entryways. These efforts are often divided among family members, and in workplaces and schools, they take on the spirit of a collective effort. Even those who opt out of ōsōji at home, favouring spaces that feel cosy and lived-in, are likely to encounter some aspect of ōsōji during late December, particularly if they are part of a workplace or school community.
Whether approached from a spiritual or practical perspective, I find few activities as effective at soothing a scattered mind as organising and tending to one's belongings and the spaces they occupy. The items we gather and the ways we arrange, store and maintain them serve as outward expressions of ourselves—a tangible reflection of the environment we've shaped over the past year. French naturalist Georges-Louis Leclerc observed, "Le style c'est l'homme même"—the style is the man himself (using gendered language typical of the 18th century). Naturally, each person's priorities and thresholds for tidiness and cleanliness differ. Yet, irrespective of preferences, when the state of a home or workplace is unintentional or unmanageable, it signals a similar state of disarray within the mind.
While undertaking a complete ōsōji, encompassing decluttering, deep cleaning, and beautification, yields the most dramatic results, I posit that an ōsōji mindset can be applied in more manageable and flexible ways. If a full-scale cleaning feels overwhelming or impractical, consider focusing on a specific room or category of items, such as clothing or books. There's simple beauty in reviewing the items you've chosen to clothe your body with or furnish your mind with through the year, and making conscious decisions about which of those will continue to serve you in the future. Even the smallest initiative is progress, and often, beginning with a modest challenge unlocks the energy to do more.
Traditional perspectives on ōsōji don't address our digital lives, but maintaining order in this sphere is an increasingly pressing concern. This morning, as I planned my ōsōji priorities for the coming days, I noticed my list naturally dividing into two categories: digital and physical. Considering the scale of data and activity we handle digitally—housed within deceptively compact devices—digital ōsōji may be more critical than its physical equivalent. The relentless flow of information and the accumulation of invisible open loop tasks can weigh heavily on the subconscious, leaving a pervasive sense of unease.
I'm determined not to spend these valuable days bound to a screen but a few virtual priorities have emerged. First, conducting a thorough review of my finances and spending habits, which are now predominantly managed electronically. Second, auditing my social media accounts, feeds and newsletter subscriptions with the aim of establishing a more intentional and refined stream of information for the coming year.
Amidst the ever-expanding digital clutter of current times, I'd like to conclude this year by expressing my sincerest thanks for making Tokyothèque part of your personal information stream in 2024. If you read each week, you are the reason this endeavour remains so fulfilling. If you have chosen membership, you are part of an exceedingly small group, so your support matters. Each paying member helps bring us closer to building a sustainable project where I’ll be able to act on the thoughtful suggestions and ideas I receive for improvement. Moreover, your contributions help keep the newsletter and its knowledge freely accessible to those unable to contribute.
I hope this weekly dispatch has served you well this year, bringing insight and appreciation for Tokyo and Japan to your inbox with a sense of calm and measure.
Until we meet in 2025,
AJ