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In This Edition
Endless piles of leaves, a Japanese Houki broom, and a crisp November wind reveal that even the most menial tasks can carry lessons in patience, duty, and unexpected satisfaction.
From suburban Perth, Western Australia to a quiet shrine outside Tokyo, imagined flights of childhood collide with the realities of adult responsibility, culture, and ritual.
In these fushigi times, volunteering is more than chores and community expectation—it is a meditation on impermanence, connection, and the small acts that make life meaningful.
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Production Credits
Creator / Writer / Presenter: Angelino Schintu
Produced, Recorded & Engineered at: Fushigi Labs Tokyo
Opening & Closing Voice / Audio Production: Thomas Kinkaid
Theme Music: Original composition Fushigi by Andrew P Partington
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From Flying Nimbus Dreams to Shrine Duty Reality
At the time of writing and recording this episode, Japan’s all-too-short summer has disappeared like a magician’s wave of the wand and, poof! Gone. No illusion. Autumn has arrived. The cooling air threatens to strip away the hard-earned layers of suntan from this year’s life at the beach. It made me pause and think about how seasons mark more than just weather. They mark memories, routines and the small rituals that make life feel grounded.
It was a clear November morning, the kind that reminds you Japan is not just a land of skyscrapers and neon but a place where autumn insists on showing off. The air was sharp and sweet with falling leaves, and somewhere in the distance, the faint metallic chime of a shrine bell echoed across the neighbourhood. Sunlight filtered through the branches of maples and ginkgo trees, casting dappled patterns on the stone pathways and the mossy edges of the shrine walls. I stood on the edge of the sacred precinct, a broom in hand, pretending, if only for a few moments, that I was mounting a vintage Nimbus and about to launch into flight.
No Quidditch in the skies today, alas. This was not Hogwarts. But the fantasy was irresistible.
The broom felt like it might obey my slightest whim; the leaves beneath, like miniature quidditch balls, responded to my sweeping with satisfying swishes. I imagined myself dipping and soaring, performing manoeuvres with a grace that would make even Harry Potter envious. The faint smell of damp earth mixed with the crisp scent of fallen leaves, grounding the magic in reality. And then, of course, reality intruded: I was here to volunteer, not to indulge in childish flights of fancy.
Yet, even as my imagination soared, my mind wandered back to the beginning of this peculiar journey, almost seven or eight years earlier, when the universe (or more specifically, the local shrine committee) decided that an Australian expat with an epic beard might be just the person to help keep a small piece of Japan functioning.
It seemed improbable at the time, even laughable, but the way small decisions accumulate and traditions assert themselves often has a momentum that cannot be ignored.
Somehow, I was caught in it, about to discover a side of Japan that was patient, meticulous, and quietly enchanting.
The Men in Black Come A-Calling
Not long after we moved into our cluster of modest homes just outside Tokyo, there was a knock at the door. Two men, dressed in what I can only describe as official-looking black suits, appeared. My heart performed a small, embarrassed somersault. Had I been reported for something trivial and catastrophic, like not disposing of rubbish correctly? That is a thing here in Japan! I cautiously opened the door. Their polished demeanour and the quiet authority in their voices suggested that no excuse would be sufficient. I braced myself.
The conversation that followed was an exercise in linguistic improvisation. I had to decide on the fly whether or not I was able to speak Japanese fluently or not at all.
Don’t tell anyone I said so, but sometimes it is beneficial not to speak the language.
In the end, I leaned on honesty sprinkled with charm. The two gentlemen, it turns out, were from the local shrine committee – who were seeking my participation as a volunteer. I was very reticent and, as they were speaking, my mind went into overdrive, thinking of ways to avoid this impending involuntary conscription to a cabal I wanted nothing to do with.
“Gentlemen, I really am very sorry. My work commitments, business travel… Oh! and I’m from the Christian tradition, so…” My personal beliefs were apparently quite acceptable to the god that inhabits the shrine. “All-comers are most welcome!” As for my work schedule, well there was “not really much to do, apart from attending a few meetings”, and to appear with my epic beard at a few key events organised by the shrine committee. I was ensnared. To protest any further would have made me come across as extremely rude.
“You will take your place on the committee for a period of two years. But don’t worry, you don’t start your term of service for another two more years.”
I stared at them. They were organised. Impossibly organised. Their precision, their calm certainty, left me both impressed and mildly terrified.
The New Harvest Festival and the Japanese Houki
Fast forward to November two years later, and the beginning of my two-year term on the shrine committee. The first major assignment was the New Harvest Festival. Our task was simple in theory: sweep up the vast blanket of leaves carpeting the grounds. In practice, it was monumental, stretching across courtyards, pathways, and under the shade of ancient trees that had overseen decades of autumns.
Here’s where the magic and the temptation kicked in. The tools provided were Japanese Houki, traditional brooms so reminiscent of flying broomsticks in Harry Potter that it was impossible for me not to indulge in a little mischief. My inner child, the Aussie larrikin who had spent too many Saturday mornings raking suburban leaves, could not resist. I strutted and swirled, imagined the Nimbus taking off, performed imaginary loops, and generally mucked around, laughing at myself even as the older volunteers gave quiet, bemused glances.
The other volunteers, mostly elderly and stoic, moved with a calm efficiency that spoke of decades of practice. I, in contrast, was a novice, fumbling between fantasy and chore. Soon, reality reasserted itself. The shrine grounds were immense, and the wind threatened to undo the careful mounds we were trying to create.
I realised that precision, patience, and teamwork mattered far more than creative flair or imagination in this small, sacred corner of the world.
But even amid the work, there was a rhythm. Sweeping, gathering, stacking—the motions became meditative. I began to notice the sound of the leaves as they scraped across stone paths, the faint smell of autumn decay, the occasional gust scattering them like confetti. The physicality of it, the simple, repetitive labour, was unexpectedly absorbing. Time seemed to stretch and bend, each moment a mixture of playful nostalgia and the quiet satisfaction of contributing to something larger than myself.
All For One, One For All!
It was during a morning tea break that I began to understand the deeper currents behind this volunteering. Most of the other participants were there out of a sense of duty rather than enthusiasm.
Peer pressure, community expectation, the quiet insistence of tradition. Those were the forces driving them.
When I asked about their motivation, there was a pause, a lot of teeth-sucking, and finally, a glimpse into their philosophy. I watched the steam rise from our teacups, smelled the faint aroma of roasted barley, and felt the crisp chill of the November air. A moment suspended between work and reflection.
One man, nearing eighty, wheeled a barrow full of leaves. “If everyone in the area takes a turn to do their bit,” he said, “you only have to do this once every fifteen years or so. This is my third and last time.” He smiled wryly. “I do this for everyone who lives around this area, not for myself only.” His voice was steady, quiet but resolute, carrying decades of accumulated habit and wisdom.
That, I realised, was the point. The work was not glamorous, not particularly fulfilling in the conventional sense, but it was meaningful. The very act of participating, of contributing to a shared space, created something beyond the individual. I thought of similar rituals back home, moments of communal effort that stitch neighbourhoods together, and recognised the subtle power of small, repeated acts of service.
This struck me as profoundly Japanese but also universally human.
In an ageing society, where the rhythms of daily life are measured in small acts of continuity, the shrine’s volunteers were keeping both culture and community alive.
Their work was quiet, almost invisible, but indispensable. It was a reminder that meaning often resides not in spectacle, but in the attention, care, and persistence applied to ordinary things.
From Leaf-Grumbling to Leaf-Glory
By the end of that November morning, I had learned more than I anticipated. Sweeping millions of leaves with a non-flying broom might not sound like enlightenment, but it was. I had started with resentment, imagining every excuse in the world not to participate. By the time we gathered for tea and shared sushi and beer (a surprising perk of the commitment) I had shifted my focus. The warmth of the tea during the break, the taste of freshly prepared sushi at end, and the gentle camaraderie around the table made the morning feel complete.
Volunteering, I realised, was not about self. It was about connecting, contributing, and seeing the impact of the work ripple outward. The effect was immediate and, as it turns out, professionally beneficial. Being able to step outside myself, to help without expectation, cultivates empathy, patience, and perspective, qualities that serve any career, any human interaction, any cross-cultural encounter. The physical work, the ritualised motions, and the shared goal created a quiet satisfaction that was tangible, almost meditative, and yet also energising.
And there was humour and absurdity everywhere.
The image of an Aussie, tattooed, ear-pierced, epically bearded man wrestling with a traditional Japanese broom in a sacred precinct was enough to make anyone grin.
Even the stoic elders, I suspect, appreciated the entertainment. It reminded me that community work does not always need solemnity; laughter, lightness, and small acts of playfulness are part of the rhythm that keeps traditions alive and makes participation memorable.
Blue Zone Secrets: Lessons for an Ageing Society
Japan’s ageing population is not just a statistic; it is lived, tactile, visible in the men and women tidying streets, pruning shrubs, and preparing shrines. Their movements are deliberate, almost ceremonial, each sweep of a broom or snip of a branch a quiet act of care. It is a reminder that civic life requires effort, attention, and continuity. It also underscores the value of intergenerational exchange: young and old working together, sharing knowledge, and maintaining social infrastructure that is both physical and cultural. Observing them, I felt part of a system far larger than myself, one sustained by commitment, habit, and respect.
Volunteering in this context is a subtle form of social glue. It binds communities, preserves rituals, and reminds everyone that no one exists in isolation.
A simple act like sweeping leaves, organizing matsuri, tending a shrine becomes a metaphor for care, patience, and human connectedness.
There is a rhythm to the work that transcends language, nationality, or age, and in that rhythm, participants find both purpose and quiet satisfaction.
The analogy extends far beyond Japan. In urban centres worldwide, where social cohesion frays and civic engagement declines, there is a lesson here: meaningful contribution matters. Even small, menial tasks, undertaken consistently and collectively, sustain the invisible threads that make societies function. And perhaps, in paying attention to these threads, we rediscover a form of community often lost in the hum of modern life, one that offers connection, continuity, and the rare, unexpected joy of shared accomplishment.
Beer, Sushi, and Flying Nimbus Dreams
As I surveyed the cleared grounds, the patterns of leaves long since swept into mounds, I was struck by the juxtaposition of the ephemeral and the enduring. Leaves fall and decay; seasons change; volunteers grow older, new residents arrive. Yet the shrine stands, and the work endures, replicated year after year. The wind rustled through the remaining branches, scattering a few stray leaves, as if to remind us that perfection is fleeting, and yet effort itself holds its own quiet reward.
It is a meditation on impermanence and continuity, a lesson in humility.
Watching others bend and sweep with careful precision, I recognised how small, deliberate actions accumulate into something larger than any individual. And perhaps, in its own way, it is a form of magic, the kind that does not require flight, spells, or broomsticks, but arises from shared purpose, quiet diligence, and the simple act of being present. In these moments, community, tradition, and human connection seem to align, creating a sense of belonging that lingers long after the leaves are gone and the morning tea has been consumed. And Hey Presto! The mundane transforms into something quietly extraordinary, leaving both body and spirit unexpectedly uplifted.
By the time the morning ended, the sun had risen higher, shadows shortened, and the shrine was immaculate. The leaves were gone, the grounds pristine, and the sense of accomplishment surprisingly profound. There was a quiet satisfaction in seeing the results of collective effort, the invisible rhythm of many hands combining to produce something orderly and beautiful. And yes, there was free beer, sushi, and laughter, a gentle, human reward for contributing to something larger than oneself. The clink of glasses, the chatter of volunteers, and the shared enjoyment of a job well done made the morning feel complete.
I never did actually fly on that Nimbus. But for a few hours, amidst the crisp autumn air, the swirl of leaves, and the quiet authority of my elders in arms, I felt a lift that no broomstick could provide.
The illusion of flight, the joy of play, and the satisfaction of meaningful labour merged into something wholly unexpected.
Volunteering is rarely glamorous. It is sometimes tedious, occasionally absurd, and almost always humbling. Yet it leaves an imprint, on the community, on the individual, and, if one allows it, on the imagination.
And that, for me, is enough to take off, even if only in spirit.
Beer and sushi and lots of beer!
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Angelino Schintu is a veteran journalist, broadcaster, and filmmaker based in Japan. He is Editor-in-Chief of The Fushigi Times — an independent Slow Media platform offering bold, reality-grounded perspectives on global affairs, cultural explorations, and creative thought.
