Rebuilding as Preservation

The lessons I took from a Japanese shrine that rebuilds itself every twenty years.

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I’m SJF, a composer and sound artist living in Kyoto, Japan. These letters are for wanderers and creators seeking the quieter side of life; stories, soundscapes, and moments of beauty. For those feeling burned out by the modern world and those drawn to traditional craftsmanship, ambient music, and mindful internet spaces. If that’s you, then you’re welcome here.

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Recently, I stumbled upon a couple of related ideas that made me think and I wanted to take the opportunity to share my thoughts here in this letter.

The first was this quote from Dylan:

“And it dawned on me that I might have to change my inner thought patterns… that I would have to start believing in possibilities that I wouldn’t have allowed before, that I had been closing my creativity down to a very narrow, controllable scale… that things had become too familiar and I might have to disorient myself.”

—Bob Dylan

Let that sink in for a sec whilst I tell you about the second thing that caught my interest: the story of a shrine in Japan that links perfectly with Dylan's words here. Let me tell you about Ise Jingu.

In the small town of Ise, on the Kii Peninsula in Japan, hiding among the lofty cedars and the quietly murmuring rivers, there's a shrine that has been completely re-built by hand every twenty years for well over a millennium in a ritual known as Shikinen Sengū. Fresh wood is used each time; with every log aged to 300 years or more. The roof is re-thatched and the construction is completed without the use of nails or power tools. Each and every beam is measured to fit with the same care as the one that came before it.

Very little is carried over and yet, the shrine is considered the same. It is still Ise Jingu; still one of the holiest Shinto shrines in Japan. A place where generations of craftsmen have passed down their knowledge through this ritualised act of re-building.

What struck me about this story is how radically different this idea is from our usual desperate attempts to preserve all that is precious and beautiful in life. Preserving beauty behind toughened glass, on the other side of red silk ropes, encased in marble or a gilded frame. We do everything we can to prevent decay; just look at the beauty industry as an example of that. Yet, in Ise, the art of preservation is in the recreation. The shrine moves with the currents of time rather than trying to resist them.

This idea grabbed me hard and would not let go. When I first heard this story, I felt something deeply profound. Something I was keen to uncover. I wanted to write out my scribbled notes here on Substack and take this opportunity to think out loud a little bit.

I began to wonder if it was possible to live in a way that resembled the shrine at Ise, and what that would look like. What does it mean to think of life, our creative practice, or even something like being a parent, as something meant to be taken apart and rebuilt at regular intervals?

I also asked myself why this story was calling out so strongly to me now—in this phase of starting a new life. I wondered if it’s because I’m going through my own version of this ritual. Moving to Japan, I’d wondered if maybe geography might help old negative patterns of being fade away. But of course, as we all know, real change requires something far more deliberate than just a change of location. The unconscious habits creep back in and there's a clinging to parts of myself that used to feel essential but no longer serve me. Old ways of working, old definitions of success, even old ways of seeking approval.

Perhaps you recognise this feeling too. Maybe you’ve outgrown a job, a relationship, or a way of seeing yourself, but the thought of letting go feels like losing something sacred, something you've invested too much time and energy into. The lesson to learn here is that renewal itself can be a form of preservation rather than loss; preservation of the parts of ourselves that we want to keep.

Give yourself the permission to be taken apart and re-assembled with new materials, thoughts and ideas. What a profound and different way to think about life. It turns out that identity doesn't have to be a single, unchanging thing, it can be rebuilt and improved upon. Similar to how technological advancements that arrived in Japan led to the application of new styles at Ise Jingu. The introduction of gold copper, now found all over the shrine, is something that arrived after its original construction. Each build incorporates new wisdom, materials, and understanding. In the same way, each season of our lives can integrate what we’ve learned whilst still honouring what came before.

Is it possible to see the changing seasons of our lives as a necessary part of its architecture? This letter, and the story of this shrine, are a reminder that it's okay to begin again and the act of doing so can still be a form of continuity and of holding onto what's precious.

What are you ready to let go of, to rebuild?
What might you treat as sacred, starting today?

As always, thank you for noticing with me. If this letter stirred something within you and you’d like to support my work here in Kyoto, please consider becoming a paid subscriber, exploring my music on Bandcamp or buying me a coffee.

I've also started guiding small sound walks through Kyoto where together we'll record the city's hidden sounds and leave with a custom soundscape I'll mix just for you. If this sounds like something you'd be interested in, please find more information here.

Until next time,

🍃 SJF