In an age of disconnection and noise, Japanese mythology offers a path not back—but forward.
These ancient stories are not just cultural relics; they are living invitations to remember who we are, how we belong, and what it means to live in harmony with the whole.
This is not mythology as fantasy—but as orientation.
A spiritual language of beginnings—and the courage to begin again.
1. Why Do We Study Mythology?
Why do people study mythology?
It is not merely to learn what ancient people believed long ago.
Rather, myths are humanity’s earliest attempts to answer some of the deepest and most enduring questions we have ever asked:
“Why are we here?”
“How did the world begin?”
“What does it mean to live a good life?”
These questions are not answered through logic or science alone.
They are often addressed through stories—narratives that reflect the values, beliefs, and imaginations of those who came before us.
In this sense, mythology is not just about the past; it is a mirror that reflects both the soul of a culture and its hopes for the future.
In Western traditions, Greek myths and the Old Testament have long been studied as sources of spiritual, philosophical, artistic, and political insight.
These stories have shaped the very foundations of Western civilization.
In Japan, we have our own ancient records—the Kojiki and the Nihon Shoki, texts that contain the mythological origins of the Japanese people and the land itself.
These myths have deeply influenced Japan’s culture, ethics, and worldview across centuries.
Among those who studied these myths were the samurai—Japan’s warrior class.
But they did not read them as mere folklore.
Instead, they approached them as moral and philosophical guides, asking:
What is the nature of duty?
What is the role of the individual in society?
How should one face life and death?
The worldview found in Japanese mythology helped to form the ethical foundation of Bushidō, the Way of the Warrior.
It taught that true strength lies not only in power, but in living in harmony with others and fulfilling one’s role responsibly.
In this way, mythology is not just about remembering the past.
It also offers guidance for how we might walk into the future.
By studying myth, we do not only look back—we discover a compass that points forward.
2. Takeiwatatsu-no-Mikoto: Where Mythology and Geology Intersect
Among the many deities found in Japanese mythology, one remarkable figure is Takeiwatatsu-no-Mikoto（建磐龍命）.
He is also known as Aso Ōkami（阿蘇大神）, the great deity of Mount Aso—a massive volcanic caldera located in central Kyushu, Japan.
This mountain and its surrounding region have long been sacred to the people who live there, and the stories told about the god of Aso reveal a powerful blend of myth, geography, and memory.
According to legend, the area inside Mount Aso’s great outer rim was once a vast lake.
Takeiwatatsu-no-Mikoto looked upon this lake and realized that if the water could be drained, it would reveal fertile land beneath—land that could support agriculture and sustain generations of people.
So one day, he climbed the mountain, and with a mighty kick, he broke open a part of the outer rim, allowing the water to flow out and transforming the lake into rich farmland.
This story was long considered nothing more than a myth—a symbolic tale about the generosity of a divine being.
But in recent years, geologists have made a fascinating discovery:
There is geological evidence that Mount Aso’s caldera did once hold a lake, and at a certain point in ancient history, a section of the outer rim collapsed, causing the water to drain away.
And when did this dramatic event take place?
Modern science has dated it to approximately 73,000 years ago.
In other words, the Japanese people had preserved the memory of this prehistoric event—an event that predates written history by tens of thousands of years—in the form of a myth.
The myth did not describe the mechanics of geology, of course, but it encoded a deep cultural memory of the land, passed down from generation to generation through storytelling.
What is even more remarkable is that Takeiwatatsu-no-Mikoto is not considered an ancient deity in the Japanese pantheon.
He is seen as a relatively new god, appearing much later than the primordial deities of creation.
So if this “new” god represents an event from 73,000 years ago, how far back do the oldest Japanese deities truly go?
Some scholars suggest that Japan’s earliest myths may preserve memories dating as far back as 150,000 years ago—around the time when the Japanese archipelago first became inhabited by humans.
This is why Japanese history is sometimes described with the phrase:
“Mabataki sanzen-nen”（まばたき三千年）—
“Three thousand years is but the blink of an eye.”
It means that, in the context of Japan’s long civilizational memory, even three thousand years feels like a fleeting moment.
3. The Meaning Behind “Kakuremi” — The Hidden Body of the Gods
In the opening lines of the Kojiki—Japan’s oldest chronicle—we are told that the first gods appeared at the dawn of heaven and earth.
These deities, however, did not remain visible.
The text states that they “hid themselves within their own bodies.”
The original Japanese phrase is “隠身” (kakuremi), which literally translates to “hidden body.”
At first glance, this might sound like the gods simply vanished.
But in the context of Japanese spiritual language, “kakuremi” holds a far deeper meaning.
It implies not disappearance, but conception—to take something into oneself as a mother carries a child in her womb.
Let us consider the first deity in the myth:
Ame-no-Minakanushi-no-Kami（天之御中主神）—“The Lord of the Center of Heaven.”
He appeared at a time when there was nothing else—no form, no division between sky and earth.
In other words, he was existence itself.
And when he “hid his body,” it means that this total existence withdrew into itself, taking all being back into a womb-like state.
This concept is repeated with the next six deities who follow.
Each of them is said to have emerged independently, and each conceals their presence by taking it back within themselves.
All seven deities are described as genderless—they do not form pairs, they do not create through union.
Instead, they enfold the cosmos within, nurturing it like a divine embryo.
In this worldview, the universe we live in is not something built or ruled over by external gods.
Rather, we are living inside the body of the divine—a world that is gestated, layered, and protected by seven sacred presences.
It’s a poetic image, but also a powerful ethical message.
Because when we understand ourselves as being part of a sacred living body, we also recognize our role within it.
Let us take a modern metaphor: the human body.
It consists of trillions of cells, each with its own purpose.
Some cells carry oxygen, others fight disease, others form the skin, the nerves, the organs.
Now imagine that one cell suddenly decides:
“I don’t feel like doing my job anymore. I just want to take nutrients from others and grow for myself.”
That cell becomes what we call a cancer cell.
And if too many cancerous cells spread throughout a body—especially the body of an unborn child—it can threaten not only the fetus, but the mother herself.
This is what the Kojiki implies through the phrase “kakuremi.”
If each of us is part of a divine body, then to live selfishly—without fulfilling our role—is to threaten the balance of the whole.
It is not merely a personal failing; it is a danger to life itself.
This ancient insight forms the basis of Japanese social ethics.
For thousands of years, Japanese culture has emphasized not demanding, but contributing;
not standing out, but harmonizing;
not self-assertion, but mutual responsibility.
Later, when the samurai class arose, this ethic did not vanish.
In fact, it deepened.
The samurai, with all their power and authority, believed that their duty was not to dominate the people, but to serve them, protect them, and live in alignment with the cosmic order of things.
All of this—this reverence for harmony, for responsibility, for the sacredness of one’s role—
it begins not with philosophy or politics,
but with one quiet, beautiful phrase:
“Kakuremi.”
To hide the self,
so that life may unfold.
4. The Cancer Cell and the Story of Ethical Coexistence
Let us return to the image of the human body.
Our bodies are made up of trillions of cells.
Each of these cells has a role to play—whether it be transporting oxygen, repairing tissue, fighting off infections, or building the very structures of our skin, muscles, and organs.
These cells do not act selfishly.
They follow a silent harmony, each contributing to the greater whole.
This quiet cooperation is what allows life to flourish.
But what happens if one of those cells suddenly decides:
“I don’t want to do my job anymore. I just want to take in nutrients and grow for myself.”
That cell becomes what we call a cancer cell.
A cancer cell consumes resources but contributes nothing.
It spreads without purpose, disrupting the harmony of the body, and if left unchecked, it can cause the collapse of the entire system.
Now imagine this is happening inside the body of an unborn child.
The danger becomes even greater.
Not only is the fetus at risk, but so too is the mother who carries it.
The threat of selfishness is no longer limited to the individual;
it jeopardizes the entire community of life.
This is the profound message behind the concept of “kakuremi” from the Kojiki.
We are not isolated beings—we are part of something larger, sacred, and living.
Each of us, like a cell in a greater body, has a role to fulfill, a responsibility to uphold.
And when one person chooses to live only for themselves, ignoring their role in the greater whole,
they become—like the cancer cell—a danger not only to themselves, but to the society and even to the sacred order of life itself.
Japanese culture has long emphasized coexistence over competition,
responsibility over entitlement,
and harmony over dominance.
This worldview is not built on abstract philosophy or imposed morality,
but on a spiritual understanding of life as interconnected.
We are not separate from the divine—we are within it, and it is within us.
When the samurai emerged in later centuries, they carried this ethical legacy into a world of power and governance.
Despite their strength, the true samurai was not defined by how many battles he won,
but by how deeply he lived in service to others—to protect, to uphold justice, and to live in resonance with a larger order.
This way of life—anchored in mutual respect and the quiet fulfillment of one’s role—is not outdated.
It is perhaps more vital than ever in an age increasingly shaped by individualism, isolation, and disconnection.
The story of the cancer cell is not just biology.
It is a metaphor—a warning, and also an invitation:
To return to harmony.
To rediscover responsibility.
To remember that we are all cells in a sacred body,
and that how we live matters, not only for ourselves,
but for the entire living world we are part of.
5. Eleven Dimensions: The Hidden Structure of Myth and Reality
In the Kojiki, the creation of the world begins with the appearance of seven gods.
These deities do not create the universe through action or speech.
Instead, they emerge into being, and one by one, they conceal themselves—not by disappearing, but by folding existence into themselves, as if the universe were a child being nurtured in the womb of the divine.
These seven deities are genderless, self-born, and silent.
Their names are layered in meaning, and each embodies a different aspect of divine order—structure, emergence, centrality, continuity.
They are not characters in a drama.
They are, rather, dimensions of existence itself.
So what does it mean that there are seven of them?
In our physical world, we typically speak of four dimensions:
three of space—length, width, and height—and one of time.
But in the world of theoretical physics, particularly in string theory and M-theory, scientists suggest that the universe may consist of eleven dimensions.
These extra dimensions are curled, hidden, and imperceptible to human senses, but they are mathematically necessary to describe the structure of reality.
Let us pause here:
The Kojiki begins with seven deities, and our reality consists of four observable dimensions.
Seven plus four equals eleven.
Could it be that this ancient myth, passed down for millennia, was not simply telling a religious story—but was instead encoding a vision of reality that modern science is only now beginning to understand?
Of course, the Kojiki is not a physics textbook.
But it is a cosmic poem, composed by a civilization that paid close attention to patterns in nature, in the sky, in the self.
Its symbolic language does not describe particles or equations, but it resonates with a kind of spiritual mathematics.
In Japanese mythology, creation is not about commanding light into being.
It is about layers of life unfolding within the divine.
It is about being held, embraced, and resonating within something far greater than the self.
In this way, myth and science are not enemies.
They are two languages trying to describe the same mystery—one through metaphor, the other through measurement.
And when the myth speaks of seven sacred presences,
and science speaks of eleven dimensions,
perhaps both are pointing toward a truth that cannot be seen with the eye,
but only felt with the soul.
6. Myth as a Key to the Future
Why do myths endure?
They are not preserved because they are convenient.
They survive because they carry something deeper—something the human soul has never stopped needing:
a compass,
a mirror,
and above all,
a story in which we remember who we truly are.
In our modern world of rapid change and technological advance, it is easy to feel disconnected—from each other, from the earth, and even from ourselves.
We are surrounded by data, yet starving for meaning.
We can communicate across the globe, but often feel more isolated than ever.
And so, we return to the stories.
We return to the myths.
Japanese mythology is not only a record of divine beings.
It is a living memory of a civilization that sought harmony over conquest,
coexistence over domination, and
responsibility over entitlement.
In these myths, the gods do not wage cosmic wars.
They bring forth life by resonating, by nurturing, by concealing and unfolding existence.
They teach not through punishment, but through presence—a silent model of how to live in rhythm with the whole.
And what they reveal to us is not just a past, but a future.
A future where we do not seek to overpower one another,
but to fulfill our role as part of a sacred whole.
A future where society is not built on consumption and competition,
but on mutual care,
resonant responsibility,
and the quiet courage to live with meaning.
The characters in myths struggle.
They fall, they doubt, they suffer.
But they always rise again—not as heroes above others,
but as beings who have found their path within.
This is what mythology offers us now:
not escape,
but orientation.
Not fantasy, but grounded wonder.
In a time of division and disillusionment,
Japanese mythology whispers something timeless:
“You are not alone.”
“You are not meaningless.”
“You are a note in a great harmony—play your part with care.”
Myth is not the past.
It is the language of beginnings,
and the invitation to begin again.
So let us remember.
Let us walk forward with the stories of our ancestors at our backs,
and with the light of resonance in our hearts.
