“The Tsukiji Teacher” and the Invisible World

Recently, perhaps because I have been writing more about remote support and the atmosphere of spaces, people often ask me:

“Have you always been interested in these kinds of invisible worlds?”

To be honest, it was less about “interest.”

If anything, I feel as though I had already been inside that world before I was even born.

That feeling is probably closer to the truth.

My maternal grandmother was deeply devoted to a certain spiritual teacher.

People referred to him simply as:

“The Tsukiji Teacher.”

He belonged to a Nichiren Buddhist lineage-based religious organization, and his son was the well-known sports broadcaster Teruji Kakuzawa.

(I only saw him once in my life—after he got married, he visited with his wife to pay respects. That was the first and last time.)

Articles sometimes describe the family home as “a temple,” but in reality, what I remember was an ordinary house that had simply been renovated.

My grandmother visited there frequently, and whenever something important happened in life, she would seek what was called an “oukagai” — a spiritual consultation.

And to be clear, this “consultation” was not astrology or fortune-telling in the ordinary sense.

I experienced it myself several times, so this much I can say with certainty.

What was being used there felt closer to what people would call psychic or spiritual abilities.

These days, Kazuko Hosoki has once again become widely discussed in Japan thanks to the Netflix drama featuring her famous phrase:

“You’ll fall into hell.”

One of the figures who deeply influenced her throughout her life was the philosopher and political thinker Masahiro Yasuoka.

Yasuoka Masahiro was one of postwar Japan’s most influential intellectual figures — a scholar of Eastern philosophy and Yangmingism.

Many former prime ministers, including Shigeru Yoshida, Hayato Ikeda, Eisaku Sato, Takeo Fukuda, and Masayoshi Ohira, were said to have regarded him as a mentor.

His influence over political and business circles in Japan was enormous.

And I was told that “The Tsukiji Teacher” deeply admired Yasuoka and regarded him as his own teacher.

Of course, as a child, I knew absolutely nothing about any of this background.

What I did feel, however, was this unmistakable atmosphere:

“This is a place adults truly rely on.”

In fact, even my own name — “Yuki” — was apparently chosen through one of these consultations before I was born.

Which means that, in a sense, I had already stepped into the invisible world before I even had a name.

Looking back now, it feels strangely connected to the work I do today.

My mother was originally from Tokyo.

But after marriage, she moved to Kyoto.

Apparently, the original promise was that they would only live there for three years.

That promise was broken, and in the end, she remained in Kyoto for nearly twenty years.

For her, that seems to have been very painful.

So whenever there was a long school holiday, she would take my sister and me back to Tokyo.

Spring break.

Summer vacation.

Winter holidays.

Golden Week.

We would ride the Shinkansen from Kyoto to Tokyo.

That became a regular ritual in our family.

My grandparents’ main house was in Manazuru.

They were fairly wealthy, I think.

But because they frequently needed to be in Tokyo, they rented an apartment in Meguro for more than ten years.

Our family often stayed there as well.

So now, the fact that I myself ended up opening a salon in Meguro feels like a strange kind of fate.

Whenever we arrived in Tokyo, there were always two places we absolutely had to visit.

First, “The Tsukiji Teacher.”

Then afterward, we would visit my paternal grandfather in the hospital, after he had become partially paralyzed from a cerebral hemorrhage.

Those were the two major rituals of every Tokyo trip.

As a child, I was honestly somewhat afraid of “The Tsukiji Teacher.”

Adults would say things like:

“If you do something bad, he’ll know immediately.”

Of course, now I understand that reality is not that simple.

But for a child, it created a very real sense of restraint.

I always felt as though I was somehow being watched.

Over the nearly thirty years our family was connected to him, I personally experienced these “consultations” only a handful of times.

But one moment remains unforgettable.

Before getting married, I went with my wife to have our compatibility checked.

The moment he saw our names and birthdates, he immediately said:

“She’s the middle of three sisters.”

“But in reality, she’s basically the eldest daughter.”

I was stunned.

Because it was exactly true.

My wife’s older sister had required hormone injections since birth.

Her own health always had to come first.

As a result, my wife naturally took on the emotional role of the eldest daughter within the family.

Even last year, when my mother-in-law passed away, most of the practical responsibilities were handled by my wife and her younger sister.

Looking back now, his words captured something deeply essential.

There truly are people in this world who possess something real.

Once you experience things like this directly, it moves beyond the realm of “believing” or “not believing.”

You simply begin to feel:

“Ah… this kind of world really does exist.”

And strangely enough, now I myself have become someone who does similar work.

Though honestly, when you are the one doing it, it feels surprisingly ordinary.

Not dramatic.

More like quietly observing.

After my grandmother passed away, I almost completely stopped visiting “The Tsukiji Teacher.”

The years I visited most frequently were the fourteen years before we moved permanently from Kyoto back to Tokyo.

Sometimes during the summer, we would hear that he had become physically ill and was unable to receive visitors.

At the time, I never understood why.

Now, I sometimes wonder if he had absorbed too much from others.

But honestly, I do not know.

So throughout my childhood, “The Tsukiji Teacher” was always somewhere in the background of my life.

The invisible world.

Invisible forces.

Invisible eyes.

Of course, I do not believe such things should be followed blindly.

But I do think there are times when people are deeply influenced precisely because something cannot be seen.

And perhaps that only matters when something genuine is truly there.

Recently, I have found myself observing not only the body itself, but also the spaces, emotions, and relationships surrounding a person.

Perhaps the origin of that sensitivity began long ago, in the quiet atmosphere surrounding my childhood.

You can read more about remote support and space support here:

https://www.karadanaoru.com/mirai?lang=en

Yuki Matsuoka