September 7, 2025.

Stepping onto the shores of Konuma, one is met with a harrowing sight—one that makes it easy to understand why Watanabe had sunk into such deep sorrow. What should be a lake filled with tranquil water, captivating all who see it, has receded to a shocking degree. Along its shore, soil that should lie beneath the water is left exposed, giving the impression that the lake itself is screaming in agony.

The desiccated earth lies cracked, and in places remnants of the former shoreline are etched like tree rings. Only a few months earlier, fish swam here, aquatic plants swayed, and the water’s surface reflected the sky. Now it has become a wasteland, swept only by dry winds.

There, on that parched earth, stood objects that seemed out of place.

State-of-the-art audio equipment— speakers, an amplifier, and bundles of cables. Wilderness untouched since ancient times, and devices seeming to symbolize civilization. Two elements that seemed incompatible at first glance coexisted in the same place.

The dedication performance Yūshū: A Deep Sorrow Known to No One by singular ambient composer MEITEI—who claims he never once aspired to compose “ambient music” or sought to create music aligned with the scene’s trends—was about to begin. Staging this unprecedented performance and framing it as an amagoi (prayer for rain) ritual was one of the solutions Watanabe had arrived at as a means to pray for the steadily drying Konuma.

Despite featuring MEITEI, a leading artist in the ambient scene, few people had gathered. This was because it was a completely secret event, with no advance announcements or ticket sales, attended only by those whom Watanabe judged capable of understanding the dire situation of Konuma and willing to take a step toward its future.

“This time, the focus was entirely on Konuma. What can we do for Konuma? That was the only thought I had while planning the event.” (Watanabe)

That is precisely why the start time was not set for human convenience, but rather chosen for a single moment of astronomical significance: Hakuroten (“White Dew”), the point at which dew forms and freezes, giving the appearance of white drops. “White Dew” is one of twenty-four traditional Chinese solar terms. It occurs when the sun’s ecliptic longitude reaches 165 degrees, the air cools, and dew begins to form.

This timing was proposed by Kenji “Noiz” Nakamura, a photographer who resonates with the philosophy of calendar researcher and “Earth Calendar” proponent Kaichi Sugiyama. “Since we are doing this, let’s align it with the exact moment Hakuroten occurs.” In 2025, this natural event coincided with a rare alignment of a full moon and a total lunar eclipse. With Neptune and Saturn also positioned between 165 and 180 degrees, this convergence was seen as an optimal moment when the entire solar system would resonate with Earth, the “water” planet, with expectations that it would profoundly affect water itself.

As those present await that moment, the surroundings gradually lose their color, and the cool, crisp air characteristic of mountain peaks begins to take hold. The temperature is enough to make one shiver without an extra layer, as if the lingering summer heat below—where even the lowest temperatures easily exceed thirty degrees Celsius—were a distant illusion.

While rooted in the ancient practice of praying for rain, this approach is strikingly modern and astronomical. It was an attempt to synchronize our breathing with the vast rhythms of planetary motion. In so doing, it also aimed to create a space that shifted consciousness from a human-centered sense of time to one centered on Earth itself.

Hakuroten, 5:52 p.m. Right on schedule.

There is no announcement from a presenter, nor any flashy staging. At the moment the world reaches that “point,” a solitary artist—MEITEI—standing on the lakebed simply releases sounds against the faint glow of torchlight and the solemn lake surface that seems to peer into an abyss.

What flows from the speakers is not merely electronic sound. It is the sound of “mud,” of “heat” welling up from the earth, and of “water” recorded by the artist in Beppu, a city known for its hot springs. These sounds are the very breath of the Earth, gathered during the production of his recent work, Sen’nyū (“gushing spring”).

It is as if the water of Konuma, long lost in reality, has transformed into phantom waves of sound that seem to fill the space. With eyes closed, one can imagine invisible water slowly rising around one’s feet as they stand on the dry earth. Water that should have been lost has returned as sound.

COSMO. An unreleased track that MEITEI created in his late twenties during a period when he felt spiritually drained, composed in solitude while gazing up at the night sky. Taking its name from “cosmos,” the piece was extended to forty minutes and reconstructed specifically for this event.

Before long, the sun had completely set, and the site was immersed in total darkness.

The only light comes from the flickering of torches and the faint blinking of indicator lights on the equipment. It is a darkness never experienced in modern urban life. With vision obscured, one’s sense of hearing is sharpened to an abnormal degree.

The crackling of torches; the rustling sound of trees blown by the wind; the distant whir of insects and birds; and the calls of animals. These environmental sounds blend with the stratified tones woven by MEITEI, creating a soundscape that could truly be called “ambient music” in its purest form.

The sounds performed by MEITEI and those born from the mountain merge into a single whole, enveloping the space. For those present, it feels less like “listening to music” and more like being immersed in the very environment of Earth itself.

Glancing up at the sky, one could see the full moon peeking through a gap in the clouds. “A miracle will happen,” Watanabe was convinced, even before the performance. Hakuroten and the full moon—a night on which two celestial phenomena converge.

The pale moonlight dimly illuminates the lakebed submerged in darkness, softly outlining MEITEI’s silhouette as he performs alone.

Rather than a live music performance, it felt more like witnessing an act of communication. A serene yet urgent ritual in which humankind attempted to reconnect with a part of nature that it had damaged with its own hands.

Before long, the audience had scattered to spots of their own choosing: some sat down, others gazed up at the moonlit sky, and some danced in response to certain sounds, each immersing themselves in the dialogue with the “environment”—or perhaps with Earth itself—that MEITEI was creating.

“It felt like time was unfolding with a gentle sense of solitude.”

This is how MEITEI looked back on the time that passed during Yūshū. His expression was calm, as if a weight had been lifted, yet also bore a mixture of exhaustion and fulfillment, like someone who had just completed a long journey.

In fact, he had performed just the day before at ONE PARK FESTIVAL, a music event held in Fukui Prefecture. Thousands of spectators, spectacular lighting, and wild cheers of excitement. Renowned musicians taking to the stage one after another, sending the audience into a frenzy.

In stark contrast to the “ordinary” excitement familiar to him as a musician, the very next day he immersed himself in an “extraordinary” experience—standing alone at the bottom of a dark lake without an audience, face to face with nature. Amidst that drastic shift, between the ordinary and the extraordinary, he discerned the origin of his expressive journey.

“I’m standing all alone in the dark. All I can hear is the crackle of torches, and I have no idea where I am… It reminded me of the feeling I had when I first set out to be a composer in my twenties—a sense of facing darkness without knowing where to go. It was a time when I felt as though I were being tested by fate.” (MEITEI)

He recalls that when he created COSMO, he pushed himself to the point of neurosis, gazing up at the night sky in solitude. He was in his late twenties, still unknown and unsure whether his music would ever reach the world. It was a period of searching in chaotic obscurity before arriving at the well-defined concept of “lost Japanese mood” that characterizes his music today. The darkness of the dry lakebed stirred such personal memories, synchronizing past and present.

The title of this dedication performance, Yūshū: A Deep Sorrow Known to No One, comprises a neologism that Watanabe coined intuitively—one that MEITEI had reflected on at length. 

“Yū” (幽) signifies subtlety and profundity, or something indistinct and barely perceptible. “Shū” (愁) denotes sorrow or grief. Then there is the subtitle: “A Deep Sorrow Known to No One.” Not mere lamentation, it expresses a quiet longing for a profound landscape that is fading away. The title does not imply a fragile or obscure existence; it conveys a sensibility that, for many Japanese people, is almost self-evident.

“There are actions and energies that can only be generated through the experience of deep sorrow,” explains Watanabe. Yūshū was not solely an event aimed at environmental protection, but also an earnest prayer for those facing the immense loss of nature, serving to sublimate their sorrow as a rite of passage.

The concept of “lost Japanese mood” has become synonymous with MEITEI. Yet it does not merely signify nostalgia. It is an attempt to recover, through music, the sensibilities and aesthetic values of a bygone Japan that were discarded as “unnecessary” and lost in the course of modernization and commercialization. The figure of Konuma in its dried-out state may well have embodied the very landscape of this “lost Japanese mood” that modern society seeks to abandon. Things of beauty quietly fade away in the shadow of convenience, efficiency, and energy development. MEITEI’s music has consistently been a requiem for such “vanquished sensibilities” and a prayer for their rebirth.

“When I try to compose music with a Japanese sentiment, it naturally becomes something indistinct and nebulous. But in modern times, a certain distance is kept from that kind of expression. Only things with high market value that are easy to understand or aligned with trends are produced, while the indistinct world of the individual is being lost.” (MEITEI)

MEITEI speaks quietly, yet with passion.

“When I am engaged in creative work, there are times each year when I find myself wondering, ‘Is there any meaning in doing this?’ It can be exhausting to pursue the simple act of creating what I believe to be beautiful, which may not necessarily generate commercial value. But the experience at Konuma gave me a certain kind of strength to keep creating such subtle, elusive compositions (even though they are self-evident) with a renewed sense of purpose.” (MEITEI)

MEITEI did not pour water into the dried-up lake, but instead gained the conviction to continue his creative work. In return for offering music to the parched earth, he departed with renewed strength as an artist. Perhaps it was a mutual exchange of energy, one that transcended a one-sided act of prayer.

Hannah Arendt, a leading philosopher of the twentieth century, distinguished “solitude”—the state of being with oneself—from “isolation,” the condition of being cut off from others. The true nature of the “gentle solitude” he felt at the lakebed was likely the strength to endure solitude.

“I think the notion of what is personal needs to feel much closer to us. Rather than being swept along by broad generalizations or notions of social correctness, each should create their own sense of “Japan” and “beauty.” That, in time, will come to shape a part of the era we live in.” (MEITEI)

The “personal sounds” he emitted in the darkness undoubtedly resounded deep within the personal memories of those present that night, resonating with each of them. The sounds MEITEI wove together spread like water seeping into arid ground, creating a quiet, personal space within each listener.

All sound ceased. The boundary between performance and non-performance blurred, and there were likely many in the audience left in a state of peaceful oblivion.

Set against this scene, Watanabe, the event organizer, wore an expression conveying both relief and a lingering sense of uncertainty.

Why did Sowa Delight, an electrical contracting company, need to host Yūshū?
At first glance, it might resemble a CSR initiative. But the motivation Watanabe describes is far more heartfelt and fundamental.

Watanabe once heard the term kami-agari from Chief Priest Masuda Yoshiyuki. It signifies the departure of gods after they have abandoned a land. The sight of the waters receding from the lake felt exactly like witnessing the gods’ departure.

“The place is sacred, so essentially people should not set foot there. Even the chief priest talks of shuddering when he enters. And yet, it has come to this.” (Watanabe)

The sacred site has been encroached upon by human development, reducing it to a mere wasteland.

“I deeply regret it,” said Watanabe. There was no tone of a business executive in his voice, only the poignant remorse of a human being.

“If we had been able to share the value of Konuma with more people a few years ago, if it had been widely recognized not as a mere retention pond or tourist spot, but as a sacred site symbolizing human spirituality, then we might have prevented such an outcome before it occurred.” (Watanabe)

He and others share a sense of powerlessness—the failure to establish a kekkai, or boundary delineating a sacred space. Had MEITEI been invited here a few years earlier, allowing this landscape to be etched into the hearts of many, it might have served as an invisible barrier capable of halting human development.

In fact, Watanabe had approached MEITEI about performing someday at Konuma long before this incident occurred. Having accompanied MEITEI on his tour, Watanabe had been captivated by his character and artistry and became convinced that he was someone who could truly converse with the Earth.

“It was an ambition of mine to have MEITEI perform within the landscape of Konuma.” Strangely enough, that dream was realized in the form of a “rain prayer.”

That is precisely why Watanabe discerned MEITEI’s “authenticity” at this event. He sought to re-establish a sacred barrier around this site and call back the departed gods—not through words or political slogans, but through the nonverbal power of art.

What should not be misunderstood, however, is that Watanabe does not reject civilization or the economy itself as purely negative.

Working for a company that manages electricity infrastructure, he understands all too well both the benefits of civilization and the necessities of the economy. The guiding principle of Sowa Delight is “Infinite Loop”: reinvesting the fees earned through service (business) into social activities to create a better future. Yūshū was also a project that did not generate a single yen in profit—in fact, it was entirely self-funded. And yet, for Watanabe, it was an indispensable investment in connecting social activities to a better future.

“I want to drift between dualities,” says Watanabe. His goal is not to struggle between binary oppositions, such as development versus conservation, or civilization versus nature.

“Just recently, I revisited Princess Mononoke by Hayao Miyazaki. The conflicts depicted in the film—between the Tatara Forge and the forest, and between humans and the gods—are such that neither side is entirely right or wrong. I feel that if we are driven solely by anger or opposition to the social system, we cannot envision a beautiful future. Humans need electricity and a way of life. But when progress goes too far, it is absolutely essential to turn our gaze toward wilderness as a point of return. One must continually adjust the balance between the two, moving back and forth. Perhaps Yūshū was a ritual toward that end.” (Watanabe)

Watanabe described the significance of his continued visits to Konuma as a way of “checking for dissonance.” In urban life and in business, efficiency and profit inevitably take priority, gradually causing a “dissonance” in human sensibilities. For Watanabe, this dissonance is resolved by harmonizing with Konuma as a “zero point.” Yūshū may have served as a tuning device for that recalibration, performed not by a solitary figure, but together with those present and with those who would come to know of it through later accounts.

“Pray to all things other than humans.”

These words printed on the Yūshū flyer are not mere romanticism. They represent the most rational and urgent survival strategy for us humans to endure on this planet.

“When it was all over, frost had formed on the equipment. It felt like some kind of turning point.”

Reflecting on the site, MEITEI talks about the scenes that left the strongest impression on him.

Hakuroten—the moment when the air cools and dew forms. True to its name, white frost had begun to settle underfoot and on the equipment. It was almost as if the lost water had returned to the land in an altered form. The sounds faded, and silence returned. Yet this was not the desolate stillness of before; it had transformed into a rich, fulfilling serenity.

Descending the mountain and returning to the city of Maebashi, one is met with the familiar rhythm of daily life. The lights of convenience stores, streetlamps, traffic signals, and car headlights. The pitch-black darkness and silence of one’s surroundings just a few hours earlier now feel like an event in a distant foreign land—or perhaps a daydream in broad daylight.

As the car descends to the human world below, the temperature returns to the intense heat of summer, and everyone sheds the jackets they had been wearing. On a physical level, there is no denying the sensation of being pulled back into the world “on this side.”

Several months have passed since then. Looking at reality, the water of Konuma has still not returned. The ritual on that night did not miraculously bring rain, and the water level remains low. The human world continues to turn as before, driven by the logic of the economy.

However, the scenery had changed decisively for those who had been present.

It is not simply a question of lamenting what has been lost; one must trace the contours of that absence and imagine the beauty that once existed. Each came to realize that this very act of imagining is a means of regeneration, capable of shaping the future to come. Those present on that day, in that place, were not mere witnesses—they became storytellers. Without choice, they found themselves entrusted with the role of remembering the lost landscape and passing it on to others.

At the end of the interview, Watanabe remarked:

“I would like to use Yūshū as an opportunity to have MEITEI compose a piece for Konuma. If that comes to fruition, it should open up new ways of seeing Konuma.”

MEITEI also responded, “I would like to see that kind of future.” The memories of that night may eventually take shape as a piece of music reaching throughout the globe. When that happens, Konuma will transcend its physical water level and fill people’s hearts.

The sounds that resonated across the dry lakebed that night morphed into phantom water, filling the site and deeply permeating the hearts of those present. This was a record of sorrow, but also a quiet prologue for a future encounter with what we have lost.

One day, the water may return to Konuma. Or perhaps, without returning, a new ecosystem will emerge. Either way, the lake is no longer a distant concern. There, our prayers and the memories of a contemporary ritual are etched like geological strata.