In Japan, the year-end air has a particular kind of tension. It’s cold, clear, and full of small rituals: extra coins in your pocket for the first shrine visit, warm drinks held in gloved hands, and—quietly, reliably—long lines at lottery booths.
Every winter, the Year-End Jumbo lottery becomes a seasonal headline because its top prize structure can reach 10 billion yen when the first prize and adjacent prizes are combined, and major sales counters attract queues from early morning. テレ朝NEWS+1
To many travelers, it looks like simple excitement. To me, it looks like something older: a cultural habit of placing hope onto paper.
I began studying calligraphy in 1950, and I have continued refining my craft ever since. I learned the fundamentals and spirit of calligraphy under Takako Oishi, a judge for Nitten. I deepened my historical and theoretical understanding under Kasumura Masuda, honorary professor at Kokugakuin University. And I inherited the techniques and artistry of seal engraving through my mentorship with the renowned engraver Kozo Yasuda. Over the years, I have received multiple Ministry of Education awards and held many solo exhibitions across Japan.
Through all those decades, one thing has stayed constant: in Japanese culture, the most important emotions are often carried not by loud declarations, but by materials—ink, paper, stamps, and the quiet discipline of the hand.
This is the second installment of my exploration of calligraphy and lottery history. This time, I want to show you why the modern winter line for a jackpot is not just a “money story.” It is part of a long Japanese tradition of turning desire into a printed or written object—and why that matters if you love Japan and culture and want to understand the country beyond the tourist checklist.
The Step-Back Question
Before we go further, let me ask the question I always ask myself when I write.
If you are an English-speaking reader who loves Japanese culture, with the means to invest in meaningful experiences and objects, what will actually stay with you after the trip?
A number might not.
But a feeling might.
And in Japan, feelings often become real only when they are given a place to live—on paper, in ink, with a mark of authenticity.
That is where shodo japanese calligraphy quietly meets the lottery.
Edo Japan’s “Tomi-kuji”: When a Ticket Was Already a Work of Paper Culture
The ancestor of Japan’s modern lotteries is often traced to Edo-period “tomi-kuji” (富くじ). The Tokugawa shogunate repeatedly issued bans, but later permitted certain lotteries for temples and shrines as a way to fund repairs. These permitted lotteries became known as gomen-tomi (御免富), and three sites became especially famous in Edo: Yanaka’s Chōyōzan Kannō-ji, Meguro’s Taieizan Ryūsen-ji, and Yushima Tenjin. 宝くじ公式サイト
This matters because it reveals something crucial: lotteries in Japan were not born purely as gambling. They evolved inside a world of public trust, religious institutions, and socially accepted funding mechanisms.
And once a “ticket” becomes socially accepted, it quickly becomes a cultural object.
The Shockingly Physical Way Winners Were Chosen
If you imagine Edo lotteries as quiet drawings, you’ll miss the atmosphere.
Historical descriptions show that a box containing numbered wooden slips was used, and a tool like an awl was inserted through a hole to spear one slip—this act was called tomi-tsuki. 日本銀行免許情報ギャラリー+1
It was selection you could see. A mechanical fate. A moment where the crowd watched the tool pierce uncertainty.
Even in this, there is a calligrapher’s lesson: Japanese culture often values the moment when the invisible becomes visible through a single decisive action.
In shodō, that moment is a stroke.
Tomi-fuda: Why the Ticket Itself Points Back to Shodo
Here is the detail most casual histories skip: Edo lottery tickets were not just “numbers.” They were paper objects shaped by the same values that shape Japanese calligraphy.
A calligrapher sees the world through a simple lens:
What is written?
How is it written?
And what authenticates it?
Tomi-fuda (富札) carried a written or printed number, and they were also tied to marks of authority—stamps and seals—because credibility mattered. This is exactly the ecosystem where seal engraving and the philosophy of “a true mark” thrives.
My teacher in seal engraving taught me that a seal is not decoration. It is responsibility. It is lineage. It is proof.
In Japan, you will see this everywhere:
a shrine stamp in your travel notebook
a maker’s mark on a crafted object
a red seal on a hanging scroll
a signature that turns an object into a story
That is why, when we speak about lotteries in Japan, we should also speak about tools, materials, and authenticity—because those themes never disappeared. They only changed form.
Tools Matter: From Ticket Paper to Washi, From Printed Ink to Sumi
In my earlier writing, I emphasized something collectors immediately understand: Japanese calligraphy is not “just writing.” It is the meeting of discipline, craft, and tools.
The essential set is traditionally the “four treasures”: brush (fude), ink (sumi), inkstone (suzuri), and paper (washi). The quality of each changes what is possible. Some beginners’ sets cost under $100, while professionals and collectors invest vastly more. Japanese Calligraphy Artwork –
Why bring this up in a column about lotteries?
Because the lottery, too, is a “paper object culture.”
It is mass-produced, yes—but it lives inside the same emotional system as a hand-brushed character: people trust it because it has a recognized format, a recognized issuer, and a recognized aesthetic of legitimacy.
And once you understand that, you begin to see a deeper truth:
Japan is a place where paper holds dreams—whether that paper is a lottery ticket, a shrine fortune, or a washi sheet waiting for ink.
Why Winter Makes This Story Stronger
A seasonal note, because seasonality is part of Japanese thinking.
In winter, ink looks darker.
Paper looks whiter.
Silence feels closer.
This is why the year-end lottery line is not just economic behavior—it is a seasonal ritual of hope. And it is why shodō practice in winter feels unusually clear: the body wants warmth, the mind wants order, and the brush demands calm.
If you are traveling in Japan around the year-end period, I recommend paying attention to the country’s winter “hope signals”:
lines forming quietly before a booth opens
people holding small stacks of tickets carefully, almost respectfully
conversations that are half-joking, half-prayer
the way public spaces feel both busy and strangely composed
This is Japanese culture in motion.
Bans, Reform, and a Long Silence
There is also a sobering social lesson in this history.
Even when gomen-tomi was officially permitted, it eventually became associated with problems: uncontrolled spread, underground sales, and anxiety about public morals. The shogunate banned these lotteries during the Tenpō Reforms (1842). Later, after the Meiji Restoration, lotteries were also strictly prohibited under an 1868 proclamation. After the Tenpō ban, Japan went about 103 years without selling tomi-kuji. 宝くじ公式サイト
If you care about Japan beyond aesthetics, notice what this means:
Japan has always recognized that “paper dreams” can heal and harm at the same time.
When hope becomes fever, society tries to cool it.
That tension is not a flaw. It is part of Japan’s self-management.
A Traveler’s Takeaway: Don’t Just Watch the Line—Translate It Into Experience
So what should you do with this knowledge?
If you are the kind of traveler who doesn’t mind paying for something meaningful—something you can bring home as memory and object—then I suggest a simple upgrade to your Japan itinerary:
Don’t only observe the culture of hope.
Participate in the culture of discipline.
This is where shodo japanese calligraphy becomes more than an “activity.” It becomes a way to understand why Japan loves paper, marks, and seasonal rituals.
A quiet winter practice you can do anywhere in Japan
If you can find a calm table (hotel desk, rented room, quiet studio), try this:
Choose one character for the year ahead
examples: 静 (quiet), 和 (harmony), 道 (path), 光 (light), 夢 (dream)
Then do a short ritual
grind or prepare ink
set paper carefully
breathe slowly
write the character once, without correction
This is not superstition. It is alignment.
And if you also love sumi-e, you’ll recognize the same principle: ink is not only a medium; it’s a teacher. The brush exposes how you move through time.
Why This Matters to Collectors and Cultural Enthusiasts
Many high-income collectors who love Japan start with obvious objects: ceramics, textiles, blades, tea tools.
But calligraphy has a special advantage: it is not only an object. It is a record of mind.
In the luxury world, authenticity is everything. In Japanese calligraphy, authenticity is visible: in the brushwork, in the ink depth, in the paper grain, and often in the seal. The value is not only in appearance—it’s in lineage, discipline, and the cultural intelligence behind the piece. Japanese Calligraphy Artwork –
Once you see Edo lottery tickets and modern lottery culture as part of a “paper dream” tradition, calligraphy stops being “nice art.” It becomes a key to japan and culture as lived reality.
Closing: The Real Jackpot Is Not the Number
The year-end lottery line will always be there. Some years it will be bigger, some years smaller, but winter in Japan will keep producing that familiar scene: people standing quietly, holding hope in their hands.
Edo’s tomi-fuda and today’s jumbo tickets are different objects, but they share a cultural function: they give uncertainty a shape.
Shodō gives uncertainty something else: a discipline that makes you steady even when the outcome is unknown.
If you want a deeper relationship with Japanese culture—not just photos, but understanding—follow the paper. Follow the ink. Follow the marks that certify meaning.
deepens your connection to Japanese tradition.
Explore and purchase hand-selected Japanese calligraphy artworks:
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