At a village shrine or beneath a home’s kamidana (miniature altar), offering to the kami unfolds much like a heartfelt conversation with nature’s unseen guardians. Freshness matters above all: branches of sakaki, gleaming bowls of salt, rice, water and sake line the altar, each item chosen for purity and seasonal significance. During New Year’s hatsumōde, for example, the first rice of the year or a sip of newly brewed sake carries extra weight, as if tipping the hat to the turning of seasons.

Silent rituals frame these gifts. A quick sprinkle of salt at a shrine’s entrance drives away impurities. Visitors toss coins into the saisen-bako (offering box), then pause with two deep bows, two resounding claps and a final bow—a rhythmic exchange that opens the heart before any words are uttered. Each clap is said to catch the kami’s attention, while the bows express deep respect. No words? A whispered prayer often follows, similar to dropping a note into a suggestion box for the spirits to read.

Food offerings tap directly into Japan’s agricultural rhythms. Fresh fish, seasonal vegetables or rice cakes (mochi) appear on small lacquered stands called sanbo. At spring festivals, cherry-blossom mochi and locally harvested sakura tea find their way to the altar, celebrating both the land and its deities.

Corporate bigwigs in Tokyo still send bottles of premium sake to shrines like Meiji Jingu—part reverence, part marketing, a testament to how ancient customs adapt to modern life. Meanwhile, eco-conscious shrines are swapping single-use plastics for wooden containers, proving that even millennia-old worship can evolve.

Offering to the kami isn’t a mere formality. It’s an invitation: “Here’s something pure, seasonal and sincere—please watch over this place.” In that simple act of giving—whether salt, sake or a silent clap—people and kami come together, weaving the timeless tapestry of Shinto devotion.