At this time of year, the vibrant red blossoms of the spider lily, known in Japan as higanbana (彼岸花), brighten the landscape. You often see them massed along rice paddy embankments, riverbanks, and around cemeteries—always in the same places, year after year. This is no coincidence of nature: these flowers have a long history of being deliberately planted by human hands.
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Their frequent presence around rice fields and cemeteries is not merely aesthetic. The bulbs contain toxins that repel moles, mice, and other pests. Long ago, villagers planted them as a natural safeguard, protecting the rice harvest and, in burial grounds, preventing animals from disturbing the soil.
The name higanbana means “flower of the equinox,” as they bloom precisely around the autumn equinox. Yet across Japan, the flower is known by more than a thousand other names. One of the most famous, manjushage (曼珠沙華), comes from a Buddhist scripture in Sanskrit meaning “the red flower that blooms in heaven.” Others, such as shibitobana (死人花) “corpse flower,” reflect its association with cemeteries and death. The sheer number of these names reveals a cultural ambivalence: the flower inspires awe for its beauty, yet also unease for its ghostly associations.
My sister dislikes spider lilies, finding them poisonous and unsettling. I, however, feel a quiet joy whenever I see them in bloom—it is then that I know autumn has arrived. And above all, I love their appearance. Botanically, they form a radiant umbel: from the top of a straight green stalk, slender stems spread outward in all directions, each tipped with a crimson blossom. The six petals curl back dramatically, while long, delicate stamens and pistils extend gracefully into the air, arching like threads of fire. Together they encircle the stalk in a crown of flames—an ephemeral blaze that burns only for a brief moment each year.
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