The strips of paper were always the part I loved most. Thin, brightly colored, one wish written on each one in careful brushstrokes. We would fold them, tie them to bamboo branches, and watch the branches fill up — our family's collected hopes hanging there together, rustling very slightly whenever anyone walked past.

七夕, Tanabata, falls on the seventh day of the seventh month — July 7th by the modern calendar, though in some regions it is still observed according to the old lunar calendar, which places it closer to August. It is a festival about wishes, and about a love story written across the sky.

The story of Orihime and Hikoboshi

The legend at the heart of Tanabata comes from China, where it has been told for over two thousand years. Orihime — 織姫, the weaving princess — is a celestial weaver who makes the cloth of the sky. Hikoboshi — 彦星, the cowherd star — tends the celestial cattle on the other side of the Milky Way. They fell in love and, in their happiness together, neglected their work entirely. The sky unraveled. The cattle wandered.

Her father, the sky king, separated them, placing the Milky Way between them. They were permitted to meet only once a year — on the seventh night of the seventh month, when a bridge of birds forms across the river of stars to bring them together. If it rains on that night, the birds cannot come, and the lovers must wait another year.

In Japan, Orihime is associated with the star Vega and Hikoboshi with Altair. On a clear July night, you can see them on either side of the Milky Way — the two brightest stars in their respective positions, separated by the same river that separates them in the story.

How it is celebrated

The central tradition of Tanabata is the 短冊, tanzaku — the strips of paper on which wishes are written and hung from bamboo branches. Bamboo grows quickly and straight, pointing toward the sky; the wishes travel upward. In schools, children make tanzaku and decorate the classroom. At festivals, long bamboo branches are set up in public spaces, and strangers' wishes hang alongside each other in the summer air.

The wishes written on tanzaku are often simple and specific. Not abstract hopes but particular ones: to improve at something, to be with someone, to pass a test, to stay healthy. Reading others' tanzaku at a festival is a quietly moving thing — everyone's private wishes made visible for one day, then taken down.

A small practice for anywhere

Tanabata does not require much to observe. A branch of bamboo if you can find one, or any branch. Strips of paper in whatever colors you have. A brush or a pen. The wishes of whoever is in the room with you.

There is something worth doing about