The Problem With Measuring Happiness

Yesterday’s lecture is finally behind me. I managed to get through it somehow. For a little while I can relax, but the next task is already waiting—the preparations for a research meeting that I will organize.

 

My field of pathology is rather narrow and deep. Because of that, there are very few pathologists involved in it.

Even though pathologists themselves are not abundant, most of them are occupied with cancer diagnosis. Naturally, manpower and funding tend to flow toward those areas. Less popular fields receive very little of either.

Our research group sometimes feels more like a small club of enthusiasts. We complain to each other from time to time, but somehow keep things going.

Once again I will have to look for speakers from this small circle. Young doctors are few, and finding people is never easy.

Sometimes I wonder how long I can keep doing this. Yet after spending so many years in this field, it is not so easy to walk away.

I suppose I will just continue until the day I am quietly replaced.

Time passes quickly. It is already the middle of March.

Far too quickly.

I do not know how much time I have left in life, but at this pace it feels as if life might end before I have the chance to do anything truly enjoyable.

I cannot even say whether I am happy or not.

At the very least, happiness is something that only the person himself can decide. It is not something others should judge.

When people say,

“Oh, what a pitiful person.”

it is often nothing more than an intrusion.

And yet there are certainly people whose lives are shaken by the decisions of a handful of tyrants. That is still happening in many parts of the world today.

Even for myself, I cannot be certain that Japan will never be drawn into war. In some ways, one might even say that we are already in a kind of economic war.

If there were a clear scale to measure happiness, perhaps things would be easier to understand. But such a scale does not exist.

In the end, it is difficult to know.

 

Including the question of why we live at all, life remains something profoundly mysterious. 

Kamakura Morning Walk Before a Conference

 Before heading to a small medical conference in the afternoon, my wife and I took our flat-coated retriever, Ann, for a quick morning walk around Kamakura.

 

Since I had to catch the train later, we kept the walk within an hour and tried to move at a brisk pace. Or at least I thought we did. Perhaps it is simply that my legs are slower than they used to be.

A strong wind had been blowing since early morning, and the pollen seemed almost visible in the air. My wife suffers from hay fever more severely than I do, and she looked quite uncomfortable. I felt sorry for her, especially because she has a visit scheduled this afternoon to a nursing home, where she brings Ann for volunteer visits.

 

Myohon-ji Temple

We walked as far as Myohon-ji Temple. The plum blossoms were already almost finished, leaving the town in what the Japanese call a seasonal gap between flowers.

Still, there was plenty to enjoy. Like the small flowers in our own garden, many neighborhood gardens were beautifully in bloom. The spirea trees near the local elementary school were especially lovely.

 

Dankazura Avenue

The buds of the cherry trees along Dankazura Avenue had grown noticeably larger. Perhaps they will bloom by the end of this month.

Unlike Kyoto or Nara, Kamakura is a compact town. One of its charms is the abundance of quiet walking paths like these.

A short morning walk is often enough to remind me how pleasant it is to live in Kamakura.

A Long Line for White Day in Tokyo — Perhaps the Economy Runs on Human Emotions

 On my way home last night, I saw a long line of men standing in front of a sweets shop at a busy transfer station in Tokyo. They were most likely buying return gifts for White Day. Watching the scene, I found myself thinking about something simple: perhaps the economy is ultimately driven by human emotions.

 

Last night, on my way home, I noticed a long line of men standing in front of a confectionery shop in the concourse of a major transfer station in Tokyo. They were probably buying return gifts for Valentine’s Day chocolates.

Beside them, a salesperson was loudly calling out to customers.

The scene was rather strange—almost frenetic.

Since White Day falls on Saturday the 14th this year, people who received chocolates at work will need to give their return gifts on Friday. From the perspective of workplace etiquette, returning a gift is a way of repaying a kind of symbolic obligation, so doing it a little early seems unavoidable.

As for me, my wife had prepared some sweets from Kamakura for me to give in return, and I made sure to bring them today.

However, my wife herself also gave me chocolates, and I have not prepared anything for her yet. I will be attending a research meeting on Saturday, so I will not have time to buy anything then. I had thought about bringing home flowers, but I cannot get back to Kamakura while the flower shops are still open.

What a dilemma. Perhaps I should just buy something tonight.

It was only recently that I realized this is how the economy keeps turning.

There are people who keep the economy moving, and at the same time people who are being moved by it. Even when we question the meaning of these customs, it is surprisingly difficult to step outside the framework.

Valentine’s Day chocolates may seem like a rather silly custom, and White Day—returning gifts for them—perhaps even more so. Yet when I was younger, receiving chocolates still made me happy.

At my age, I understand perfectly well that they are mostly “obligation chocolates.” Still, knowing that there are people who do not dislike me enough to ignore me entirely is not such a bad feeling.

Human emotions, even the smallest and most subtle ones, are discovered and connected to economic activity. Opportunities for business are hidden everywhere.

Life might be much simpler if we lived only with the bare necessities of food, clothing, and shelter.

But the moment feelings such as desire or pride—emotions, in other words—enter the picture, economic activity expands.

Sometimes I feel like escaping from that cycle. Yet as long as we are members of society, doing so is not so easy.

 

 

Spring Allergies and My Uneasy Relationship with Masks

 Spring is my favorite season, but it also brings a layered assault of dryness, yellow dust, and pollen. For someone prone to coughing, even a comfortable workplace can become part of the problem.

 

During the pollen season, I develop a cough along with a runny nose.

The nasal symptoms are reasonably controlled with medication, but the cough caused by swelling in my throat is stubborn and slow to disappear.

I suspect the swelling has several causes layered on top of each other—first dryness, then yellow dust from the continent, and finally pollen.

Of course, for someone like me who easily feels cold, spring is a season I truly love. Still, this combination of irritants can be overwhelming.

And above all, the fact that I spend most of my working hours in an air-conditioned “comfortable” room does not help my throat.
It may look comfortable, but the dry air moves in a constant direction, and that subtle airflow seems to irritate my throat continuously.

Occasionally I go to the wards for conferences, and the higher humidity there feels much easier on my throat.
Apparently the environment is quite different from that of the laboratory sections.

Placing a humidifier in the room might improve things somewhat.
But the room is far too large for a household humidifier to make much difference, and I would also worry about moisture settling on the microscope.

In the end, wearing a mask is the cheapest and most reliable solution.
But I have never liked masks. Even during the COVID pandemic, I found them uncomfortable.

Fortunately, at my workplace masks are not required in areas without patients—such as offices outside the wards and outpatient clinics.
In a way, that actually helps.

As the old saying goes, fortune and misfortune are twisted together like strands of a rope.

This is not exactly about coughing, but within the pathology department I do wear a mask in places where safety management requires it.
Still, being free from it elsewhere is a relief.

Of course, I try to wear a mask on the train so that my coughing does not bother people around me.
The difficulty is timing. I tend not to put it on until I feel a cough coming, but once the coughing actually starts, it is already too late.

Finding the right moment to put on a mask is surprisingly tricky.

 

When Did the World’s Fragile Peace Begin to Crack?

 Fifteen years have passed since the Great East Japan Earthquake and the Fukushima nuclear accident.
Reflecting on nuclear power, war, and the fragile balance of global stability, one cannot help but wonder when the equilibrium of peace began to break apart.

 

A return of winter cold has kept the days chilly.
The mornings and evenings are especially cold.

It has now been fifteen years since the Great East Japan Earthquake.
On NHK, the accident at the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear power plant was described as being of “the worst level in the world.” That phrase stayed in my mind.

When did people begin to use such expressions?

I had assumed that the Chernobyl accident was worse.
But perhaps Fukushima was just as severe—perhaps even more so.
Hearing the announcer’s words made me start to think that way.

Perhaps it should not be described as “among the worst,” but simply as one of the worst disasters the world has ever seen.

Japan has long suffered from nuclear-related tragedies.

Hiroshima and Nagasaki.
The Lucky Dragon No. 5 incident.
And Fukushima.

For Japan, nuclear power seems almost like a cursed domain—something we might be better off keeping our distance from.

And yet, when one considers the possibility of Iran closing the Strait of Hormuz and the immediate energy crisis that would follow, the argument inevitably returns to nuclear power as a necessary option.

Still, one cannot help wondering what the American president, Donald Trump, was thinking when he initiated military action against Iran.

If it was truly meant to distract attention from the Epstein documents controversy and his own political troubles, then it would be difficult to call it anything but foolish.

We were told that air superiority would be achieved within days.
But unexpected drone attacks have already complicated that assumption.

Iran has reportedly attacked Arab oil-producing countries—fellow Islamic nations—and even begun laying naval mines.
It seems to be resorting to desperate tactics.

Yet it is not easy simply to dismiss such actions as foolish.

During the Pacific War, Japan’s military leadership once prepared for a decisive battle on the home islands.
What Iran’s Revolutionary Guard might ultimately decide to do is impossible for outsiders to predict.

Even if one speaks of regime change in Iran, no one truly knows what kind of political system would bring that country stability or happiness.

What can be said, however, is that the decision to abandon dialogue—the greatest “weapon” diplomacy possesses—carries enormous responsibility.

For a long time, the world seemed to maintain a fragile balance of peace.
When did that balance begin to break?

Perhaps the seeds were planted long ago.

At this point, it feels naïve to say that each of us can change the course of events simply through individual action, as we might during an election.

When we realize that we can only entrust ourselves to the great currents that move the world, a profound sense of helplessness begins to settle in.

Can Cutting Back on Nuts Help Me Lose Weight?

 Winter seemed to be fading, but today the cold has returned.
With temperatures dropping again, I find myself thinking not only about the weather, but also about the extra weight that quietly accumulates each year. Recently, I decided to ask AI for advice on a simple strategy to stop that trend.

 

The cold has returned.

Today’s high is only 12°C, the kind of temperature that feels like midwinter again.
The sky threatens snow, the sun refuses to appear, and the chill seems to deepen.

Animals naturally store fat in response to the cold, and apparently I am no exception.
Every year I seem to store a little more.

When I was younger, my metabolism was higher, and by the time summer arrived my weight would more or less return to normal. At my age, however, that is no longer something I can count on.

As usual, the number on the scale has continued its steady climb, finally passing 78 kilograms and entering what I would call the danger zone.

I have been trying a low-carbohydrate diet, but it seems that even that has stopped working.

So, somewhat helplessly, I asked AI for advice.

The causes seemed obvious enough to me:
snacks after work, more snacking immediately after getting home, and evening drinks.

When I asked what could realistically be changed, the answer was simple.
Reduce snacking overall, of course—but the easiest step might be cutting back on nuts.

Not eliminating them entirely, just controlling the portion.
A small amount after work is fine, but once I get home, I should drink water and wait until dinner rather than reaching for more snacks.

Apparently even this small adjustment can make a noticeable difference.

So I decided to stop eating nuts after getting home.

The funny thing is that I had already stocked up on quite a few bags of them.
Instead of throwing them away, I decided to divide them into small portions and keep them as a modest after-work treat.

Still, it makes me wonder.

Why do people create foods that are so irresistibly delicious?

We live in a consumer society, of course, but companies continue to produce and sell foods that we know perfectly well will harm us if we eat too much of them.

Human beings are, perhaps, creatures full of contradictions—and in some ways rather comical ones.

Something That Could Happen to Any of Us, at Any Time

 Recent military strikes on Iran by the United States and Israel suggest that the conflict may not end quickly. Watching these developments from Japan raises unsettling questions: how stable is the world we take for granted, and how suddenly could our own lives be affected by war?

The military attacks on Iran by the United States and Israel appear likely to continue for some time.

Few people expected Russia’s invasion of Ukraine to last this long, yet it has. Something similar could easily happen again.

Time cannot be rewound, and no one truly knows what will happen next.

There are reports that Arab oil-producing countries may also be drawn into the situation, potentially affecting the production of oil and gas. For a country like Japan, which has few natural resources of its own, the consequences could be serious.

Even the trains and cars that move so routinely today might not operate as freely as they do now. If that happens, what would our daily lives look like?

And there is always the unsettling possibility that missiles could one day be launched toward Japan from abroad.

A few nights ago, I woke in the middle of the night to a roaring sound from the sky.

For a moment I wondered if war had finally reached Japan. I hesitantly pulled back the curtain and looked outside, only to find a torrential downpour.

My wife, sleeping beside me, had apparently thought the same thing.

War can arrive in someone’s life at any time. None of us can say it will never happen to us.

When I see images of war—beautiful buildings reduced to rubble in an instant—I cannot help thinking how foolish it all is.

Human beings have repeated the same act throughout history: destroying human, animal, and plant life, reducing everything to nothing.

If this is what progress leads to, I sometimes wonder whether humanity needed to evolve and advance at all.

Perhaps it would have been enough for us simply to live in harmony as part of nature.

 

How Cold This Winter Really Was

 A casual conversation during a walk sometimes explains things that had puzzled me for weeks. The damage in my garden finally made sense.

I have an abstract due tomorrow, but after pushing myself too hard yesterday, I cannot seem to get motivated today.

So instead, I went out for a walk with my wife and our dog, Ann.

 

Along the way we stopped and chatted with a florist we know. I mentioned that all of my flannel flowers had died this winter.

“Yes, we’ve been hearing that from many customers around Kamakura,” she said.

She told us that during a particularly cold spell in January, many plants had been damaged.

“At that time, the temperature dropped to minus three degrees in Enoshima,” she explained.
“It wasn’t just frost. The air itself was so cold that the inside of the plants froze and they died.”

So that was the reason.

 

Even my ponytail palms, which had always survived winter without any problems, had turned completely brown this year.

This winter really was cold.
If something is kept inside a refrigerator for long enough, of course it weakens.
The mystery finally made sense.

Perhaps because of that conversation, and because the weather was so pleasant, I spent the entire afternoon working in the garden after returning from our walk.

 

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When the Timing Breaks, It’s Hard to Recover

 Recording a lecture should be simple—at least in theory. But once the rhythm breaks, getting it back can be surprisingly difficult.

I was asked to give a lecture for the upcoming spring meeting of the Japanese Pathology Society.
This year, however, it will be delivered as an on-demand presentation.

That means the lecture has to be recorded in advance and submitted before the deadline, which is next weekend.

Since I have another research meeting that weekend, I decided to finish the recording today.

Recording directly in PowerPoint is convenient enough, but it feels quite different from speaking live in front of an audience.
I recorded it in a quiet room, but when I listened afterward, the sound echoed slightly and was harder to hear than I expected.

More than that, I simply am not used to speaking while recording.

The script appears at the top of the screen, so all I have to do is read it.
Each segment is only about a minute long.

Even so, reading it smoothly from beginning to end turns out to be harder than it sounds.

Once I stumble over a word, it is surprisingly difficult to recover.

It reminded me of a moment during the recent Winter Olympics.
A skier lost balance midway through the run and could never quite regain the rhythm afterward.
It felt very much the same.

And thinking about that only made me stumble again.

In the end, it took three hours to record a thirty-minute lecture.

Broadcast announcers really are impressive, I thought again.

 

 

The Final Diagnosis Often Arrives Just Before the Presentation

 Spring has arrived—slugs at the door, pollen in the air, and the season of conferences beginning. But for diagnostic case discussions, one requirement still bothers me: submitting the presentation materials too early.

 

When I returned home last night, I noticed a slug at the entrance.
It felt warmer than usual, and I later realized that the day was Keichitsu, the traditional Japanese calendar day when insects are said to emerge from the ground.

The pollen has been terrible—almost enough to make me “close my nose” rather than just complain—but it is unmistakably the feeling of spring.

Next week I will give two presentations at a research meeting.

These are not lectures in the usual sense. They are pathological explanations of cases in which clinicians struggled with diagnosis and treatment.
Using biopsy specimens from the patients, I will discuss how we approach the diagnosis and what kind of disease mechanisms we consider.

As expected for difficult cases, both of them are extremely challenging.
In truth, achieving a perfectly definitive diagnosis in such cases is rarely possible—but once I have accepted the task, there is no turning back.

The meeting will be held in a hybrid format, both onsite and online, and the organizers require that presentation materials be submitted in advance.

I have never been very good at that.

For a standard lecture, where the content is already fixed, early submission is not a problem.
But case discussions are different. Preparation time is limited, and I want to keep thinking about the case for as long as possible.

If everything must be prepared early, new findings may appear just before the presentation.
Sometimes I have had to leave out an important observation simply because time ran out, only to have the session chair point it out during the discussion.

The truth is that, in diagnostic case presentations, the final insight often arrives suddenly—almost as if it falls from the sky—and it tends to happen right before the talk.

The same is true for shaping the story: deciding how to explain the reasoning process in a way that will actually help the audience understand how the diagnosis was reached.

But when advance submission is required, that moment of insight must be captured twice—once for the submission, and once again for the actual presentation.

After reaching that first peak, the tension naturally fades.
Before the real talk, I must somehow build it back up again.

I suspect this system was designed mainly for the convenience of companies running online streaming platforms, rather than for the realities of how presenters actually work.

Still, I accepted the invitation.

So this weekend, I will simply have to concentrate and do my best.

 

 

Switching into Spring Mode

 A thin yellow film on the car hood announces the arrival of pollen season in Japan. As spring approaches, everyday scenes—from cheerful groups of high-school travelers to crowded train platforms—offer small reminders that the season is changing, even as work and responsibilities keep piling up.

The hood of my car is covered with a faint yellow film.

For the next several weeks, pollen will be at its peak.

Headaches, coughing, runny nose—every year I struggle with hay fever.

On trains and in station concourses, groups of young girls have begun to stand out.

Some are carrying large shopping bags from the theme park in Urayasu.

They are probably high school students who have come to Tokyo on graduation trips.
They laugh loudly and excitedly, clearly enjoying themselves.

I hope that each of their lives will be filled with hope and happiness.

But as if to cast a shadow over such cheerful trips, a train accident involving a person on the tracks occurred last night. Both the Yokosuka Line and the Tokaido Line were suspended for hours.

At the terminal station, the platforms were overflowing with people. Many stood staring at their smartphone screens, probably searching for alternative routes, looking somewhat lost.

I had a web meeting scheduled at 8 p.m. and had planned to join by chat, but I could not even board a train. In the end, I participated from a bench on the station platform that I barely managed to secure.

I thought I might at least be able to speak, but the station announcements were constant. In the end, I could not say a word during the meeting.

The bench on the platform at night was cold.

Even after the meeting ended, the trains were slow to resume, and it took me another hour longer than usual to get home.

Because the trains were so crowded, I used the Green Car on the way back.

I managed to get an aisle seat, but across from me a woman had placed her luggage on the empty seat next to her, effectively occupying two seats.
Her seatback was fully reclined, leaving the person behind her looking rather uncomfortable.

When someone is sitting behind you, it seems considerate to recline only halfway. Yet many people do not think that way.
It is often discussed on airplanes as well, so perhaps it is a universal issue.

Still, even a small number of such people can cause a surprising amount of stress.

Eventually someone asked for the seat, and she reluctantly moved her luggage, dropping it with a loud and rather careless motion.
Why are there people like that?

It is hard to claim that Japanese manners are always exemplary.

In any case, it is already March 5.

Looking at the calendar, I see that next week alone I have four deadlines and lectures.
On top of that, I should probably start preparing for a research meeting scheduled for next January.

After many years in the field, one becomes involved in many different activities, and there are responsibilities that one ends up accepting almost by circumstance.

But it is no longer easy to push through everything with sheer stamina as I once did.

Perhaps I should stop aiming for perfection, but that is easier said than done.

It seems time to raise my energy and switch fully into spring mode.