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.

The Direction of America’s Raised Fist

 Nearly four years after Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, reports have emerged of U.S. military action against Iran under President Donald Trump.
The circumstances are different, yet one uncomfortable similarity remains: a powerful nation striking a weaker one. The world once spoke loudly against Russia’s invasion. But how will it respond this time?

 

 

It has been almost four years since Russian President Vladimir Putin launched the invasion of Ukraine. Now, reports say that the United States, under President Donald Trump, has carried out an attack against Iran.

The situations are different in many ways. Yet they share one striking feature: a major power using force against a smaller nation.

When Russia invaded Ukraine, many countries around the world issued strong statements of opposition. But what about Iran?

Iran has carried out missile attacks against several Arab states and is often described as being in a situation close to diplomatic isolation. Perhaps for that reason, few voices have openly defended it.

Or perhaps some countries remain silent simply because speaking against the United States carries its own risks.

Some reports suggest that an exit strategy is not yet clear. The fist has already been raised and brought down, but what exactly was the objective?

This time, the action appears to carry the strong character of unilateral American decision-making. That may make international cooperation difficult to secure.

Since the end of the Second World War, the overwhelming military power of the United States has shaped the global order. Japan itself was defeated in the Pacific War, and American military bases have remained throughout the country ever since.

Many nations still find it difficult to speak openly against the United States, and that situation may continue for some time.

The stated objective of the recent attack is to prevent Iran from acquiring nuclear weapons. From that perspective alone, it is not easy to oppose the action outright.

Would a Democratic administration have been able to prevent such a situation? It is impossible to know.

At the same time, the question remains whether one nation has the right to force political change upon another. Nuclear development and regime stability are deeply intertwined issues, and the judgment is far from simple.

Where, then, is the eventual landing point — the political “place to settle” this raised fist?

Even the United States itself seems to be searching for that answer.

For now, the world watches the unfolding situation in tense silence.

When Emotion Multiplies and Flattens: A Quiet Thought on Modern Entertainment

 This year’s Hinamatsuri arrives with rain.
Winter-like cold lingers, and though it is already March, I put on a down jacket once more.

 

It has been a week since the Winter Olympics ended.
In Japan, attention now turns to the WBC—baseball’s turn in the spotlight.
Soon there will be grand sumo, then Major League Baseball, and before long, the FIFA World Cup.

Beyond sports, countless events unfold.
Last year there was the World Expo.

Stepping back, I cannot help but marvel at how much there is.
At times it feels as though we are gently led—if not carried—by an endless current of entertainment.
How much stimulation does a human being truly need?

I would not call myself particularly devoted to such events.
And yet I have visited Urayasu more than once, I enjoy traveling, I cheer and sigh over sports, and I watch films.
When something happens, I take interest; when I go or see it, my heart is moved.
Whether all of this can be reduced to a single word—“entertainment”—I am not entirely sure.

In the age of streaming, even experiences themselves are delivered to us.
They serve as show windows to possible emotions, inviting us to sample what once required presence.

But as when walking through a vast department store, there are moments of quiet fatigue before the abundance.
And at the same time, many experiences begin to appear curiously level—
as though their emotional heights have been carefully standardized.

Human ingenuity has diversified the forms of inspiration.
Yet if these emotions could somehow be measured, would their differences truly be so great?

Even if one were to travel into space and float in zero gravity, perhaps the difference would lie only in the gap between imagination and reality.
It might not alter anything essential within oneself.

What weighs more heavily is not the absence of wonder, but the excess of information.
In such moments, I feel I can faintly understand the mind of a hermit sage—
one who withdraws not out of disdain, but to preserve clarity.

If I could become such a person, perhaps life would feel a little lighter.
It is only a passing thought.