Cherry Blossoms Move the Economy

  A cold, rainy morning—hanabie, the chill that comes just as the cherry blossoms begin to bloom.

 

There was a news report saying that this year’s cherry blossoms are blooming slightly earlier than usual.

If they reach full bloom within a week, one organizer of a local cherry blossom festival was worried that by the time the event begins in about ten days, the petals may already be falling.

In Kamakura yesterday, the blossoms seemed to advance noticeably between the morning when I left home and the evening when I returned.

It reminds me how important the timing of cherry blossoms is to Japan’s economy.

Rather than following a fixed calendar, economic activity here often depends on a natural phenomenon—the blooming of sakura. It may seem relaxed, but perhaps it reflects the generous mindset of people who appreciate nature.

Cherry blossom forecasts themselves are also interesting.

No matter when the blossoms bloom, it is, after all, entirely up to the trees. Yet today, large amounts of data are collected to predict the exact day of flowering.

Perhaps the time will come when we no longer talk about whether a meteorologist’s forecast was right or wrong.

Still, it feels a little curious that meteorologists and weather companies—neither botanists nor horticulturists—are the ones making these predictions.

In any case, weather clearly has a strong influence on the human economy.

The weather will likely remain relatively mild until mid-May, which is a relief. After that, however, the rainy season and then intense summer heat await.

By then, I hope the conflicts in the Middle East will settle down and energy supplies will stabilize.

 

Weather, in its quiet way, moves the economy as much as any policy or market. 

A Dog Show That Felt Like a Conference—But More Exhausting

 On the final day of the holiday, under clear skies, I took Anne, my Flat-Coated Retriever, to a large dog show held at Tokyo Big Sight.

 

The event was the JKC Sakura Annual Show 2026, one of the largest dog shows in Japan.

I have been thinking that, after I retire, I might participate with Anne myself. For that, I wanted her to get used to the atmosphere.

The last show we attended was relatively small—something like a regional meeting in academic terms. But this one was on a completely different scale, more like an international congress.

The moment we entered the hall, it was overwhelming: dogs, dogs, dogs—and people, people, people. In fact, it even felt like there were more dogs than people.

Large dogs, rare breeds, beautifully groomed show dogs—one after another, dogs I had never seen before appeared in front of us.

As before, Anne did not seem to enjoy the environment very much. She kept stepping backward, sometimes almost slipping out of her leash.

We even tried a training session for the first time, but it seemed we gave the instructor a bit of trouble. In the end, both Anne and I were simply exhausted.

Still, I was impressed by the sheer scale of the event. Organizing something like this must require tremendous effort.

In many ways, it felt just like an annual academic meeting—complete with corporate booths and an incredible amount of human energy.

It was enjoyable, yes—but also deeply tiring.

The one comforting moment was when someone said, “What a beautiful dog.”

I can’t help wondering whether I can really become a handler at the age of 65. 

A Spring Walk That Became a Hike in Kamakura

 What started as a simple cherry blossom walk turned into a light hike in Kamakura.

 

After yesterday’s rain, this morning brought clear blue skies.

Pollen was clearly in the air, but thanks to my medication, I managed with just a slight irritation in my throat.

I walked along Dankazura to Kamakura Station to see my wife off.

The cherry blossoms were just beginning to bloom—perhaps only ten percent open.

 

It was still a bit chilly in the morning, but the temperature was expected to rise, and the flowers would likely open quickly over the next couple of days.

Even early in the day, the area was already crowded. When the Yokosuka Line train arrived, a large number of people poured out onto the platform.

Walking through the crowds with my dog didn’t seem ideal, so on the way back, I decided to take a small hiking trail up Mount Gion.

We entered from behind Myohonji Temple, and thanks to my dog pulling me along, the climb felt surprisingly easy.

 

She’s in great shape—an excellent hiking companion.

One of the best things about Kamakura is how easily you can turn an ordinary walk into a small hike.

 

One of the best things about Kamakura is how easily a simple walk can turn into a small hike. 

 

Writing as Thinking

 

Why do we keep writing, even when we don’t fully understand the reason ourselves? This simple question leads to something deeper about thought, language, and habit.

What discourages me most about writing a blog is when what I write is rejected or denied.

Since that possibility is always there, one might conclude that it would be easier to stop writing altogether. And yet, I continue. I don’t really understand why.

Perhaps many bloggers feel the same. They write without clearly knowing their own reason.

Is the act of writing itself the goal, or is it the act of expressing one’s thoughts? If I tried to organize that distinction, I might find an answer. But at least for me, I don’t feel that I have anything in particular I want to “send out” to the world.

　

Then is writing itself the purpose? Not quite.

It’s not as if I would die if I stopped. I could quit anytime. If I don’t have time, I simply don’t write that day.

But when I do have time, I write again the next day.

　

So why is that?

Perhaps humans simply like to think.

My flat-coated retriever, Anne, seems to think only about playing. When she sees me, she brings a ball, licks my face, or sleeps when she’s calm.

I, too, would be happy to keep playing with her forever. But at some point, I start to wonder, “Is this really enough?” I stop playing, and begin doing something else—or thinking about something.

　

Most of those thoughts are trivial, things that disappear almost immediately.

And yet, one of those trivial thoughts happens to be in my mind at a given moment, gets put into words, and remains.

In other words, something that would have been meaningless is preserved, just slightly, as a record of thought—simply because it has been verbalized.

　

This act of “verbalization” is quite interesting.

As a pathologist, I describe cells and tissues almost every day. I can put the state of the human body into words reasonably well.

But when it comes to describing food, scenery, or music, I am not particularly skilled.

I cannot even properly describe the taste of wine.

That is why translating the electrical signals constantly moving through my brain into language should be a highly sophisticated act.

And yet, I can do it without much effort. That, to me, is something rather curious.

　

I started writing from the question of why I keep writing a blog every day.

In the end, it turned into a reflection on how complex an act this really is.

If one reads this piece from beginning to end, perhaps the path of my thinking—its flow—becomes faintly visible.

And that, in its own way, is interesting.

 

Perhaps writing is nothing more than giving shape to thoughts that would otherwise disappear. 

When Hope for the Future Begins to Fade

 Lately, I have often found myself unable to hold on to a sense of bright hope for the future.

 

There are still many responsibilities placed upon me—tasks I am expected to carry through.

I should be able to wish for their success, even to imagine it. And yet, that image does not come easily.

I had thought this might simply be due to age rather than pressure, but I have begun to realize that it is not just that.

It may well be shaped by the world we are living in—conflicts and wars unfolding across the globe, rapid environmental changes, and the gradual contraction of Japan under the weight of a declining and aging population.

Even if one lives an ordinary life, reality can overturn everything without warning, far beyond one’s own control.

What once seemed like solid foundations—such as energy and other basic systems—are in fact built on fragile ground.

And on top of that comes the stagnation of the Japanese economy.

If the days of prosperity are now called a thing of the past, perhaps that is true.

I do not believe I am clinging to them, yet somehow I find myself affected by them, my spirit worn down.

This is not unique to Japan. To varying degrees, people around the world may be feeling something similar.

Nothing will change simply by recognizing this, and time will not turn back.

So the question remains:
Do we continue living with a heart on the verge of breaking, or do we somehow try to rebuild it?

Of course, I want to rebuild.

But I cannot yet see clearly what I should rely on, or how to begin.

 

For now, I would like to begin simply by reconnecting with those close to me, and sharing something of the heart. 

Aging: The Long Road to the End

The air has been heavy with pollen these past few days.
Even with medication, many people seem to be struggling with persistent symptoms.

This annual discomfort led me to reflect on a more fundamental question:
what exactly do we call a “disease,” and what is the true role of a doctor?

 

Sneezing can be heard everywhere. I am no exception.
Even those taking anti-allergic medications seem to find little relief.

Hay fever is a troublesome condition—whether we call it a disease or merely a symptom—and it returns every year without fail.

But what exactly do we mean by “disease”?
And what word stands in contrast to it?

I used to think that doctors exist to cure diseases.
In reality, however, the number of truly curable diseases is quite limited.

Most diseases are defined as conditions in which structural or functional abnormalities of the body cause discomfort or suffering, interfering with daily life.
If that is the case, can aging—the greatest source of discomfort and decline—be considered a disease?

One might say that without symptoms, one is healthy.
Yet as we live, that is, as we age, irreversible dysfunctions inevitably emerge throughout the body.

It may sound like a sophism, but human beings are, in a sense, patients moving inevitably toward death.

Within the broad process of aging, various conditions such as infections and cancer arise.
The role of a doctor is to manage these conditions as they appear.
There is very little medicine can do against aging itself.

Exercise, mental activity, and dietary care—these are things one can choose to do without ever seeing a doctor.

Doctors do not possess a cure for aging, this incurable condition.
At best, we can respond to and control the abnormalities that occur along the way.

Human life, if well cared for, can extend to around a hundred years.
The task of medicine is to correct deviations that arise during that long process.
When this is done well, patients can live more comfortably, and perhaps more happily.

Whether a hundred years is long or short depends on the individual.
Yet considering that we are only some twenty generations removed from the time of Christ, it may not be so short after all.

Each life, in its own way, is longer than we tend to think.
As physicians, we must continue striving—day by day—to support that time as best we can.

 

Each life is longer than we think—and worth quietly sustaining. 

The Front of Spring

 The blooming of cherry blossoms in Japan marks the beginning of the “sakura front,” a seasonal line that moves northward each year. Yet the word “front” also carries another meaning—one that reminds us of the uncertain state of the world today.

 

Yesterday, the first cherry blossoms of the season were confirmed in Gifu, marking the beginning of the sakura front as it slowly moves northward across Japan.

It may seem almost leisurely that the blooming of cherry blossoms becomes national news. Yet many people draw energy from it. After all, cherry blossoms are the flower most closely associated with Japan.

Tokyo is expected to see its first blossoms tomorrow, so Kamakura will likely follow soon. Just two days ago, the cherry trees along Dankazura were still completely bare, but it is always enjoyable to search for the earliest blossoms while walking.

There is an old fable about the North Wind and the Sun. In that story, the warmth of the sun persuades a traveler to remove his coat. In a way, the sun resembles the gentle warmth of spring.

Once the heavy coat comes off, both body and mind feel lighter.

For human beings, creatures who live with little more than a thin layer of skin, clothing is essential. Yet the season when we need less of it naturally brings relief. It is, quite simply, the feeling of “Come, spring.”

Soon the harsh cold of this winter will likely fade into memory as the cherry blossoms bloom.

But will this spring truly allow us to forget?

The global situation remains uncertain. Concerns about a possible oil crisis are growing, and the sense of unease is only deepening.

The word “front” may describe the advance of spring, but it also evokes the front lines of war. And war itself is beginning to take on a different form.

Just as aircraft dramatically changed the nature of warfare during the Pacific War, small drones are now shaking modern battlefields.

It seems that the shape of war is once again undergoing transformation.

Ignoring diversity is no longer possible in the modern world.

Beyond drones, new domains such as cyberspace and outer space are rapidly expanding. Each of these arenas is developing its own forms of power.

Perhaps by accepting this diversity, a new order may eventually emerge.

And if that new order can bring balance back to the earth, perhaps that will be the true arrival of spring for the world.

 

 

A World Where No One Really Knows

As tensions between the United States, Israel, and Iran continue, many people watch anxiously to see how the situation will unfold. Yet the deeper one thinks about it, the more uncertain everything appears. 

 

The attacks on Iran by the United States and Israel show no clear sign of ending, and many people are watching closely to see what will happen next.

In today’s world, if oil were no longer available, the price of almost everything would rise. That alone is enough to make the situation deeply concerning.

Some might say that Iran’s nuclear development should never have been allowed to continue unchecked. Yet how far had it actually progressed? And if that is the issue, then what about North Korea? Once one begins to ask such questions, the discussion becomes endless. Many claims may be partly true, and partly uncertain.

Human society seems to run on imagination—or perhaps on the interaction of countless assumptions. We rarely know what others are truly thinking, yet we easily convince ourselves that we do. Even our own thoughts are often unclear.

Even if we try to understand the world through physical events, everything remains relative. Our own perceptions are not as reliable as we might believe. To be honest, I am not even sure that I fully understand what I myself am thinking.

Writing down one’s thoughts may give them form, but even as they are written, they begin to fade and change. In that sense, our understanding always remains incomplete.

For that reason, no one truly knows when the current turmoil will end. Because there are opposing sides involved, even those directly responsible may not know what lies ahead.

Perhaps the human world simply continues forward in this kind of chaos.

One thing may be clear: no one fully understands everything. And if that is true, then it may not be so easy to decide who is truly wise and who is not.

In that case, perhaps each of us can say that we are meaningful in our own way.

 

Perhaps the only certainty in human affairs is that none of us truly understands them. 

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.