I Always Want to Have Dreams

 People often say that having dreams is a good thing.
I am still not entirely sure why. Yet perhaps dreams give us something valuable: the joy of imagining what life could become.

 

People say that having dreams is a good thing.

Why it is good, I am still not entirely sure.

Dreams may become a source of energy for living, but even without dreams, we still possess the instinct to survive. In that sense, they may not be essential.

Then why are dreams considered valuable? Perhaps because there is pleasure in imagining the moment when they finally come true.

The clearest example of a dream may be a lottery ticket.

People buy the dream of sudden wealth while thinking, If I win, I’ll do this… I’ll do that.

There are dreams that can be bought in this way, but there are also dreams that cannot be bought so easily.

Those are the dreams that can only be achieved through one’s own effort.

When such dreams come true, the joy is naturally greater.

Even if they cannot be replaced by money or material things, if they are something we truly longed for, the satisfaction of achieving them must be immense.

In that sense, perhaps people are more likely to feel fulfilled when they always carry some dream within them.

If we begin defining satisfaction itself, we may never finish, so I will leave that for another time. Still, having dreams seems to make people feel considerably happier.

And age has nothing to do with it.

As long as we stand somewhere on the single number line called time, for human beings and all things alike, this very moment is the starting line.

Young people may dream because they have many years ahead of them. But older people may dream about the years that remain as well.

As for me, I still have dreams of completing things left unfinished in the rest of my life.

Each of them, for me, is steeper than it may appear.

Without losing focus, I want to achieve them one by one.

And when they are done, I hope to dream again and continue walking through life.

 

 As long as life continues, there is always room for another dream.

An Ordinary Sunday, Yet Not Quite

 ome Sundays pass quietly, almost unnoticed. Yet sometimes, beneath their ordinary surface, they hold memories, gratitude, and the quiet weight of years shared together.

 

A peaceful day.

These are the kinds of days I should value most and feel grateful for, yet I let it pass somewhat aimlessly, and when it was over, I felt I had wasted something precious.

At Tsurugaoka Hachimangū, yabusame horseback archery was being held.

But now that we have Anne, I cannot easily go off to watch such things whenever I please.

This morning, I thought I might at least watch the practice, so I went there, but perhaps it had already been canceled, for there were neither people nor horses.

After walking for about an hour, I had brunch with my wife. We shared a striped Atka mackerel that we had bought in Sapporo.

Today is the anniversary of our marriage registration, marking thirty-five years since my wife changed her surname.

There is much debate about allowing married couples to keep separate surnames. It seems to me that an optional system would be enough. Those who wish to do so should be free to choose it, and those who do not should be free not to.

Why is something so simple so difficult to achieve?

 

Come to think of it, the day we registered our marriage was also a Sunday, though unlike today, it was pouring rain.

That evening, when we went to the city office in Musashino, where we were living at the time, to submit our marriage papers, an older staff member who was apparently on duty congratulated us. I can still remember his voice.

We received a congratulatory phone call from our daughter, who is now working alone in New York City.

When I think that I have lived with my wife longer than the years it took for our son and daughter to grow into the fine adults they are today, thirty-five years feels like a remarkably long span of time.

An ordinary Sunday, perhaps—but for the two of us, not an ordinary Sunday at all.

 

What looked like an ordinary Sunday was, for us, a day quietly illuminated by thirty-five years of life together. 

Maybe I’ll think about it when the time comes.

 Some decisions do not need to be made today.
We often waste energy worrying about a future that has not arrived yet. Sometimes, the wisest answer is simple: think about it when the time comes.

 

There is a difference between planning and worrying. Planning helps us prepare, but worrying only steals today’s peace. Many people try to solve tomorrow’s problems before tomorrow even begins.

A calmer approach is to focus on what is in front of us now. Future choices can wait until they become real choices. Until then, we can continue our work, take care of ourselves, and keep moving steadily.

“I’ll think about it when the time comes” is not laziness. It is often maturity. It means knowing that not every question needs an immediate answer.

For today, what is in front of you is enough. 

 

 

The 115th Annual Meeting of the Japanese Society of Pathology in Sapporo: Autopsy and Dissection

 At the 115th Annual Meeting of the Japanese Society of Pathology in Sapporo, amid discussions on cutting-edge spatial and transcriptomic analysis, I found myself reflecting on something more fundamental: the changing language surrounding autopsy and dissection.

I came to Sapporo a little intimidated by the forecast low of 5°C, and as expected, last night was quite cold. My spring-summer suit was not enough, so I was glad I had packed a cardigan to wear underneath.

Gloves too.

I drank a bit too much at a gathering with my close research group, but early this morning there was a lecture by one of the “great senior” professors from our department. I hurried through breakfast and rushed out, but managed to arrive in time.

Yesterday and today were full of presentations, leaving both my stomach and my head completely full.

 

Spatial and transcriptomic analysis were the main themes, and I found it difficult to keep up. It felt as though the savings from the research knowledge I accumulated in my younger days had finally run out.

This trip also serves as preparation for two academic meetings next year.

I was able to thank the professors who had already agreed to give lectures, and for sessions still in planning, I identified several promising candidates. Yesterday, two of them gave tentative acceptance.

 

Research methods continue to evolve rapidly, but their foundation remains the human body.

This is true not only in pathology, but in all medical research. Everything ultimately returns to human beings.

One topic frequently discussed these days is the decline in the number of hospital autopsies.

Even yesterday’s general assembly meeting saw a lengthy discussion on the matter.

By the way, I have often found myself wondering how best to express the term autopsy in Japanese.

A pathological autopsy is performed to determine the cause of death and to clarify the mechanisms of disease, but in Japanese it may also be called boken (剖検).

Autopsy (= autopsy / postmortem examination) refers to an examination after death to investigate the cause of death or pathological lesions.

Dissection (= dissection / anatomy) refers to cutting apart the body to study its structure, or to the academic discipline of anatomy itself.

In everyday conversation, people may say “dissect the body to determine the cause of death,” but in English, autopsy would be the natural word in that context.

That being so, the proper Japanese term should be boken (剖検), and in fact I often use it.

The word “dissection” feels somewhat blunt, while boken sounds more specialized and refined.

However, perhaps because it is less familiar to the general public, it seems that the official terminology is being standardized as pathological autopsy (病理解剖).

Since Japan historically had no native custom corresponding to autopsy, I suspect the term was coined in parallel with anatomy. If so, I worry that the word itself may gradually disappear.

 

Still, as long as I am alive, it will survive so long as I continue to use it. What happens afterward is for the next generation to decide.

There is also a practical need to distinguish it clearly from forensic autopsy.

In that sense, when performed by pathologists, the unified term pathological autopsy is probably where matters will settle.

Language changes with the times.

 

Methods advance, terminology shifts, yet medicine always returns to the human body—and language, too, changes with the times. 

Everyone Has Their Own Reasons

 Every day, we hear about incidents and conflicts.
Behind each one lies a set of personal circumstances—unique, complex, and often impossible to fully understand.

 

Every day, incidents fill the news.

Each of them is caused by the circumstances carried by the people involved.

These “circumstances” can range from minor stress to money, relationships, or work. If we break them down further, no two are ever exactly the same.

Even now, I find myself irritated by someone with a large suitcase blocking the doorway on a crowded train.

If I were to lose my temper here, it could escalate into trouble, and I might even put myself at risk.

It should not be allowed to turn into an incident so easily.

If this were a machine, once a goal is set, it would simply pursue the optimal solution and choose the same method every time. It would not intentionally cause harm to humans.

To be precise, it is not about harm or benefit—machines do not concern themselves with human life or death. They simply follow their programming.

If they were programmed never to kill a human, they might even become unable to act at all.

And yet, in war, a machine would carry a bomb to its destination and drop it, exactly as instructed.

Whether people are there or not would not matter.

If wars were conducted by AI, they might become somewhat more restrained toward humans. But if it were a conflict between AI and humans, AI would likely have the advantage.

This is because humans have too many “circumstances,” while AI has none of that complexity.

Even if we try to program human circumstances into AI, what we are really encoding is not “circumstances” themselves, but the biases and assumptions of those who design the system. And those can never be absolutely correct.

If AI were to make autonomous decisions, could it truly arrive at the optimal solution for humanity?

Probably not.

Because satisfying one side inevitably means failing another. Human desires are not unified, and there is no single truth that applies to everyone.

In the end, AI might simply stop functioning altogether.

Perhaps one day, some method will bring about the greatest common happiness for humanity.

But there will always be those left behind.

For those people, the world may feel like darkness, and from there, new and complex circumstances will arise.

Are humans simply selfish, or is this just what it means to be human?

In any case, each person carries their own circumstances—many of them urgent, unavoidable, and demanding immediate resolution.

Call it selfish if you like, but it is undeniably complicated.

 

Too many circumstances—perhaps that is both the weakness and the essence of being human. 

When Survival Comes First: Choices Nations Can’t Avoid

 Spring moves forward quietly at home, while the world grows increasingly unsettled.

 

From clematis to blueberries, and then to banksia roses—spring in our home unfolds one flower after another.

This year, the blossoms of the plane tree have joined the sequence.

Although the cherry blossoms in Kamakura have mostly fallen, the seasons continue to turn.

Spring is supposed to be a time filled with energy, yet this year it feels overshadowed by global tensions.

Ukraine and Russia.
Iran and Israel and the United States.

Conflicts in these regions cast long shadows across the world.

In particular, instability in the Middle East has begun to affect Japan’s daily life and economy through growing energy concerns.

Day after day, reports describe damage spreading across industries, and healthcare is no exception.

Medical practice depends on a wide range of materials and equipment, many of which are tied to petroleum-based supply chains.

In pathology, processes such as fixation, embedding, sectioning, and staining
are all supported by such materials.

If disruptions occur at any point, specimen preparation becomes difficult, and ultimately, diagnosis itself may be compromised.

Determining whether a tumor is present in a surgically removed organ—and whether it is malignant or not—relies entirely on these processes.

If pathology were to slow or stop, it would mean that one of the foundations supporting Japan’s high medical standards had begun to erode.

And before that, shortages of surgical equipment could make operations themselves impossible.

This is not merely a problem for pathology alone.

There are reports that countries such as India and China are increasing imports of Russian oil products.

Faced with the need to sustain their economies and daily life, more nations may find it difficult to act on principles alone.

Even those that have supported Ukraine may eventually face limits to how far they can maintain their stance.

Then, what about Japan?

Prime Minister Sanae Takaichi has yet to present a clearly defined course, and it remains uncertain how this situation will be navigated.

It is an unfortunate time to be at the helm.
Yet, having gained power through strong public support, one hopes the government will persevere
and achieve diplomatic outcomes that truly serve the national interest.

 

When survival is at stake, even principles begin to bend. 

 

Wherever You Go, It’s All the Same

A short business trip to central Japan brings an unexpected realization—no matter where you go, everything feels strangely familiar.

 

 

I traveled to central Japan on a business trip.

These days, every station seems to have the same stores—there’s always a Seijo Ishii inside, and once you step outside, you’ll find two or three similar drugstores lined up.
Looking out the train window, if you spot a large building, it’s most likely an AEON.

The hotel I stayed at wasn’t my usual chain, as they didn’t have one in that city. I had no choice but to pick another, and it turned out to be a fairly standard business hotel, with familiar facilities and services.

Still, I slept well, so no complaints there.

A colleague mentioned, “I stayed near a castle, but it had been rebuilt in concrete, so it didn’t have much atmosphere.”
Well, that’s how it goes.

They say “different places, different customs,” but that phrase seems to be fading into irrelevance these days.

 Nagoya station

To get home, the fastest route is to go back to Nagoya and take the Nozomi straight to Shin-Yokohama.
You might think about taking a Kodama and relaxing, but in reality, it just means waiting five or ten minutes on a stark platform while faster trains pass by.

Even the souvenirs are disconnected from where I actually went. Since I buy them at Nagoya Station, I ended up picking up Akafuku, then caught myself thinking, “Wait, I didn’t even set foot in Mie Prefecture,” and had to laugh at my own absent-mindedness.

Japan is small, and thanks to efficient distribution, you can find products from all over the country no matter where you go.
Regional differences hardly feel like differences at all.

Before boarding the Shinkansen, I hurriedly grabbed a few items at the souvenir shop, but they were all things I could easily buy in Tokyo.
I should have at least gone to Suzunami near the south exit and picked up some good kasuzuke. I can’t help but feel a slight sense of regret.

 

Perhaps it’s not the places that have become uniform, but the way we move through them.Wherever You Go, It’s All the Same 

 

A Good Time to Prepare

 A crisp morning still carries a hint of coolness typical of the season.
The fresh green of the mountains is dazzling to the eyes.

 

A morning like this still holds a trace of cool air, just as this season should.
The fresh green of the mountains is almost dazzling.

This mild weather will likely continue until the Golden Week holidays in May.
At least, I hope so—though with the recent extremes in climate, nothing feels certain anymore.

Last week, I completed the submission of an abstract for a conference scheduled this autumn, and I feel a quiet sense of relief.
Whether it will be accepted is another matter, but I will deal with that when the time comes.
It is not as though anything is lost either way.

There are moments when the workload eases like this.
At such times, I can turn to projects that require a longer span of attention.
In that sense, this is a good time to prepare.

In any business, people prepare their goods in advance for the busy season.
Without such preparation, one cannot make the most of that time.
An eel restaurant prepares for Doyo no Ushi no Hi a year ahead, and soba shops make arrangements well in advance for New Year’s Eve.
That is how things usually work.

But for doctors, everything depends on the presence of patients.

If no one falls ill or gets injured, doctors are not needed.
And yet, that is not how reality works.
We do not wish for people to become unwell, but in the end, that is what brings us work.
It is a strange kind of causality.

These are needs that arise inevitably, so there is no reason to think poorly of it.
Still, at times, it leads to a somewhat unsettling line of thought.
Ideally, there should be no such thing as a “busy season” for doctors, yet disasters, accidents, and outbreaks of infectious disease can create exactly that situation.

Be that as it may, I have a little room in my schedule for now.
I would like to use this time to prepare quietly for whatever may come.

 

Perhaps this quiet will not last, but for now, it is enough. 

 

The Last Portraits of My Plants

 In early February, an unexpected cold wave in Kamakura left a quiet but lasting mark on the plants we had carefully grown over the years.

 

In early February, around the time of the general election, the temperature in Kamakura dropped to around −5°C.

The cold lasted for several days, and many of the plants we had been nurturing ended up dying.

In most years, it was enough to place them under the eaves, where frost would not reach.
But this time, the prolonged cold seems to have frozen the trees themselves.

They were all plants we had grown with care, and I could not bring myself to simply throw them away.
So I decided to leave a record of them here.

First, the avocado trees.

My wife grew them from seeds, and some had grown to a respectable size.
It is said that it takes nearly twenty years for them to bear fruit, and after fifteen years, we had begun to wonder if we might finally see some signs of that.

We had planted about four of them and were waiting patiently.
All of them are now gone.

 

Perhaps we will start again from the beginning.

Next, the ponytail palm.

 

This one had always been remarkably resilient.
At one point, it nearly suffered from root rot when the pot became too crowded, but we managed to save it by repotting it in time.
Since then, it had been growing steadily.

 

And yet, one day, its leaves suddenly turned brown.

Then, the rubber plant.

 

I bought it cheaply somewhere around the time I moved to my current workplace and kept it beside my desk.
It weakened after being infested with scale insects.

I brought it home, removed the insects, and watered the leaves daily.
It recovered well and had been growing again—until its leaves, too, turned brown.

 

Finally, the bougainvillea.

 

These two pots were meant to one day brighten the balcony railing.
But even as spring arrived, no new buds appeared.

It seems they are gone as well.

 

There were others we lost too.
I cannot help but think that if only I had brought them indoors, things might have been different.

A festival is taking place in Kamakura today.

 

  Some lives leave their traces not in what remains, but in what is quietly remembered.

From PHS to Smartphone: A Small Change in Hospital Communication

The PHS devices we used in the hospital have finally been replaced by smartphones.
It sounds like a simple upgrade—but in daily practice, the change feels more complicated than expected.

The PHS we used to carry was light and fit neatly into a chest pocket. I simply attached a small strap and that was enough. Now, we are issued long neck straps for the smartphones, and apparently we are expected to use them.

When worn around the neck, the phone swings around waist level and gets in the way while walking. If I put it in my chest pocket, the strap dangles awkwardly.

The smartphone is at least twice as heavy as the old PHS, so it no longer feels like something you can carry lightly.

For someone like me—a pathologist who spends most of the day sitting in front of a microscope—it can just be placed nearby. But for clinicians who must carry it all day, this must be quite a burden.

　

The introduction of smartphones is meant to improve efficiency. However, in departments like pathology or laboratory medicine, we do not have enough staff to justify forming messaging groups. In practice, contacting someone directly is not much different from before.

Besides, there is always a laptop connected to the hospital network right next to me, so using a smartphone does not make a significant difference in most cases.

　

That said, the speaker function is a clear advantage.

Previously, if a call came in while I was working at the microscope, I had to stop what I was doing. Now, I can simply swipe the screen, answer the call, and switch to speaker mode.

Being able to continue looking through the microscope while responding is, without question, a real improvement.

If needed, colleagues can listen in immediately as well. Since I am not in a position where confidential conversations are common, most discussions can be handled openly.

I occasionally hear voices coming from speakerphones in the office, so it seems others are making good use of this feature too.

　

How long has it been since smartphones became the norm?

Ten years? Fifteen?

I still have remnants of old flip phones, but smartphones are usually collected when replaced, so it is hard to remember clearly. In any case, it has been quite a while.

　

Although smartphones are often described as a revolutionary innovation, in the broader flow of technological progress, they may turn out to be just a brief moment.

What kind of devices will we be using ten or fifteen years from now?

　

If possible, I hope for technologies that make war unnecessary.

But as long as there are people who do not want that, even such possibilities may end up taking a different path.

 

Technology moves forward—but not always in the direction we hope. 

 

No Lines on the Map of Animals: The Contradictions of Human Existence

 I was recently struck again by how deeply contradictory human beings can be. The contrast is so stark that it almost feels unreal.

 

While wars rage in some parts of the world, people elsewhere fill stadiums, cheering for baseball or basketball.

In countries at war, lives are lost every day, and violence continues without pause.

Isn’t that strange?

War itself is already difficult to comprehend—a colossal waste that turns what has been carefully built into rubble. But the fact that people are actually losing their lives makes it even harder to accept.

Human beings are inherently full of contradictions. Every one of us carries them.

Much of this contradiction likely stems from our self-centered nature. We are told not to inconvenience others, to be mindful of those around us. And yet, we often disregard that completely and impose on others without hesitation. That, too, is a contradiction.

Why should we avoid troubling others? Because no human being can live alone.

The same applies to nations. No matter how powerful a country may be, it cannot sustain itself in complete isolation.

Perhaps the problem lies in the fact that both individuals and nations have “mass”—a presence that inevitably occupies space.

When you place an object in water, it displaces an equal volume.
To exist is, in a sense, to push something else aside.

What we do each day may be nothing more than a continuous act of displacing one another.

At times, I even wonder whether things would be simpler if we did not have physical bodies at all.

Even now, nations are engaged in the same kind of mutual displacement.

The very act of forming countries among human beings may itself be a contradiction.

On the maps of animals, there are no lines like the ones we draw.

 

Perhaps it is only humans who insist on drawing boundaries—and then struggle because of them.