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. 

 

So Many Things to Worry About — Planning a Conference Still Halfway There

 The conference has not even begun, yet much of next year’s program is already taking shape.
Planning it has reminded me how many decisions—and uncertainties—lie behind what eventually appears as a simple schedule.

 

One could say it has not even started yet, but the program for next year’s conference is already beginning to take shape.

In the end, everything comes down to what topics are chosen and who is invited to speak.

The process starts with deciding on the theme, which is not as easy as it sounds.
As someone specializing in a niche field—pediatric and perinatal pathology—it is not always appropriate to focus solely on that area. The program must also appeal to those working in adult pathology; otherwise, overall participation may decline.

Once the theme is set, it needs to be broken down into more specific topics.
Simply listing general presentations would certainly be easier, but that would defeat the purpose of organizing the meeting myself.

After defining the topics, the next step is selecting the speakers.

This conference has a long history, and this will be its 24th meeting.
Inevitably, there is a need for generational renewal, and we must identify and encourage those who will lead the field in the future. This, too, is not straightforward.

When I was young—just an unknown newcomer—I was given opportunities to present by senior colleagues, almost against my will. Thanks to them, I can now present myself as something of a specialist.
That said, not everyone wants such opportunities.

Most people are nervous at first, and many eventually get used to it.
Still, some feel uncomfortable speaking in public or believe they lack sufficient experience. From my perspective, that hesitation often feels like a missed opportunity, but it is not something that can be forced.

On the other hand, inviting well-known experts often leads to scheduling conflicts.
They are not celebrities, of course, but conferences tend to cluster in certain seasons, making coordination surprisingly difficult.

At present, about 80% of the speakers have been decided, and the next step is to determine how the meeting will be run.
There have been requests for a hybrid format, which will inevitably require a larger budget.

We could outsource the organization to a professional conference company, but that would come at a significant cost.
In the end, it will likely be a “handmade” meeting.

Although the conference will host just over a hundred participants in a highly specialized field, it still means being entrusted with the valuable time of each attendee. That is not something to take lightly.

Even if we say we are halfway there, much remains to be done—finalizing the program, arranging staff for the day, and more.
Concerns continue to arise one after another, making the road ahead feel long.

For now, I am handling most of the preparations alone, but there is no point in complaining.
A conference only succeeds because of those who participate and those who support it.

I must not forget that.

I will simply continue the preparations, one step at a time.

 

I will proceed with the preparations quietly and steadily. 

 

The Plane Tree of Hippocrates: A Legacy Tree, Memory, and the Passage of Time

 A small, almost unnoticeable bloom on a plane tree brings back memories of my father, a house long gone, and a quiet question about what it means for a living thing to find its place.

 

The flowers of the plane tree (Platanus) have begun to bloom.

They are so small that it is hard to tell whether they are flowers or still buds, but they are probably flowers.

 

It has been about five years since the tree was transplanted from my father’s vacation home to our garden.

In the early days of the COVID-19 pandemic, my father passed away. Unable to maintain the property, my mother decided to sell the house. At that time, she asked me:

“This tree was given to your father as a descendant of the tree of Hippocrates. Could you take care of it?”

That is how I came to accept it.

At first, I was surprised by the sheer number of its large leaves. But over time, I have grown accustomed to them.

This winter, my wife noticed that it had borne fruit.

They were small and charming—perfect, I thought, for decorating a Christmas wreath. I hadn’t even known that plane trees produced fruit. Perhaps this means the tree has finally settled into its new home. I look forward to observing its flowers properly this year.

 

The “tree of Hippocrates” is said to be the very tree under which the great physician Hippocrates taught his disciples. Saplings from that tree have been propagated around the world, and one of them eventually came into my father’s hands.

Receiving such a large tree is not simple—one must have space to plant it. My father struggled with what to do and initially considered donating it to the general hospital where he had worked for many years. But the offer was politely declined.

With no better option, he planted it at his vacation home. Yet no one lives longer than a tree, and so it has now come to us.

Across Japan, many Somei Yoshino cherry trees planted during the period of rapid economic growth have grown old, and reports of fallen trees are becoming more frequent.

It is unfortunate, and somehow it seems to mirror the gradual decline of Japan’s economy. In Kamakura as well, many cherry trees have aged—some have had their upper branches cut, others have been felled entirely. It is a painful sight.

Cherry trees are said to live for 60 to 80 years. If that is true, then by the time I die, most of the cherry trees around here—except for the recently replanted ones along Dankazura—will likely be gone.

Plane trees, on the other hand, seem to live much longer. This tree will probably outlive me by far.

Thanks in part to my wife’s yearly efforts to protect it from wood-boring insects, it has managed to survive.

Still, I sometimes wonder—having come to live with us, is this tree truly happy? 

Of course, I hope it is.

What will happen to it after I am gone is not something I can control.
But trees, too, have their own lives.

I only hope it will be allowed to live out its natural span.

 All I can do is hope that it will be allowed to live out its natural life.

Another Bookstore Gone

Cherry blossoms have already passed their peak, and fresh green leaves are beginning to show. As petals drift through the air, my dog Anne seems to think treats are falling from the sky, leaping with quiet delight.

 

The bookstore in the concourse of the terminal station I pass through on my commute quietly disappeared at the end of the last fiscal year.

I used to stop by to kill time between trains—flipping through books that caught my eye, and occasionally buying one if it truly appealed to me. There was a quarterly magazine for retriever lovers, and whenever its release approached, I would find myself wandering the shelves in anticipation.

 

For me, the closure came rather suddenly.
Perhaps there had been notices.
Perhaps I had simply failed to notice, having stopped going as often as before.

If I had known it would come to this, I might have made a point of buying a book every week or two, as I once did, to support the place. But that is, of course, too late now.

A bookstore is a place that sells knowledge.
Knowledge recorded on paper.

No matter how refined the binding or design may be, at its core a book is simply pages of printed words bound together. Its essential value lies in the knowledge it contains.

 

Of course, there are other qualities one might attribute to books, but fundamentally, what gives value to the medium of paper is what is written within it.

One of my favorite large bookstores was located on the top floor of a commercial complex.

It may be a naive assumption, but I suspect the bookstore itself was meant to be the main attraction—drawing customers up to the highest floor, and then guiding them downward through the rest of the building.

And yet, I too had gradually stopped visiting it.

Until just a few years ago, I would make a detour to stop by. Now, I simply pass it without a thought.

When reading a book, one must first confront its thickness.

A thin book can be finished in a day or two, making it easy to approach. But when it comes to authors like Haruki Murakami, or works like Les Misérables, or even the densely printed texts of Milan Kundera, it requires a certain resolve.

And yet, I find that I no longer have that kind of energy.

Instead, I skim short columns on my smartphone, gaining a vague sense of understanding and moving on.

As I have mentioned before, our personal time is steadily being taken away.

Printed books, in particular, stand at a clear disadvantage before the smartphone.

And so, another bookstore has disappeared.

What unsettles me most is that I find myself accepting this fact as if it were someone else’s problem.

 

And perhaps what troubles me most is how easily I accept it as someone else’s problem.

 

Why Do Wars Start—and Why Do They Never End?

 As spring quietly turns toward early summer in Kamakura, the beauty of the season stands in sharp contrast to the ongoing conflicts around the world. Watching the news each morning, one cannot help but ask: why do wars begin, and why do they never seem to end?

The song of the bush warbler has grown more refined.

At Tsurugaoka Hachimangu Shrine, the cherry blossoms have already become a drifting carpet on the water.

Hints of summer are in the air, and the season is steadily moving from spring toward early summer.

 

And yet, the attacks on Iran by the United States and Israel show no sign of subsiding.
The situation only grows more complex, and concerns over energy security continue to rise.

It is often said that the wealthy do not fight, and one might think that an oil-producing nation like Iran would have little reason to engage in war.
Yet, a series of circumstances must have accumulated to bring things to this point.

Gaza, Ukraine, and now Iran—
each time images of war appear on the screen, I am struck by their futility.

When I see cities reduced to rubble, transformed into something far removed from their original purpose, I cannot help but feel that this is all profoundly wasteful.

Those who initiate wars pursue their ideals, even at the cost of soldiers’ lives.
Perhaps they do so in the belief that they are seeking some form of human happiness.

But can war truly bring happiness?

 

In the long history of humanity, has there ever been a war that genuinely led to happiness?
Someone is always hurt, lives are lost, and what remains in the end are devastated cities.

What, then, is reconstruction for?

Why do humans wage war?
And why does it never disappear?

I find myself unable to explain this deeply contradictory aspect of human behavior.

Even as the seasons move gently forward, human history seems unable to do the same.
 

 

 

Thoughts in the Gentle Light of Spring

 A quiet spring day brings beauty to the eye—but not always clarity to the mind. Between blooming flowers and crowded streets, reflections on aging and uncertainty begin to surface.

 

The cherry blossoms in the mountains look beautiful from a distance.

When I went out for some shopping, Wakamiya Ōji was crowded with people.
Bringing Anne along may not have been the best idea.
Moments like this remind me that I’m glad she has been well trained.

 

At the entrance of our house, the blueberry bushes have begun to bloom with small white flowers.
It already feels like spring in full swing, and one would expect the season to lift the spirit.
Yet, much like today’s cloudy sky, there is a faint shadow hanging over my mind.

Various things weigh on me—
from the future of the world to my own later years.

 

Or rather, it is not simply “old age” that concerns me.
It is the process of growing older—the present moment—that feels unsettling.

The decline in physical strength is something I can clearly sense.
More than that, it is the gradual loss of mental sharpness that feels quietly disheartening.
I wonder how many more years I can rely on experience to compensate for it.

Still, there are many politicians older than I am,
and even those nearing eighty who continue to serve as presidents, making decisions that shape conflicts around the world.
Perhaps it is not something to dwell on too much.
In fact, it may be better not to think about age so much at all.

There are always things to worry about.
Perhaps it is even better that way—perhaps it would be more troubling if there were none.

Thoughts that come to mind on a gentle spring day
may ultimately be nothing more than fleeting, insubstantial reflections.

Perhaps these thoughts, drifting through a gentle spring day, are no more than passing fragments.
 

Am I Just Bad at Socializing?

 Lately, I’ve found myself going out for drinks less and less. It made me wonder whether I’ve simply become bad at socializing—or if something else has changed.

Recently, I rarely stay out late drinking anymore.

I still get invited occasionally, but I don’t always accept. When this happens repeatedly, I start to wonder if I’m just not good at socializing.

“Late,” in my case, only means around 10 p.m., but even then, if I’m drinking in Tokyo, I won’t get home until close to midnight.

There was a time when I was often the most enthusiastic drinker in the group, but lately that feels like too much trouble. It may simply be age, but more than that, I don’t find drinking out as enjoyable as I used to.

If that’s the case, I’d much rather have a drink at home after a bath, enjoying a meal prepared by my wife. It’s far more relaxing, and there’s no need to worry about getting home.

At the same time, I sometimes wonder whether avoiding social drinking means I’ve become too dependent on my wife. I even catch myself thinking about what I would do if she were no longer around.

Then again, she is younger than I am, so perhaps it’s not something I need to worry about just yet.

In the end, I think it’s enough to drink when I want to, with the people I want to be with. If they’re not available, then so be it.

There’s no need to worry about having only a few people to drink with.

When I look at it this way, maybe I am not good at socializing.
But even if that’s true, I’m not sure it really matters.

Human relationships are complicated.

 

Perhaps it’s not about being good or bad at socializing, but simply about knowing what feels right.