Kindness Is Never Wasted

I had been struggling with the selection of speakers for an academic meeting.
After finally consulting a senior colleague, the situation now seems likely to be resolved.

Perhaps I should have asked for advice earlier.
Still, having wrestled with the problem on my own made me appreciate the help all the more.

 

I am regularly invited to give talks as a guest speaker at several study meetings.

There are certainly many people who are far more capable than I am, and who know much more than I do.
And yet, I continue to be invited.

I am not entirely sure how useful I am to others, but for my part, I learn something every time.
For that, I am deeply grateful.

Of course, the help I receive is not limited to my professional life.
At many moments and in many situations, I am supported by different people.

I recently wrote an article saying something like, “I am who I am thanks to everyone around me.”
The fact that I find myself writing about the same thing again today suggests that I may have begun to forget that gratitude, even if only a little.

I need to be careful.

There is a Japanese saying that kindness is never for the benefit of the recipient alone.
I hope that I, too, can remain—however modestly—within that ongoing cycle of kindness.

A Week of Mental Pause

 

Yesterday, I cast my early vote.
From that moment on, my single choice was sealed inside a ballot box for a week—out of reach, and out of my hands. 

 

Yesterday, I completed my early voting.
My single vote for the future government was locked away in the ballot box, where it will remain for a week.

Once that happens, my actions can no longer influence the outcome.
And with that realization, my interest in the election itself drops sharply.

The morning news I usually keep on as a kind of clock has now been replaced by campaign broadcasts.
Until last week, I let them play in the background without much thought.
This morning, I turned them off and switched instead to the noisy, restless chatter of commercial TV news.

The forecasts suggest a victory for the Liberal Democratic Party and Ishin, along with continued struggles for the political center.
That seems about right.

From here on, I will be extremely busy for a while.
I do not have the time—or the mental space—to dwell on politics.
Instead, I will use that time for myself.

Today, the first task is simple:
making a to-do list.

The Present, Where Past and Future Meet — Plans Still Undecided

Time moves on, whether we are ready or not.
As memories quietly compress into the past and the future remains uncertain, all that truly exists is the present — fleeting, fragile, and strangely powerful.

 

It is already February.

Time moves quickly again this year.

The fact that my younger brother passed away in December feels like something from the distant past.
The same is true of my trip to New York over the year-end holidays.

January was full of events, but in the end, all of them have been compressed into the past, leaving only the present.

Yes, the past exists as the past, the present exists as the present, and ahead of us lies only the future.
The point where they meet is the present — and in the very next moment, that present becomes part of the past.

Today, I went to cast my early vote.

My future is sealed inside the ballot box, yet that future will not be revealed until a week from now.
Situations like this occur from time to time in the world.

Even when we make plans for the future, those plans remain, by definition, undecided.
When I stop and think about it, it is a rather curious thing.

Perhaps only humans reflect on such matters.

Other animals likely spend little time thinking about the future — or do they?
If only I could ask them.

In any case, enough pondering.
Tomorrow, it is time to return to work and do my best once again.

A World You Shouldn’t Wander Into Just for Fun

 I took Anne, our flat-coated retriever, to a dog show today.
It was an experience that opened my eyes—not so much to competition, but to how deep and demanding a seemingly casual world can be.

 

During the New Year holidays, while we were away in New York, Anne stayed with her breeder—the place she was born.
After we returned, the breeder invited us to enter Anne in a dog show. Apparently, “enter” is the correct term.

We left home long before sunrise and drove a long way to the venue.
The site was in the mountains, and the temperature was minus five degrees Celsius.

Despite the cold, the parking lot was already full—cars, and dogs everywhere.
Some breeds I had never seen before.

What surprised me most was the scale of preparation.
Many people had brought not just crates, but large tents. Everyone was busy grooming their dogs.
Among them were people who looked like professional groomers.

The breeder herself had entered dogs in shows before, but she did not seem particularly experienced.
In the end, Anne was handed over to a handler she knew.

Later, I learned that most handlers there were professionals.
That explained why I kept seeing the same people walking different dogs again and again.
I had seen similar scenes on YouTube, so perhaps this is simply how dog shows work.

Anne, who was clearly not “show-trained,” returned with what was almost a disqualifying score.
The moment she came back, she buried her face into our chests.
She must have been extremely tense.

Once we got back to the car, she collapsed, completely exhausted.

What struck me was not only the number of dogs, but the sheer number of people involved—owners, trainers, handlers.
And the size of the caravan that supported them.

There were license plates from central Japan, even from the Kansai region.

All I could think was: this is impressive.
A dog show may seem trivial, but it clearly is not.

Every world has its own depth.

 

And this one, I felt, is not where I belong.
Before being pulled any further into it, it would be wiser to step back.

I enjoy playing with Anne, and I have been teaching her a bit of agility.
But even there, I think it’s best not to go too deep.

 

Not Becoming a “Signboard Only” Professional

 

I am a doctor—though as a pathologist, my work is evaluated quite differently from that of clinicians.

Still, when I look at medicine as a profession, I am constantly struck by how wide the differences in individual ability really are.

 

It goes without saying that doctors cannot be treated as a single, uniform group.

Passing the national medical examination is only the starting point. After that, career paths diverge endlessly: internal medicine, surgery, obstetrics, pediatrics, pathology. Some move into basic research; others into government or administration. Even within the same specialty, areas of expertise differ—and within those, there are doctors who are highly skilled, and those who are not.

I work at a specialized hospital and have spent many years in this particular field. I am approaching retirement now, which means I have been involved in this discipline for more than thirty years.

Within this field, I am regarded—at least formally—as a specialist. Even so, there are many moments when I feel I can no longer keep up. There are countless individuals far more capable than I am, and I often find myself thinking that had they been in my place, they might have contributed far more to the advancement of medicine.

Even now, I still frequently seek advice from senior pathologists. It feels humbling—sometimes even embarrassing—but it remains necessary. At my current hospital, I have managed to work hard enough not to lose the trust of clinicians. Still, I can sense that I am nearing my own limits.

This is not something unique to medicine. It applies to all professions.

A profession is, in a sense, a signboard. Anyone who carries one must be careful not to become a “signboard only” figure—someone whose title outweighs their substance. I do not need to be a showpiece, but I would like, at the very least, to remain someone who can stand at the entrance without shame.

In the upcoming general election, it seems that several candidates with medical licenses are running for office. There are no qualifications required to become a politician. Anyone can run; those who win become lawmakers, and those who lose return to being private citizens.

There are limited ways to judge what such candidates truly stand for. That is why I want to listen carefully—to campaign speeches, to policy statements—and cast my vote only after considering whether their signboard reflects reality. I do not want to lose that discernment, even at the ballot box.

When Japanese Quality Fades, the World Loses More Than a Product

Walking through a supermarket the other day, I noticed a large figurine from a Japanese anime that had been hugely popular when I was a child.
Out of nostalgia, I picked up the box—and was surprised by how light it felt.
Inside was what seemed to be a large molded plastic object.
It wasn’t made in Japan, so I put it back.

That small moment stayed with me longer than I expected.

 

When I was a child, toys like that were usually heavy—often made of die-cast metal, solid and reassuring in the hand.
Looking back now, those lightweight plastic products feel somehow misleading, as if something essential has been quietly removed.

Some time ago, I asked someone in the automotive industry why inexpensive electric vehicles sell so well.
His answer was simple.

“They’re like home appliances,” he said.
“You buy a cheap refrigerator or washing machine, and when it breaks, you replace it. Cars are becoming the same—buy, break, replace. Over and over.”

That made sense.
If the price feels right, people will keep buying.
A car powered by a motor is relatively easy and inexpensive to manufacture compared with one built around a complex internal combustion engine, so the cycle of production and consumption accelerates.

I once heard a former Toyota executive say that the internal combustion engine is a concentration of technology—and that such technology must be preserved.
I believe he was right.

About six months ago, I bought a phone charger.
It broke after a short while, so I replaced it.
That one broke too.
In half a year, I’ve bought three chargers; including my wife’s, probably five or six in total.
All that remains is a growing pile of waste.

You rarely see products like this made in Japan.
Even brands with Japanese-sounding names often turn out, on closer inspection, not to be Japanese at all.
When products are not made in Japan, their quality is often too low to be truly usable.

Japanese products are known for high quality—and for not breaking.
But because they do not break, they do not need to be replaced, and therefore they do not sell as well.
No matter how good the quality is, if products are not replaced, the business model struggles.

Still, we consumers are not blameless.
We buy inexpensive products online with a single click, without ever touching them, guided by price rather than substance.

What worries me most is not the decline of Japanese products themselves, but the decline of the global standard of quality that Japan has long helped to uphold.
If that global standard falls, there is no easy recovery.

Consider what it means for the world to lose the quality standards once carried by the world’s second-largest economic power.
The answer does not take long to reach.

What is most frightening is that Japan itself may begin to accept this lower level as normal.
The world is quietly losing a precious asset called Japan.

If we continue to be driven only by price, the world may lose that standard of quality forever.
We must recognize this—because for now, at least, it may still be possible to stop it.

How to Cross a Street: Kamakura vs. New York

 

At the entrance to Dankazura in Kamakura, there stands a large torii gate known as the Second Torii.
The pedestrian crossing at this intersection is oddly arranged, with a slightly skewed layout and a pedestrian-only signal phase.
For visitors unfamiliar with the area, it is often unclear when exactly one should cross.

Most Japanese pedestrians—perhaps seventy percent or so—do not cross the street when the light is red.
In most places, ignoring a red signal simply does not happen.

At the crossing in front of the Second Torii, local residents know that the traffic signal for cars crossing Wakamiya Ōji is active, so they patiently wait until the light changes.
When they see visitors step forward without realizing this, they often watch with a look of mild disbelief.

Traffic crossing Wakamiya Ōji is usually light, but occasionally a motorcycle speeds through unexpectedly.
It is a small crossing, but caution is still necessary, and from time to time someone narrowly avoids an accident.

Japanese tourists who make this mistake usually stop or turn back, looking slightly embarrassed.
Foreign tourists, on the other hand, may cross even when they know the light is red—as long as no cars are coming.

In New York City, the situation is completely different.

Even at a red light, pedestrians will actively attempt to cross if there are no cars.
Some will cross even when cars are approaching.
The moment there is a gap in traffic, people lean forward, check quickly, and step out—as if failing to cross would be a missed opportunity.

I sometimes think there is no need to hurry so much.
If everyone is in such a rush, perhaps leaving home a little earlier would help.
It almost makes me want to suggest a change in lifestyle habits.

That said, New York streets are remarkably dirty, and not places one wants to linger.
Perhaps people simply want to escape as quickly as possible to somewhere warm and clean.

Seen from that perspective, a group of dozens of people standing neatly in front of a small crosswalk—one that takes only three steps to cross—must look quite strange to a New Yorker.

It is said that Japanese people will not cross a street if the pedestrian signal is red, even when no cars are in sight.
This tendency may be one of the forces that maintains order in Japan.

But then, how was this national character cultivated?
Traffic signals were introduced only in the Taishō era.
Before that, what kind of shared standard guided people’s behavior?