Choosing Progress Over Sighs

 As the seasons shift and the weather turns uncertain, it is easy to feel unsettled—not only by the climate, but by the state of the nation. Yet even in times of economic strain and geopolitical pressure, the question remains: will we continue to sigh over decline, or consider how to move forward?

 

The change of seasons always brings unsettled weather.

This week the skies have been gray, the temperature has refused to rise, and it feels as though winter has returned.

For the first time in a while, I stepped outside carrying a long umbrella.

Perhaps the fact that I rarely use one anymore is, in part, a quiet sign of climate change.

President Trump of the United States has announced new tariff measures, and Japan will likely feel their impact once again.

China’s stance toward Japan has also grown more severe, with new measures introduced just yesterday.

It is now undeniably a major power.

Meanwhile, Japan seems to be losing its former affluence. Even maintaining infrastructure is no longer easy.

We must rely on foreign labor, yet the framework for accepting and integrating workers is still far from fully organized.

Japan’s decline is often traced back to the collapse of the bubble economy.

But there is little point in endlessly lamenting the so-called “lost thirty years.”

In the recent general election, Prime Minister Sanae Takaichi’s message was clear: Japan can still do it. The future begins now.

Rather than dwelling on the long rule of the Liberal Democratic Party with regret, she spoke of hope for what lies ahead. That left an impression on me.

There is no reason to expect a rosy future awaiting this country.

Still, with the mandate gained under the name of Sanae Takaichi, I hope that over the next four years Japan can move forward, even if only a little.

Reflection is, of course, necessary.

But sighing alone will lead nowhere.

No matter how small the action may be, we must ask what can be done to help this country move ahead.

Each of us has a part to consider.

Why Institutions Should Be Clearly Defined

 It is warm again today—perhaps too warm to believe that spring has truly arrived, yet warm enough that I may not need my down jacket anymore. A small seasonal shift can make one notice other kinds of structures in daily life, including those we rarely question.

The trains are crowded after the long weekend. It is slightly uncomfortable, but we tend to accept it by telling ourselves that “everyone is the same.” Yet that phrase deserves scrutiny. When we say “everyone,” we usually mean ordinary workers. But even among workers, there are differences—blue-collar and white-collar, those who commute by train and those who do not. The experience of crowded trains cannot be universalized so easily.

Yesterday was the Emperor’s Birthday. As ordinary citizens, we were granted a public holiday. I remember when the current Emperor was known as Crown Prince Naruhito; having followed the news over the years, I have felt a certain familiarity. And yet, watching the images of the official banquet, I was reminded of the considerable distance that exists.

As children, we wore similar shorts and might have seemed not so different. But seeing the rows of dishes at a state banquet makes one aware of another world entirely—one that continues to exist alongside ours. There are those who stand at its center, and those who support it.

Japan has a world of ceremony and splendor that continues through generations. It exists as a system, sustained not only by tradition but also by cultural and economic structures. There are undoubtedly many people for whom its continuation matters.

Is this disparity, or is it tradition? I am not sure. If it is to endure as an institution, then its place should be clearly articulated in legal and constitutional terms, so that discussion does not drift into emotional reaction alone.

At the same time, we must ask what such an institution is meant to protect. That question is neither simple nor easily answered.

 

At Last, the Olympics Are Over

 The Milano–Cortina Winter Olympics have finally come to an end. Watching the endless white landscapes and navigating the complexities of judged events left me more fatigued than exhilarated. And yet, amid the confusion and skepticism, there were moments that quietly moved me.

The repetition of snow-covered scenery eventually became overwhelming. Most events were individual competitions, and many were judged sports whose scoring systems were difficult to grasp. Often, it was only after commentators explained the results that I understood what had happened. That, perhaps, diminished some of the excitement.

 

In the past, ski jumping seemed simpler. Distance mattered most. Athletes like Matti Nykänen flew without fuss over style points. Now, sports like snowboarding—astonishing as they are—unfold in sequences of movements almost beyond imagination. Rotations are counted in multiples of 180 degrees, but trying to calculate them in real time while listening to the announcer is a losing battle.

Still, figure skating brought genuine emotion. Seeing Riku Miura and Ryuichi Kihara in tears moved me more than I expected. Even watching the highlights later, I found myself quietly tearing up again.

Akito Watabe’s final run in Nordic combined was also memorable, though the trouble he encountered was unfortunate. The discipline itself is said to be facing an existential crisis. If popularity becomes the sole criterion for survival, what will happen to traditional events? Once removed, revival is unlikely.

For young athletes who have devoted their lives to sport, the difference between winning a medal and falling short can shape the course of their futures. I am not entirely sure whether sport carries such intrinsic value. Yet a life committed so fully to a single pursuit deserves respect.

To those who earned medals, and to those who did not—well done.

 

Early Spring, Already? — A February Wind in Kamakura

 A strong southern wind swept through Kamakura today. While western Japan has already officially declared the first spring wind, Kanto is still waiting. Yet the air already feels like spring.

 

In Kamakura, a strong southern wind was blowing, and my wife and I wondered if it might be the season’s first spring wind. News reports said that Kyushu and the Chugoku–Shikoku regions had already officially declared haru ichiban, the first spring gale of the year. Apparently, the designation depends on the meteorological observatory. When will it be Kanto’s turn?

If it blows again tomorrow, perhaps that will settle it.

Still, it is only February, and yet it already feels unmistakably warm. This mild air seems to have spread across the country. In northern regions, the rapid snowmelt must be causing its own difficulties.

More than the first spring wind, what concerns me is pollen. Cedar pollen is said to peak about a month from now. The thought is slightly depressing.

It was a warm holiday weekend.
A walk with Anne.
A bit of gardening.
A day that felt like borrowing time from a later season.

Or perhaps this is no borrowed warmth at all.
Perhaps late February has simply become this way.

Is Japan Becoming Poorer?

 Though spring has been said to be arriving, the warmth hasn’t fully come yet. On a recent walk, I didn’t even need my down jacket—just a leather jacket was enough. Yet, as I took in the mild weather, my mind kept drifting back to news about Japan’s economic challenges. It made me wonder: are we really becoming poorer as a nation?

 

The other day, I read that a U.S. Federal Court ruled former President Trump’s tariff policy was beyond the scope of presidential authority. How this decision will affect Japan is still unclear, but it seems inevitable that we will push forward with massive investments—perhaps as much as ¥80 trillion—to respond to global economic shifts.

Last night, I saw a report stating that the real value of the yen has fallen to one-third of its peak. That was discouraging to hear. When the currency weakens, the cost of imports rises, squeezing everyday life. At the same time, individual assets—once thought to be enough to cover the nation’s debt—are also losing value in real terms. The thought that we might be “stripped even further” in an already difficult situation brought a quiet sadness.

For a long time, I believed Japan was still a wealthy country. But when I consider the lived experience of ordinary people—the hidden inflation, the pressures on savings and investment—it feels like that assumption may no longer hold.

Is Japan truly becoming poorer? Or are we simply confronting deeper structural challenges that we have ignored for too long?

 

How to Make the Most of the Natural Fit Between AI and Medicine

 The cold seems to end today, and spring feels close. When I checked the old Japanese calendar, I noticed we are now in Usui—the season when snow turns to rain and the thaw begins.

 

In yesterday’s morning newspaper, I read that part of cytology screening may soon be performed by AI.

My wife, who had read the same article, asked me, “So… will AI take over your work in pathology?”

I told her, “Cytology and surgical pathology aren’t the same, so that’s still some way off. But I can imagine us moving in that direction.”

Fields with a strong morphological component—radiology and pathology, for example—often match what AI does well. When I asked an AI about this, I got an interesting suggestion: pathologists might use AI less to confirm whether the diagnosis is correct and more to check whether anything has been missed in the differential diagnosis.

In oncology, genetic testing has already become central in many settings. If rapid, comprehensive genomic analysis becomes routine, it’s possible that the act of “diagnosing the cancer itself” may no longer require a pathologist in the way it does today. Still, I suspect the final evaluation and judgment—the part that carries responsibility—will remain a human task for quite a while.

Evidence-based medicine has aimed to reduce the personal variability of medical practice and to place scientific evidence at the forefront. In that sense, AI-driven diagnostic support can be seen as an extension of that trajectory.

More areas of medicine may be replaced or reshaped by AI than we currently expect. As personal variability fades, diagnostic processes may become increasingly standardized through algorithms with a certain degree of objectivity. From interviews and test data, AI can generate comprehensive diagnostic candidates and suggest treatment options that are close to optimal.

If that happens, the roles within clinical teams may be reorganized—especially in domains where procedures are not the main work. Even in psychiatry, diagnostic support based on conversation data will likely advance.

As for me, I already rely on AI knowledge as an aid in my diagnostic work more often than I would have imagined a few years ago. It reduces the risk of careless omissions, and that reassurance is real.

Not long ago, a senior pathologist I’m close to said, “Pathology has about twenty years left.” I don’t think he meant that pathology will simply disappear. I think he meant that in twenty years, the technology and the workflow we call “pathology” may look completely different from what we practice today.

In some areas, AI has already surpassed human ability by a wide margin. Even so, AI is still a tool. And how we choose to use it—how we integrate it into our judgment and our responsibility—will shape what each medical field becomes.

An Election Is Not a Vent for Discontent

 The Second Takaichi Cabinet—what some are calling “Takaichi 2.0”—has begun.
With every minister reappointed, the message was unmistakable: continuity, confidence, and freedom from factional compromise.

 

The images of the Prime Minister visiting each parliamentary group were striking. Her expression was confident. The press conference was clear in language and clear in meaning, delivered in a soft and composed tone that left a favorable impression.

The election itself seemed to ask a simple question: “Am I the right person to remain Prime Minister?”
It may have been a straightforward question, but it was an important one. Winning an absolute and stable majority was likely the intended outcome—and it was achieved.

It is said that during this general election, the Liberal Democratic Party refrained from attacking other parties. Instead of speeches that diminish opponents—“Is this really acceptable?”—the focus appeared to be on articulating what they themselves aimed to accomplish.

What can we do?
What are we prepared to take responsibility for?

Without answering those questions, no campaign can succeed. Merely declaring that others are wrong does not expand support. That simple truth seemed to be reaffirmed in this election.

It was, in many ways, a revelation: an election is not a vent for dissatisfaction.

As for myself, I cannot help but ask whether continuing my usual pattern of voting was the right choice.

Still, a result is a result. For now, there is little to do but place expectations on this cabinet. I cannot yet specify what those expectations are. Yet observing the administration quickly propose various policies, one can at least say that it appears willing to act.

At the same time, something else caught my attention. In the footage of meetings with other parliamentary groups, the expressions of centrist politicians seemed tense—perhaps even unsettled.

If they fail to adjust their course, they risk losing their presence as a constructive opposition.

When a governing party is strong, the role of a healthy opposition becomes even more essential.