New Fiscal Year, A New Start in a New Workplace

In Japan, April marks the beginning of a new fiscal year—a time when many people start over in new workplaces. It is a different kind of “new beginning” from the New Year, quieter but no less significant.

 

Some time ago, the term “highly sensitive person” became something of a trend. It refers to individuals with a particularly strong sensitivity and responsiveness to their surroundings, and it is often said that about one in five people falls into this category.

Yet, things are not so simple. Some people may not appear sensitive at all but actually are, while others who seem sensitive may not be so in reality. Sensitivity, like many human traits, does not have a clear boundary. Rather, it exists along a continuum—a kind of gradient.

Moreover, what one is sensitive to differs from person to person. For that reason, it is difficult, if not impossible, to define precisely who is sensitive and to what degree.

With the start of the new fiscal year, many people begin life in new workplaces. Quite a number of new faces have joined my own workplace as well. Some have changed jobs, each for their own reasons.

Looking back on my own career, I realize that I have rarely moved positions out of a strong personal desire. That said, neither have I been entirely carried along against my will. In the end, I have simply managed to keep going.

Perhaps those in charge believe that I am placed where I fit best. At the same time, they must also know that there are always others who might be more capable. Human ability, too, exists on a gradient, without clear lines of division. Whether someone is “well-suited” for a role is not a fixed judgment, but something that depends on context.

Talent and temperament cannot be neatly defined. That is precisely why a stumble or two should not be cause for discouragement. One can simply pause, reconsider, and move forward in a different way.

This applies not only to those embarking on a new chapter, but also to someone like myself. Even now, I would like to begin this new fiscal year with that same quiet sense of resolve.

 

A new start does not belong only to the young. 

 

 

Every Day Feels Like April Fool’s

A quiet morning walk under cherry blossoms turns into a reflection on how “jokes” are no longer just jokes.

It was sunny in the morning.

We had already decided the night before to walk along Dankazura to see the cherry blossoms, so my wife—free from making lunch—woke up slowly and without hurry.

Anne, who hadn’t been able to go outside much because of the rain, seemed full of pent-up frustration and walked energetically.

A flat-coated retriever without energy would be worrying, so seeing her lively like this this morning felt just right—and comforting.

 

Today is April Fool’s Day.

As we grow older, we come to understand that even lies and jokes have boundaries—things that are acceptable, and things that are not.

But these days, what once would have been dismissed as a joke has become reality, and that feels strangely empty.

We live in a time when words like “Aliens will invade the Earth tomorrow,” once clearly absurd, are given a disturbing sense of reality—not by aliens, but by humans themselves.

And no one seems to have a way to stop it.

Before we knew it, we lost even the space to think of clever April Fool’s jokes. The world has become one where anything goes.

How long can we, as Japanese, continue to look away from reality?

 

Starting today, the prices of over 2,000 food items are said to rise.

Even that number sounds like an April Fool’s joke—but it is not.

Between a world damaged by nuclear weapons and one taken over by aliens, I am no longer sure which would be the better outcome.

It may no longer be a joke to say that this year’s cherry blossoms could be the last we ever see.

 

When reality begins to feel like a bad joke, even April Fool’s Day loses its meaning. 

Cherry Blossoms and a Dark World

 I decided to skip my usual lunch today and instead take a short cherry blossom walk on my way to the station, accompanied by my wife and Anne. With rain forecast for the next few days, it may well be the kind of rain that scatters the blossoms.

 

Cherry blossoms are, without question, both beautiful and fleeting.

Even though I remind myself of this every year, once the petals are gone, I seem to forget it all over again.

As we approached the second torii gate along the dankazura of Tsurugaoka Hachimangu, I began to feel raindrops on my cheek. I wondered whether my wife and Anne made it home without getting too wet.

 

The situation in the Middle East remains uncertain.

There was a time when U.S. intervention could bring a certain level of resolution, but today conflicts have grown far more complex, and quick conclusions are no longer possible.

Information flows from all sides, yet what is true is difficult to discern.

Thousands of lives have already been lost in Iran. These are lives that should never have been lost.

The same tragedy continues in Ukraine and Gaza.

Perhaps those we call “leaders” do not act solely out of their own will.

Various forces accumulate, becoming a pressure that is ultimately impossible to resist, leading to the final decision.

Whatever name we give to that structure, similar forces seem to exist everywhere, each moving in pursuit of its own interests.

And yet, the weight of the lives lost behind all of this is immeasurable.

Thinking about it, I cannot help but feel how difficult it is for human beings to make truly independent decisions.

At times, I even find myself wondering whether it might be better to entrust such decisions to something other than humans. But, of course, things are not so simple.

 

If only we could live like cherry blossoms—simply blooming, and simply falling.

But reality is not that simple.

Watching the first petals begin to scatter, I find myself feeling a quiet, lingering sadness.

 Even in full bloom, the world does not feel entirely bright.

New Season, Quiet Hope

 After a clear and sunny day yesterday, rain fell overnight, leaving a misty morning that feels like a quiet reset.

 

In contrast to yesterday’s bright daytime weather, it rained during the night, and this morning is wrapped in mist.

With the temperature already high, the rain feels like a welcome touch—just enough to refresh the air. It must have washed away the pollen as well.

It seems that the cedar pollen season is finally coming to an end. I have never checked formally, but I do not appear to have a cypress allergy, so I am hoping this marks the end of this year’s pollen troubles.

The fiscal year will end in just a day or two.

Yesterday, I hosted friends for a cherry blossom gathering, and while a bit of pleasant fatigue lingers, it was a refreshing break.

In any case, the end of pollen season is something to be grateful for.

A new fiscal year is about to begin.

The news has already begun to reflect changes in personnel, and there will likely be many shifts in roles in the days ahead.

Farewells are always a little sad, but new encounters bring their own quiet anticipation.

 

Between endings and beginnings, the air itself seems to change. 

Welcoming Old Friends

 A clear spring day in Kamakura, perfect for cherry blossom viewing.

 

It had been a long time since we last invited guests to our home.

Before the pandemic, we used to do this from time to time, but those opportunities had quietly disappeared.

We walked together from the station, stopping by a few well-known spots to enjoy the blossoms, and then made our way home at an easy pace. There, we shared the wine and snacks everyone had kindly brought, and spent the afternoon in relaxed conversation.

 

Our guests were not current members of our department, but former colleagues—senior and junior alike—from the pathology world. In other words, a group of familiar faces, and, perhaps more accurately, a group of rather strong drinkers.

Some are now busy as university professors, while others have stepped away from full-time work and are taking life more slowly. Each has chosen a different path.

Even so, having all once chosen the rather specialized field of pathology, conversation flowed naturally, and time seemed to pass almost too quickly.

Before we realized it, evening had fallen. We walked them back to the station, enjoying the night blossoms along the way.

Spending such a gentle time with gentle people, I found myself quietly feeling that this, too, is a kind of happiness.

 

A quiet gathering can sometimes say more than a celebration. 

Peace behind cherry blossoms

It was cloudy in the morning, but the sky soon cleared.
The cherry blossoms along Dankazura at Tsurugaoka Hachimangu Shrine have begun to open beautifully.

 

People are out in large numbers, enjoying the blossoms.
This is what a perfect day for cherry blossom viewing looks like.

And yet, in many people’s minds, there lingers the news of the U.S.–Israel invasion of Iran and the resulting energy crisis.

As long as reserves remain, a sense of calm may be maintained.
But how those reserves will be allocated is far from clear.

At least for now, electricity may be sustained by the temporary return to coal-fired power.
However, concerns remain about the availability of materials for various industrial products.

War, by its very nature, takes human lives.
No matter the justification, it is difficult to see any true cause that can legitimize it.

Those directly involved may each have their own reasoning.
Even so, it is hard to believe that this particular war carries any real justification.

A war without a visible exit strategy cannot possibly claim a meaningful purpose.
Seen this way, the loss of so many lives feels not only tragic, but profoundly futile.

Unlike cherry blossoms, human beings have only a few moments in life when they truly shine.
Those who have lost their lives in this conflict have lost those moments forever.

Can such a thing truly be acceptable?

Was there no one who could have stopped the outbreak of war?
It begins to feel as though those surrounding the decision-makers were merely yes-men.

If such people are steering the course of a leading nation,
then even the peaceful scene of cherry blossoms in Japan begins to feel fragile—almost like a facade.

 

Peace, like cherry blossoms, may be more fragile than it appears. 

 

Time and Cherry Blossoms

 After days of unsettled weather, the rain finally stopped. I took a morning walk along Dankazura at Tsurugaoka Hachimangu, enjoying the early cherry blossoms.

 

The cherry blossoms in Kamakura are about half in bloom now. They will likely reach full bloom all at once by this weekend. With friends coming over the day after tomorrow, the timing could not be better.

Today is March 27.
It feels early—too early.

Even if I feel rushed realizing that a quarter of the year has already passed, it does not mean that time itself is moving any faster. The cherry blossoms are proof of that. Human time does not run ahead of nature; it is only our perception that accelerates.

People often say that time feels faster as we grow older. That may be true, and there are studies that support this idea. But in the end, it remains a matter of individual perception. Time itself does not shorten equally for everyone with age.

Cherry blossoms reliably bloom between mid- and late March. Since Somei Yoshino trees are clones, they serve as a consistent marker of the seasons. At least, it is not the case that this year alone has suddenly accelerated.

If the seasons were truly speeding up, it would mean that all cherry trees share that shortened time. But human experience does not follow such a simple rule.

Thinking about this slightly cumbersome idea, I glance at the cherry blossoms visible from the train window on my commute.

In Tokyo, the cherry blossoms are said to reach full bloom today, just a little ahead.

They may not measure time with the precision of a quartz clock. But perhaps time itself was never meant to be that exact.

Time may feel faster, but nature keeps its own steady pace.

 

Human society is endlessly troublesome

Are conflicts between people an inherent trait of being human? And if so, what kind of desires give rise to them?

 

Various desires amplify themselves in the pursuit of fulfillment, and people find it difficult to resist satisfying them.

If something can be achieved through individual effort, it does not necessarily trouble others. However, when it cannot be done alone, people gather allies, form groups, and end up exerting pressure on others.

Troubles arise not only between individuals but also between groups. Regardless of age or scale, why do such complications persist? And yet, however troublesome they may be, we cannot simply abandon them.

Around the world, wars and conflicts continue without end. We cannot afford to treat them as distant events. All phenomena are interconnected, and eventually their effects reach us as well.

It is difficult to specify in what form, but one way or another, complications will arise.

With complications come worries.
And yet, even the word “worry” itself is not easy to define.

Recently, I find myself wondering why human beings are such troublesome creatures. Even a good person represents only one aspect; from another perspective, they may appear less so—perhaps not evil, but simply human.

All of these complications are, in the end, things that humans create for themselves.

If it were possible not to create such “troubles” at all, that would have to be the work of a god.

But even gods, it seems, have their own divisions of responsibility.
And so, even they are not quite as omnipotent as one might expect.

 

Perhaps trouble is simply the price we pay for being human. 

All Living Beings Are Bound by Inequality

There are reports that, in connection with the issue of exploitative host clubs, the framework of Japan’s Anti-Prostitution Law is once again being discussed. In these discussions, not only those who sell, but also those who buy are said to bear responsibility.

I do not intend here to debate the morality of prostitution itself. It has been described as a profession older than spies or politicians, and in that sense, with a history spanning thousands of years, it may be considered a fundamental human occupation.

 

What seems more important is to consider why individuals come to engage in prostitution in the first place.

The same applies to so-called “tokuryū” groups—loosely organized, fluid criminal networks. Without examining why people come to involve themselves in crime, meaningful discussion is not possible.

In various court cases, the backgrounds of offenders are often brought into consideration. Frequently mentioned are poverty and a lack of parental affection. In the recent news as well, there was a woman who explained that, driven by emotional deprivation, she began visiting host clubs and eventually engaged in prostitution to finance it.

Encounters with such stories bring a clear realization of how unequal human society is. Some are born into wealth, able to pursue education and personal interests freely, growing up in comfort, while others are not.

This may seem unjust, yet it is equally true that complete equality is unattainable. Place of birth, skin color, physique, appearance—there are countless factors that differentiate individuals, and these differences can never be entirely erased.

This is not limited to humans. In the animal world, females select males to pass on stronger genes, and offspring from such pairings are more likely to survive. Even what we call biodiversity ultimately follows such principles.

All living beings, in essence, exist within a framework of inherent unfairness.

The Oil Crisis Behind Our Ordinary Lives

Looking around, I realize how much of what surrounds us is made from petroleum. Even everyday plastic items remind me of how deeply oil is embedded in our lives.

 

If everything marked with a recycling symbol is ultimately derived from oil, then I cannot help wondering what would happen if that supply were to stop. It is difficult to even imagine how we would manage.

And yet, despite this growing concern, daily life still appears calm. The news, of course, leads with tensions in the Middle East, but it is filled with many other topics as well. Listening to these “other stories,” I sometimes feel as if we are deliberately looking away from what may be a far more immediate threat.

Of course, there is little point in endlessly reporting a stagnant situation, and discussions about national budgets and policies are necessary. All events in the world are interconnected, and none can be entirely separated from the others. Still, the steady flow of ordinary news makes me wonder whether we are avoiding facing the crisis directly.

During the COVID-19 pandemic, the concept of “normalcy bias” became widely discussed—the tendency to believe that things will remain as they are, and that we ourselves will be unaffected. Perhaps now, we are doing something similar, treating the issue of oil as distant and unrelated to our own lives. But that may no longer be tenable.

If oil were to stop flowing into Japan, we would inevitably be forced into a life of scarcity. What that would look like is hard to say. Perhaps it would resemble Japan at the time of my birth, or even the period immediately after the war.

In any case, we may be entering a time when we must face the possibility of a poorer future—and prepare ourselves for it.

 

Perhaps the question is no longer whether it will happen, but whether we are ready for it. 

 

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.