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.

 

Time Is Filled: Reflections on Deadlines, Density, and the Flow of Work

 With several deadlines approaching and a lecture recording ahead, I find myself thinking less about busyness and more about time itself. We often speak of “having” or “losing” time, as if it were something that could be stored or reclaimed. But perhaps time is never empty to begin with.

 

Last week was taken up by rehearsal presentations, a CPC session, and a research meeting. For the moment, nothing physically binds my schedule, and that brings a certain relief.

Yet three deadlines await me in early March. Beneath the surface calm, the current is already moving quickly.

In daily diagnostic work, the time required for a case can be roughly estimated. A slide under the microscope will eventually yield its answer within a predictable span. Writing, however, resists such measurement. Thought has no clear boundary; one never knows how deep it must go before reaching solid ground.

This time I must also record a thirty-minute lecture for online distribution. The duration is fixed, but the rhythm of speech, the pauses, the tone—these reveal themselves only when spoken aloud. Time, though equal in length, stretches and contracts depending on how it is inhabited.

There is also a revised manuscript to complete. Revision is not merely correction; it is the act of placing one’s present self beside one’s past words. Tools—especially intelligent ones—may assist. Yet if thinking itself is delegated, the outline of the thinker gradually fades.

How much time should be given to each task? One may try to calculate, but in the end decisions seem to settle within the flow itself.

Come to think of it, time is always filled.

Time spent diagnosing.
Time spent writing.
Time spent traveling.
Time spent sleeping.

Even what appears empty is occupied by something—attention, memory, anticipation, fatigue. Time neither overflows nor runs dry. It cannot be stored for later, nor borrowed in advance.

The only freedom we possess is to decide what shall inhabit the present moment.

Time itself has no density. Density is given by what we place within it—our thought, our action, our intention.

The current moves on, steady and indifferent. Meaning does not arise from time. It arises from how we dwell within it.

Time is already filled.

What remains is to choose its contents.

And so, I return to my work.

Two Skaters Who Believed in Themselves and Saw It Through

At the Milano Cortina 2026 Japan’s pair skating team known as “RikuRyu” — Riku Miura and Ryuichi Kihara — overcame a short program setback to capture the gold medal.　What stood out most was not simply the comeback, but the quiet strength of two athletes who trusted their own work until the very end.

 

I had heard their free skate would begin around six in the morning, so I woke up a little early and waited while getting ready for the day.
Just as I started brewing coffee, their program began.

Even through the television screen, the beauty and completeness of their skating were unmistakable.
It was refined, composed, and deeply controlled.
Before long, I was no longer thinking about rankings. I was simply absorbed.

The pairs who followed were also excellent.
Yet none reached the level “RikuRyu” had just shown.

The Olympic stage is often described as a place inhabited by demons — where even overwhelming strength can be undone by the smallest mistake.
And yet they delivered an almost flawless free skate and achieved a dramatic comeback.

With five pairs ahead of them, it would have been natural to feel the gold medal slipping away.
Perhaps they stopped thinking about standings altogether and focused only on skating the program they had worked toward for years.

“Results will follow.”
Maybe that was their mindset.

But it was not resignation.
It was simply belief — belief in the strength they had built through steady effort.

In recent years, I have found myself less easily moved by sports.
But today was different.
My wife and I both found ourselves quietly in tears.

After the short program, I remember how Miura gently comforted Kihara.
Yet what stayed with me even more was the moment after their victory was confirmed — Kihara in tears, and Miura looking at him with a small, slightly exasperated smile, as if to say, “What am I going to do with you?”

Knowing the long struggles Kihara has endured, that scene made me especially happy.

Congratulations, RikuRyu.
And thank you for the inspiration.

Many Kinds of “Cancer” — On International Childhood Cancer Day

Watching the news the other day, I noticed several reports about cancer.
One of them focused on International Childhood Cancer Day.

It reminded me not only of the statistics and medical progress we speak about today, but also of a memory from my own childhood—when I first heard a word I did not yet understand: “brain tumor.”

 

While watching the news on NHK, I noticed several topics related to cancer. One of them was International Childhood Cancer Day.

Childhood cancer refers to malignant tumors that occur in children under the age of 15. These include hematologic diseases such as leukemia, as well as solid tumors arising in the brain, adrenal glands, reproductive organs, and other sites. In Japan, approximately 2,000 children are diagnosed each year.

I still remember a classmate from my first year of elementary school. During recess, he suddenly developed a nosebleed in front of us. He was later diagnosed with a brain tumor and eventually passed away.

It was the first time I heard the word “no-shuyo”—brain tumor. At the time, I had no real understanding of what it meant.

International Childhood Cancer Day aims to raise public awareness about childhood cancer.

Adults, to some extent, can seek medical care on their own and participate in decisions about treatment. Children cannot. After onset, they can do nothing by themselves. Some are too young even to understand their illness. That is why the burden on parents is so heavy, and why society as a whole must support both patients and their families.

I have spent decades working as a pediatric pathologist.

Today, I understand that the word I once heard as “no-shuyo” meant “brain tumor,” and that this single term encompasses many different types of neoplasms.

Like adult cancers, pediatric cancers are remarkably diverse. Yet each individual tumor type is rare. Some are so uncommon that one might encounter them only once in a lifetime.

Diversity and rarity coexist—an almost paradoxical world.

Pediatric oncologists must study continuously in order to tailor treatment to each individual case. Watching their dedication, I cannot help but feel deep respect.

Children should live longer than adults. Protecting that time is, I believe, our responsibility as adults.

Meanwhile, according to a summary released by Ministry of Health, Labour and Welfare, five-year survival rates for patients diagnosed with cancer in 2018 have improved for pancreatic cancer, multiple myeloma, and lung cancer among those aged 15 and older.

Pancreatic cancer, in particular, remains one of the most aggressive malignancies. A friend of mine, the same age as I am, lost his life to it. Despite therapeutic advances, cancer remains a serious and deeply personal disease.

Cancer is a condition in which part of one’s own body chooses an independent path of growth. It is difficult to prevent entirely.

Traditionally, surgical removal has been the primary approach. Today, however, targeted therapies and immunotherapies are increasingly capable of attacking tumors at the molecular level.

Alongside rapid advances in artificial intelligence, both diagnosis and treatment will likely change dramatically in the years ahead.

As pediatric pathologists, we too must make use of AI-assisted diagnostics and continue seeking better, more clinically meaningful diagnoses that truly benefit patients.