Notice

 I’ll be taking a short break from the blog.

The Growing Number of People Without Restraint — and the Limits of Deterrence

Another rainy day, and the soreness in my throat eases slightly.
The cycle of irritation and coughing continues, softened only a little by a mask that can do no more than it already does.

This morning, a news story caught my attention — yet another reminder that restraint, once taken for granted, may no longer be working as it should.

 

A news report described a public prosecutor with a wife and children who pretended to be single on a dating app and was subsequently sued by the woman he deceived.
I recalled seeing similar stories not long ago. These incidents are likely only the tip of the iceberg.

I feel sympathy for the woman involved.

Because these interactions take place online, such behavior is technically possible.
Still, one would expect common sense or conscience to intervene and act as a brake.
Yet those internal restraints seem to have stopped functioning.

The same applies to the groups of teachers arrested last year for voyeuristic crimes.
When did society begin to look like this?

Imagination and fantasy are essential human capacities.
They have given rise to countless works of literature and driven the development of philosophy and many other fields.
Thinking, “I could do this, couldn’t I?” is not a crime in itself.

But once such thoughts are carried out in the real world — once they are directed physically toward another person — they become a crime.

Only ten years ago, before smartphones and apps became so sophisticated, carrying out such acts was physically extremely difficult.
Today, with a little ingenuity and ill-intended cleverness, they can be done all too easily.

Society cannot keep pace with technological progress quickly enough to suppress these acts — or rather, these crimes.

Of course, the removal of obstacles does not mean that anything is permissible.
Such behavior must be restrained, and ultimately, the only force capable of doing so is human conscience itself.

Yet in an age that values diversity, even the concept of conscience varies widely.
It cannot be uniformly defined, which makes the problem all the more difficult.

And it is certainly naïve to believe that saying “things were better in the past” offers any real solution.

Friendships Since I Came Here

Since moving to Hatena Blog, I have gradually formed new friendships while carrying traces of those I once had elsewhere.
Some connections have deepened through quiet encouragement, while others have faded through differences that could not be bridged.
This is a reflection on what it means to build—and sometimes let go of—relationships in a digital space.

It has been more than six months since I moved to Hatena Blog, and I am gradually realizing how different it feels from Goo Blog, where I used to write.

Goo Blog has already disappeared, and now there is no way to look back and recall what kind of place it really was.

Even so, many of us who moved from there have remained connected as friends, and little by little, I have also made new ones.

There are many recommended blogs, and when I come across something that genuinely interests me, I read it carefully. If it resonates with me, I register the writer as a friend and add them to my circle.

Perhaps because there are many younger bloggers here, I do sense a difference in atmosphere—but that is only natural.

 

Blog friends are something to be truly grateful for.
They read my daily posts and sometimes leave comments that show they understand me even better than I understand myself.

They are also considerate about my physical condition and how things are going at work. At such times, I feel deep gratitude.

Yesterday, I was surprised to receive a sudden message from a blog friend with whom I had parted ways some time ago.

Here is an article from that time.

    

Differences in Ways of Thinking, and Letting Go
— A Digitalized Society

The other day, I left a comment on an entry written by a blog friend who had appeared several times in this blog before. In response, I was harshly criticized.

It was not quite a denial of my character, but rather sharp words suggesting that the world I had lived in was different from theirs, and that my approach to blogging was naïve. The language was pointed enough to leave me deeply discouraged.

What I write on this blog is entirely my own choice. That freedom is precisely what defines this space. I also do not expect, nor can I know, what readers think about what I write, or how they should feel about it.

Even so, being attacked is painful and disappointing. And this was not the first time—it was the second.

Understanding one another is difficult. No two people grow up in exactly the same environment. Trying to bridge that gap can sometimes be meaningful, even enjoyable. But when one is abruptly dismissed, all that remains is a sense of loss.

Perhaps, being someone who values solitude, they disliked the fact that I occasionally left comments on their blog. I never intended to fully explain myself or to be understood, but after being spoken to in such a way, I decided to let it go and bring our interaction to an end.

I never imagined I would encounter the word resignation—or perhaps acceptance—in a place like this.

Rather than stopping this blog altogether…

 

Back then as well, it was encouragement from blog friends that gave me the motivation to keep writing. Looking back, I am glad I did not stop.

At one point, I felt as though I was being tightly controlled, but with the closure of Goo Blog, I now feel as if I am walking a “second life” here on Hatena Blog.

 

If one underestimates the online world simply because it is virtual, it is easy to get hurt unexpectedly, so caution is necessary.

Whether I contact that person again depends on whether I ever feel like reading their blog. At the moment, I do not.

For now, I am surrounded each day by friends I feel close to, and I spend my days in a fairly good and enjoyable state of mind.

 

 

When I Realized I Was No Longer Being Encouraged

 At a recent conference, I found myself offering words of encouragement to younger doctors—simple phrases like “Do your best” or “Have you tried this approach?”
It was only afterward that I realized something quietly unsettling: no one says those words to me anymore.

 

At a recent conference, I spoke with several younger doctors I have worked with and found myself saying things like,
“Do your best,” or, “Have you thought about doing it this way?”
They were words of encouragement, or perhaps advice.

Then it occurred to me that, at some point along the way, people had stopped saying such things to me.

There is no one left who encourages or cheers me on—
at least, not in my professional life.

Of course, my children still say, “Please stay healthy.”
But that belongs to a different dimension altogether.

When I think about it that way, it feels surprisingly lonely.

When I was younger, if someone said, “Do your best,”
I would reply without much thought,
“Yes, I will.”

But did I truly do my best?

Right after hearing those words, I would usually find some direction, and for a while I probably did “try hard” in my own way.
But how long did that effort really last?
That is less certain.

Those words of encouragement were, in effect, expectations.
Whether or not I lived up to them has accumulated into who I am today.
And in the end, the evaluation of those results is made by others.

Seen from that perspective, politicians are interesting figures: even at an advanced age, they continue to be “expected” to perform.

Of course, much of that expectation is tied to personal gain and outcomes,
and is directed more toward results than toward the individual themselves.

Even so, just because others no longer place expectations on me does not mean I must stop expecting something of myself.

For now, at least,
I will have to keep encouraging myself
as I go on living.

Just One More Week This Year

 The warmth from yesterday’s unseasonable weather still lingered this morning. It did not feel especially cold, though winter is said to be returning soon. With the year nearing its end, both the atmosphere and my thoughts feel suspended between rest and reality.

 

Some of yesterday’s unseasonable warmth seemed to remain, and this morning was not particularly cold, though winter is said to be returning.
The wind, however, was blowing strongly.

It seems that students have already started their winter break, making transfers at the station noticeably easier.
Here and there, a few students in uniform can still be seen—perhaps club activities, or perhaps university entrance exam preparation.

According to the calendar, this year offers a long year-end and New Year holiday.
There was a time when I was effectively on call 365 days a year, responding whenever something arose, but little by little, I stopped living that way.

It is not that clinicians have changed what they expect from pathologists. Rather, this shift reflects changes in working styles driven by the small number of pathologists available.
For laboratory technologists who assist us, being on standby in addition to routine night and weekend duties places a considerable burden on them.

In that sense, if I can get through this one week, a long winter break awaits.

Although I have made plans for once, my physical condition has been poor, and my mind has struggled to shift into the right mode.
Even so, this week is packed with appointments, and it does not seem possible to take time off for minor ailments.

I will do my best and get through it.

Tokyo’s Subway Is a “Anywhere Door”

 A friend who is planning to travel to Kyoto recently mentioned how affordable accommodation there has become.
What followed was a small but telling realization about travel, transportation, and how visitors experience Japan today.

 

A friend of mine, who is planning to travel to Kyoto, told me that hotel prices there have dropped significantly and that it was a real relief.

“This is thanks to Takai-san,”
they said.

It seems that accommodation costs across Japan have come down, making travel easier for Japanese people as well.
That can only be a good thing.

Yesterday, I had an errand in central Tokyo and took the subway.

Despite the crowded train, a woman was sitting with her legs crossed.
Curious, I looked at her face—she was a foreigner.

Looking around, I realized that most of the passengers were foreigners.
I searched for Japanese faces, but there didn’t seem to be any.

Saturday afternoon subways used to be relatively quiet.
Now, they have become a major mode of transportation for foreign tourists.

Subways are often thought of as dark and potentially unsafe, but Japanese subways are bright and feel unquestionably safe.
And trains arrive one after another without pause.

With a one-day pass, you can go anywhere—Ginza, Asakusa, Shinjuku, Shibuya—like using a “Anywhere Door,” moving freely in all directions.
It might even be easier than taking a sightseeing bus.

If so, why wouldn’t you use it?

Japan has become poor?
Let people say that if they want.
If they don’t want to come, they don’t have to.

Too Many Abstracts Are a Problem — Too Few Are an Even Bigger One

 I headed into Tokyo for a regional academic meeting.
My cold has been lingering, and the sky looked as unenthusiastic as I felt.

 

There was a regional academic meeting in Tokyo.
My physical condition has been fluctuating because of a cold, and the gloomy sky, with rain expected at night, did little to help.

Still, a junior colleague of mine is serving as the meeting chair, and as a senior, I could hardly skip it.
I was also curious to see the younger doctors I had once sent to work under him.

Looking through the program, I noticed many familiar names.
It seemed likely that the chair had personally asked acquaintances to submit presentations.

Academic meetings are troublesome things.
Too many abstracts create their own problems, but having too few is an even bigger one.

If they are that much trouble, perhaps academic meetings should not exist at all.
But as places for learning and exchange among members, they cannot be easily abandoned.

Thinking about all this, I found myself acknowledging how demanding it must be,
while quietly looking forward to the post-meeting reception.

Fighting a Cold and Looking Ahead

 As winter deepens and the air grows drier, my body is still struggling to fully recover from a lingering cold. While the worst seems to have passed, the process of recovery takes time—especially at this age.

 

Although temperatures have risen and fallen, they are steadily moving toward true winter cold. I hope that by the time we pass the winter solstice, my body will have adapted to it.

The cold I caught recently has been slow to resolve. I first noticed a sore throat the day after my younger brother’s funeral, and it gradually worsened. The sharp pain has now subsided, and the mucosa seems to be repairing itself. Physically, I feel I have passed the worst point.

Dry air and stress likely damaged the mucosal lining, allowing bacteria to trigger inflammation. Macrophages and neutrophils led the initial response, while nearby lymph nodes recognized the disturbance and expanded their lymphocyte populations, resulting in swelling. As inflammatory cells gained the upper hand locally, the mucosa healed and the pain eased.

This is the phase of post-conflict cleanup. Lymphocytes—the peacekeeping forces—are now arriving in an organized manner. It is what we call acute bronchitis: small skirmishes may still be occurring here and there, so it is not unusual for recovery to take time, and the cleanup must proceed carefully.

Recovery requires stamina. Advertisements often suggest that taking cold medicine and sleeping for one night will bring quick relief. That may be true for someone in their twenties, but for a man over sixty, immune responses do not work so swiftly.

Enhancing immunity sounds appealing, but training macrophages or neutrophils is not easy. Adaptive immune responses driven by lymphocytes may be strengthened, yet even they require time—perhaps a week—to recognize the enemy, mobilize, and fight effectively.

Rather than focusing on immune cells, it makes more sense to protect the body’s entry points, such as the throat mucosa. With aging, saliva production decreases, and extreme dryness further injures the throat. Strengthening the throat itself is difficult, so protection becomes essential. In this regard, wearing a mask helps counter dryness. Though I dislike masks, I have reluctantly increased the time I wear one—not for infection prevention, but to protect my throat and as a matter of cough etiquette.

And then, sleep. Adequate sleep clearly supports immune function. Recently, I have been going to bed by 11 p.m., securing about six hours of sleep, which seems to be helping my recovery. Alcohol is not ideal, but since it helps relieve stress, I have settled for moderation rather than abstinence.

Ultimately, it is impossible to completely escape illness. What matters in daily life is minimizing the damage each encounter brings.

 

How to Amplify Personal Experience with AI

 There are countless things I do not know.
No matter how many times one lives, it is impossible to experience everything the world has to offer. Even what we once experienced is often forgotten, leaving only a small fraction of usable knowledge at any given moment.

 

Looking back, I realize that as a high school student I sometimes pretended to know more than I actually did. I was not aware of it myself, but a close friend pointed it out to me. At the time, I barely understood what “pretending to know” even meant.

It took many years before I truly understood how little I know. The phrase “knowing one’s ignorance” appeared in my ethics textbooks, but it remained an abstract concept rather than a lived realization.

When I first started this blog, I may have written based on vague memories. Later, with the rise of Google search, I learned to verify information as I wrote. Today, with the help of AI, I can examine a far broader range of topics. For academic writing in particular, AI-based checking has become indispensable for me.

In that sense, traditional quiz shows may eventually fade away.

However, this does not mean handing everything over to AI.
The starting point is always one’s own experience—limited, but real. AI can expand that experience, help verify it, organize it, and amplify it. Without experience, meaningful dialogue with AI cannot exist.

By returning what is gained through this process back to human society, further progress may be possible.

No one knows how high the Tower of Babel called AI will rise. Yet I hope that decisions about how to use it—and where to stop—will remain in human hands. At the very least, it should not be a tower built by abandoning human experience, but one grounded in human reality and kept within a controllable height.

Pulling a Minister’s Chair, With My Tax Money

 One small scene on television keeps bothering me:
a senior politician arrives, and someone carefully pulls out a chair for them to sit down.
They look perfectly capable of doing it themselves—so why does this ritual persist?

 

One example of what feels like wasted tax money to me is the presence of people whose job is to pull chairs for senior officials such as cabinet ministers.

A healthy-looking politician arrives, and someone waits attentively, then ceremoniously pulls out a chair so the politician may sit.
I cannot help thinking: surely they can sit down by themselves. Yet this practice shows no sign of disappearing.

I do not know the exact status of those who perform this role, but they are likely civil servants or something close to it, paid with public funds.

When I asked an AI about it, I learned that these individuals are often ministerial secretaries or protocol officers—national civil servants whose role is to ensure that senior officials are seated smoothly and without disruption.

Directing someone by saying, “Please sit here,” or “Please speak into this microphone,” is not meaningless. It resembles the work of staff at a wedding hall. Given that senior officials move constantly from one venue to another, such coordination may indeed be necessary.

Even so, something about it still does not sit right with me.

These actions themselves may be what elevate certain people into “important figures.”
There are people who work to make important people look important, and politicians—who are supposed to be public servants—end up reinforcing their own authority using tax money.

When politicians raise their own salaries at will, postpone reductions in the number of seats, and leave issues of money and politics unresolved, it is hard not to feel disillusioned.

I am not paying taxes in order to help glorify such politicians.

That said, in a country where democracy is functioning, however imperfectly, perhaps constant complaints like this miss the point.

When it comes to taxes, my frustration may turn into misplaced anger.
Perhaps this, too, is simply the habit of those at the bottom.

Has the Singularity Already Begun Around Us?

 I once believed that AI singularity would arrive all at once, transforming society in a dramatic and unmistakable way.
But lately, through everyday interactions with AI, I have begun to feel that something quieter—and perhaps more personal—has already started.

 

Today feels a little warmer.
Perhaps the headache and sore throat that began yesterday will ease as well.

Recently, I watched an old sketch from the NHK comedy show LIFE, featuring an AI with emotions.
It was a work from six or seven years ago, yet I was struck by the scriptwriter’s foresight in imagining a world even closer to our present reality.

The progress of AI has become exponential, and its momentum is difficult to measure.
It no longer seems impossible that AI could one day resemble Mamoru from Lupin III—a being approaching something like divinity.

I once thought that AI singularity would arrive all at once.
But that does not seem to be the case.
At least on a personal level, it may already be quietly underway.

When I ask AI a question, it often ends with a suggestion:
“Shall we explore this further?”

When I reply, “Yes, let’s do that,” another response appears.
If such exchanges were to continue endlessly, knowledge would expand without limit.

What I once believed AI could not do—posing human-like questions—
now seems possible with only the slightest prompt.

And when countless people, myself included, present their questions to AI,
those very questions become nourishment for its growth.

In that sense, apart from a society-wide singularity,
there may already be a kind of turning point in the relationship between AI and humans—
one that has arrived quietly, right around us.

Since ancient times, humans have devised ways to reduce physical labor.
Now, it is becoming clear that the greatest burden has always been intellectual labor.

Which Stresses Can I Reduce, and How?

My blood pressure has been high lately. With the cold weather, the loss of my brother, and the weight of work, I find myself asking how to live with stresses that cannot be avoided—and how to adjust to them.

 

My blood pressure has been high recently.
Perhaps because of that, I have headaches and feel unwell.

The cold weather over the past weeks, combined with thoughts of my brother, is probably the reason.
Work-related stress has also been considerable.

These are things I cannot avoid.
I have no choice but to accept them.
So the question becomes how to come to terms with them.

For the cold, the answer is simple: dress warmly.
This morning was cold again, so I will start wearing thermal underwear from tomorrow.
I am sensitive to both cold and heat, but the rise in blood pressure caused by cold is something I can address.
What can be done, should be done properly.

I want to keep my neck, wrists, and ankles warm as well.
Still, I wonder why winters in Japan feel so relentlessly cold.

As for blood pressure itself, I try to drink less alcohol and reduce salt.
I know that as hot pot meals increase, so does my use of ponzu sauce.

As for my brother—he is gone now, and there is nothing that can be done about that.

I find myself recalling many things: our past, the funeral, scattered memories.
I have not yet fully come to terms even with my father’s death.
So how am I supposed to accept my brother’s?

I believe I will accept it someday, but I have no idea when.
Perhaps I never will, not until I die.

People have to live while repeatedly accepting the deaths of others.

As for work-related stress, there is little I can do about it.

Routine tasks should be carried out together with colleagues and clinicians, supporting one another.
Academic society responsibilities weigh heavily on me, but these too cannot be avoided.
If I run away, others will suffer.

These societies and study groups, and the people involved, are what raised and shaped me.
This is my way of giving something back.

It is my mission.

Swiftly and accurately,
I want to handle each task, one by one.

 

A Mother, Siblings, Uncles, Cousins, and Nieces

 After a night of rain, the autumn leaves were gone.
The funeral ended quietly, leaving behind fatigue and concern for one mother.

 

The rain that started last night stripped most of the autumn leaves away.
At last, water reached the dry ground.

My younger brother’s funeral came to an end without major trouble.
“Without major trouble,” that is—except for one moment.
After the service, my mother, as the chief mourner, was scheduled to give a five-minute speech.
She spoke for ten, then fifteen.
The funeral staff grew visibly anxious, and we eventually asked her to shorten what was becoming a full life story to about a quarter of its length.

My mother, siblings, uncles, cousins, and nieces gathered to see my brother off.
At the meal afterward, we exchanged brief updates on our lives, almost as if it were a reunion.

Even we were exhausted by the end of the day.
I cannot help but worry about my mother, who must be far more tired than any of us.

 

Why It Is So Difficult to Summarize a Human Life

 The passing of my younger brother has slowly brought a quiet ache into my daily life. As the winter deepens, I find myself thinking about what it truly means to reflect on someone's life — not as a pathologist, but as a brother.

 

With the arrival of true winter, I finally put on my down jacket today.
It has a warmth that leather cannot match, and I will rely on it again this season.
The dry air has already begun to irritate my throat.

Since my brother passed away, a gentle but persistent sadness has been settling in.
The tension I had been carrying has loosened, and fatigue has begun to surface.

Thanks to another pathologist joining our department, daily work is manageable.
Still, while I relaxed for a moment, peer reviews and research assignments piled up.
I had intended to start fading out from such responsibilities, yet each task now feels heavier than before.

Bereavement echoes quietly in the heart.

While my brother was alive, communication was not always easy, but when I held his hand, he would squeeze back.
If I looked into his face, his eyes met mine.
And his body was warm.

None of that remains now.

As a pathologist for more than thirty years, I have faced many bodies.
I have learned from each case, and I believe those lessons have contributed—however slightly—to improving medical care.
I have also fulfilled the important role of explaining findings to grieving families.

We did not perform an autopsy on my brother.
Aspiration pneumonia was the likely cause, and the microscopic picture was easy to imagine.
People with Down syndrome often show somewhat accelerated aging, but at sixty, the difference is small.
There was nothing medically new to discover.
If anything, the remarkable part was how healthy he had remained until the end.
And yet, he died.

There may be value in summarizing his physical condition, but I did not feel compelled to do so.

It is never easy to summarize a human life.
One may look at the body, the way the person lived, or what they left behind.
But no matter the angle, no definitive conclusion emerges.

When I remember my brother, only the good comes to mind.
He had nothing but good in him.

Even as One Among the Many

 The world moves on with quiet indifference, even when personal loss brings life to a halt. In that flow, what does it mean to live as just one among countless others?

 

The scenery outside the commuter train window looked no different from usual.

Although I am on bereavement leave, I came in today because a colleague was off and I felt I should at least help for half a day.
A hospital struggles when a pathologist does not work.

Since I left home a little later than usual, there seemed to be more students. People walked across the platform as always, waiting for the next train.

The view before and after my brother’s passing has changed very little.
Of course, that is only the broad landscape—nothing is ever exactly the same.
The world moves quickly, and the people within it are swept along, each facing changes in their own lives.

If we isolate each individual’s story, the shifts are immense. Yet from the perspective of society—or humanity as a whole—the change seems slow and almost gentle.

I am only one member of that humanity, just one among the many.
In that sense, I am no different from a single bee or ant in a vast colony.

And yet, if you focus on just one ant, that ant unmistakably carries its own singular life.
I, too, am one such ant, and even an ant has its own role.

What exactly my role is may not be something I can clearly define.
But living the present moment with honesty—that, at least, is something I can do.

The Meaning Behind “Support Team”

 Losing someone close is always painful, but parting with a younger sibling brings a different kind of sorrow. Reflecting on my brother’s life reminds me how society labels people—and how words shape the way we see them.

 

Saying a final goodbye to someone dear, knowing you will never meet again, is deeply lonely.

I have experienced such farewells many times before, but parting with my younger brother feels different.
For my mother, it is a gyakuen—a child passing before the parent—and her grief must be far greater than mine.

Even so, she often said, “He must go before I do.”
As a mother, perhaps she now feels a kind of quiet relief.

People with Down syndrome can live fulfilling lives when supported by those around them.
From that perspective, they are sometimes described as “socially vulnerable.”
But why “vulnerable”?
And why do we still use the word “disability” so casually?

In the pathology department, I am responsible for what used to be called the “employment program for people with disabilities.”
Each time I said those words, I felt a subtle discomfort.
Recently, the name was changed to “Support Team,” and in that sense I feel relieved.

From now on, I can simply say, “This is the work of our Support Team.”

Yet when someone asks, “What is the Support Team?” I will inevitably find myself using the word “disability” to explain.
The path toward better language—and better understanding—still feels long.

Farewell, My Brother

In the early hours of the morning, just after my own birthday had passed, my younger brother quietly left this world. This is a tribute to his life, his gentle presence, and the path we walked together.

 Yesterday was my birthday, and in the early hours of this morning, just after the date had changed, my brother passed away.
He lived for 60 years.

In early September, he became critically ill after his aspiration pneumonia worsened. Although he rallied for a time, he eventually grew too weak to recover.
Back in September he still had enough strength to return from the brink, but when he became critical again yesterday and I rushed to his side, the spark of life had already faded.
It was our 87-year-old mother who stayed with him at the end.

My brother had Down syndrome.

Down syndrome occurs when a person is born with an extra copy of chromosome 21.
Humans normally have 46 chromosomes—23 pairs of autosomes and two sex chromosomes—but in Down syndrome, there are three copies of chromosome 21, making 47 in total (46,XX+21 or 46,XY+21).

People with Down syndrome have diverse traits and personalities. Some are prone to heart or hematologic conditions, while others, like my brother, go through life without major illness.
With appropriate support, many lead fulfilling lives, and in recent years some have gained recognition as artists or actors.

They are often cheerful by nature and, with their warm and endearing expressions, are loved by many.
My brother, too, was cherished by countless people.

When he was critically ill in September, I spent a great deal of time at his bedside, recalling our shared memories.
Although we spent much of our lives together, he also had a world of his own.

From junior high school onward, he commuted independently, traveling by train to his special-needs school.
After graduating, he lived in vocational facilities and group homes, and he worked hard in his Boy Scout activities.
I cannot fathom the effort my parents put into finding places where he could feel comfortable and accepted, but for them, it was simply what they believed they should do for their son.

Communication with him was never easy, and I could never be sure what he truly felt in his heart.
Yet even when words are available, people sometimes fail to understand one another. Between us, perhaps words were never really necessary.

Farewell, my brother.
Wait for me in the world beyond.

Living Without Excess Desire

Turning 62 does not bring any dramatic revelation, but it offers a quiet moment to consider how to live the “bonus years” after sixty—lightly, without unnecessary desire, and with a focus on health and continuity.

Today I turned 62.

Life flows continuously, so reaching this day does not evoke any particular feeling. Still, I have come to think that, once past sixty, life itself becomes something of a bonus. From here on, I hope to live without unnecessary desire and to extend my healthy years as much as I can.

That is the thought I held on this birthday.

Wanting to do something may itself be a form of desire, but if I think of these years as a bonus on top of a bonus, perhaps I can keep that desire in check.

Yesterday we celebrated a joint birthday—my mother’s and mine. She was born exactly one week earlier than I was.

We also had a small celebration for my son, and the dinner served as a kind of year-end gathering as well. The four of us—my wife, my mother, my son, and I—enjoyed a warm meal together.

My mother is now 87. “Sprightly” is beginning to feel like the most fitting word for her age, yet she remains remarkably healthy.

I was born when she was 25, which is neither particularly early nor late.

 

I once thought the age gap between parent and child was overwhelmingly large. But when a 25-fold difference becomes twice, and now nearly 1.5 times, the gap no longer feels so dramatic.

My son is also nearing half my age.

Perhaps he has begun to gain confidence in his own way; he spoke happily about the things he has been experiencing recently.

For various reasons, I ended up skipping my blog post yesterday for the first time in a while.

Since I am not competing for a “streak,” skipping once in a while is perfectly fine. Starting today, I simply hope to keep writing steadily again.

 

When You’re Asked to Do Everything—And Now the My Number Card

 Winter settles in, the days grow short, and administrative burdens seem to grow just as steadily. As tax season approaches and the government pushes yet another procedure onto our plates, I find myself reflecting on the curious balance between citizenship, obligation, and convenience.

 

I was out for work today.

By the time I returned home, it was already pitch-dark—
and cold.
The winter chill is becoming unmistakable.

Speaking of feeling things “deeply,” the weight of taxes is another seasonal sensation.
No matter how much I work, a sizable portion goes straight to taxes, and it wears me down.
Yet when asked to contribute, it isn’t as though I can refuse.
I know taxes are necessary to keep the country functioning, but am I truly receiving enough in return?
At the very least, I want to keep an eye on how that money is being used—
even if my information comes only from newspapers and television.
Still, it seems important to stay aware.

And then there is everything the government—our venerable okami—requires of us.
The My Number card is one example, and now the My Number health insurance card has become nearly mandatory.
My wife happened to notice that my renewal deadline was this year’s birthday.

Even that simple procedure feels burdensome.
Why must I handle all these tasks myself?
Since I pay my taxes, part of me wants the system to take care of such things automatically.
But in reality, there are limits; certain steps inevitably require one’s own effort.

Even so, Japan may run as smoothly as it does precisely because people like me quietly comply.
Put differently, we may simply be a flock of sheep.

The True Value of Japan’s Cultural Heritage

Matcha shortages and surging exports reveal a larger trend: Japan’s everyday culture is increasingly being consumed as a global commodity. As inbound tourism grows, what does it mean to protect the deeper value of our traditions?

 

It is said that matcha has recently become harder to obtain in Japan. A matcha boom overseas has driven exports higher than ever.

I personally prefer caramel ice cream to matcha ice cream, so the shortage does not trouble me deeply. Still, hearing that tea fields are shrinking due to a lack of successors makes the issue feel closer to home. I drink green tea every day, after all. Domestic tea producers also worry that supply shortages and rising prices will weaken demand within Japan itself.

Japan’s culture is being purchased.
Foreign visitors are beginning to recognize the excellence of the traditional ways of living that Japanese people have preserved—our food, clothing, housing, and relationship with nature. Of course, there have always been people abroad who appreciated these traditions, and many cultural artifacts have flowed out of the country. But today’s situation is on a different scale: our everyday lifestyle itself is acquiring “market value.”

The former Prime Minister Abe’s goal of attracting 30 million inbound tourists is becoming a realistic prospect. In a nation of 100 million people, the flow of visitors now approaches one-third of the population each year. It is as if a household of ten had three foreign guests visiting in constant rotation. Our daily life is treated as something worth paying to observe.

Inbound tourism, at its core, can be seen as a form of selling cultural heritage.
For many visitors, traditional Japanese culture is simply an exotic experience—one that ends once the novelty fades. Yet at the same time, the evolution of Japanese culture into anime and otaku phenomena shows how cultural value can transform and expand.

Selling culture is unavoidable.
Precisely because of that, we must treat our unique way of life as something precious—something to be protected and cultivated with care.

Cold, Dry Winter Has Arrived

 A chilling morning in Kamakura marks the true beginning of winter. As temperatures drop and the air dries out, I find myself adjusting my daily habits—from clothing choices to alcohol intake and mask use—to stay healthy through the season.

 

The morning temperature in Kamakura was three degrees Celsius.
When Ann asked to go outside and I opened the balcony door, a rush of cold air swept in. Winter has arrived in earnest.

Just a week ago I was in Sapporo, and today the city is reportedly below freezing all day. I narrowly escaped that harsh cold.

A scarf alone is no longer enough, so I put on a sweater. A leather jacket makes me look bulky, so as of today I’ve switched to a coat. Once the cold begins to seep up from the ground, I’ll bring out the down coat, but I’d like to hold off a little longer if I can.

I drank a bit too much at the year-end gathering the day before yesterday, so last night I took a day off from alcohol. I’m not sure how much “resting the liver” actually helps, but at the very least it saves the energy required to metabolize alcohol, which should aid recovery.

As I wrote before, weight control is also difficult in winter. My weight has been slowly increasing since late August, and the trend continues. Like any animal, my body seems to prepare for winter by storing fat—an inconvenient remnant of our adaptation to famine.

Still, in this turbulent world where no one knows what will happen next, perhaps having a bit of reserve is something to be grateful for.

When I mentioned my weight to my wife, her mood suddenly soured and she blamed my drinking habits. I suspect she may have put on a little weight herself.

The yellow sand from China has subsided, but the combination of cold and dryness has irritated my throat. Influenza is also spreading, so I’d like to use a mask whenever possible.

At work, masks are no longer required. In the doctors’ office and other non-patient areas, we don’t need to wear them, and the pathology room is mask-free as well. However, the lab technicians all keep theirs on, and even if I’m the only one without a mask, it doesn’t cause any issue. When my throat starts to hurt—often because I stay in one posture while looking through the microscope and the airflow becomes stagnant—I put on a mask to ease the irritation.

On the train during my commute, the air conditioning aggravates my throat and makes me cough more easily, so I end up wearing a mask for quite a while. It’s good that mask-wearing has become normalized—or rather, that we are now free to choose.

In any case, as the season grows colder and drier, I’ll need to pay closer attention to the weather, my throat, and my eating habits.

Just a Drink, Yet More Than a Drink

December brings the season of year-end parties. A gathering may seem harmless, yet a single evening of drinking often reveals how alcohol can both connect people and quietly trouble them the next day. 

 

December, of course, means year-end parties.

Yesterday, my wife’s local circle held its annual gathering, and I was invited to join. Among the group was one person who could drink endlessly. I should have known better than to keep up, but I did—and today I have a slight headache and have somehow gained weight.

The custom of year-end parties itself has been fading. Our workplace no longer holds one. The decline accelerated after COVID-19, but perhaps the deeper reason is that drinking across generations simply doesn’t work anymore. People of different ages talk about different things, and no one should feel obliged to force themselves to match the others.

Alcohol tolerance also varies widely. In the past, even people who couldn’t drink were pressured to do so, but it is hardly enjoyable for someone who dislikes alcohol to sit through such an event. If someone willingly joins a drinking group, that’s one thing. But for non-drinkers, the very premise of “why alcohol is needed” may be difficult to understand.

In addition to hangovers and weight gain, year-end parties come with risks—sexual harassment, power harassment, and everything in between. Just yesterday, the news reported that a town mayor resigned after a drunken act of sexual harassment. Alcohol-induced power harassment is another pitfall to avoid. To throw away one’s life over something as trivial as alcohol is a needless waste.

So I have come to think that, unless one has a strong safety net, it may be wiser not to attend year-end parties at all. It is a relief that my workplace no longer hosts one, and gatherings where my wife is present—like yesterday’s—feel much safer.

As the saying goes, “A wise person steers clear of danger.”

One option is not to drink alcohol at all, but with enthusiastic drinkers around, abstaining can be difficult. And truly, who invented alcohol in the first place? How much simpler life might be without it, I think, nursing my heavy head this morning.

Just a drink—yet more than a drink.

Remembering Joy When Times Are Tough

 We often recall our most unpleasant memories at the exact moments when we’re already under stress. But perhaps there is another way to deal with those difficult times. What if we intentionally bring to mind moments of joy instead?

The mild, autumn-like weather seems to end today.
It looks like true winter is finally on its way.
From tomorrow, I suppose I’ll have to pull out my winter coat.

Memories come back to us suddenly.
Especially when we’re under stress—like during work—and most of them are of the unpleasant kind.

Moments when I acted unkindly toward someone.
Times when I slacked off instead of doing my best.
Regrets about what I should have done differently.

There’s nothing I can do about them now, and yet I recall them and feel weighed down.
While dealing with those feelings, I still have to handle what’s unfolding in front of me in “real life,” which only makes things harder.

Because these unpleasant memories tend to return at unpleasant times, it becomes even more frustrating.
If work is the situation where this happens most often, then it makes sense.

If so, I wonder whether remembering happier times—especially while working or going through something difficult—might make me like my work a little more.
I think I’ll try that next time.

 

The Evolution of Communication and the Limits of Human Potential

From fire signals to satellites, humanity has continually expanded its ability to send and receive information. But as communication technologies accelerate far beyond our biological limits, we now face an overwhelming flood of data. What have we gained—and what might we be losing?

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　“December has finally arrived.”

The development of communication tools has made it possible to learn about events at the far ends of the world in an instant.

Of course, such information still depends on people who relay it. Yet today, even without human observers, satellites detect earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, droughts, and other natural phenomena for us.

Human beings have evolved around the question of how to transmit information.

Fire allowed us to signal our location.
Faster travel enabled us to deliver goods more quickly and expand our range of activity.
The Industrial Revolution—and the rapid advances that followed Edison—accelerated this progress even further. With the rise of the internet, it felt as if this expansion might finally pause for breath. But one wonders where it will head next.

And what, exactly, have we gained through the development of modern communication devices?

Natural disasters, wars and conflicts, and countless incidents and accidents from around the globe now reach us like waves rolling in.
Stories that once traveled slowly, carried by a wandering visitor from a distant land, now appear before us almost in real time.

They come not one by one, but all at once—less like discrete “events” and more like a continuous “disaster.”

In modern society, each of us must somehow sort and select this disaster-scale flow of information in real time.

But is such a task truly possible?

It is hard to believe that human information-processing capacity has improved dramatically over such a short span of history.
If anything, it seems we are merely tolerating the overflow.

Seen this way, the information overload brought about by communication technology must be placing considerable stress on us, and it would be no surprise if many people could no longer keep up. Yet somehow society continues to function.

It is a curious thing.

Is this human potential—our latent capacity to adapt? Perhaps so.
But whatever explanations we offer, the truth is that humanity itself does not know where this trajectory will ultimately lead.