A World You Shouldn’t Wander Into Just for Fun

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Every world has its own depth.

 

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

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

 

Not Becoming a “Signboard Only” Professional

 

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That small moment stayed with me longer than I expected.

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How to Cross a Street: Kamakura vs. New York

 

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

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

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

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

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

In New York City, the situation is completely different.

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

The Same Players, the Same Game—Once Again

When I was a student, I was deeply into mahjong.
The players were almost always the same.
We traded small amounts of money, argued over who was strong and who was easy prey, and repeated the same games again and again—
a small world, with small stakes.

Yesterday, news programs showed a televised debate among party leaders ahead of the general election.
My first thought was simple: the same players again.

They all spoke in unison, repeating nearly identical policies.
This time, it was all about tax cuts—tax cuts everywhere, and little to distinguish one party from another.

Since 2016, there have been eight national elections in just ten years:
four upper house elections, and now four lower house elections.
At this pace, it almost feels like an annual event.
Given that, it is hardly surprising that the faces remain the same.

But after ten years of repeated elections and supposedly heated debates, one question remains unavoidable:
Has this country become better?

The answer, frankly, is no.

I have no particular affection for pandas, but we have been overtaken by the country famous for them—and even they seem to have lost interest in us.
They take what suits them, while apartment prices in central Tokyo quietly exceed one hundred million yen.

One hundred million yen.
Even with a steady income, that is not a sum most people could repay in a lifetime.

Add rising prices and stagnant wages, and the picture becomes even bleaker.

So what exactly are those familiar faces debating so passionately?
If politicians speak of the “judgment of the people,” then under that judgment, they could work together to improve the country.
But they do not.

Instead, it feels as though they are merely performing politics on a stage.
And when the curtain falls, they wait for the next election—
much like a mahjong game that ends with,
“Win or lose, let’s do it again next week.”

 

Walking Really Is Good for the Body

It is cold again today, though the wind seems a little calmer.
Heavy snow is falling along the Sea of Japan coast, and I can only hope it does not turn into a serious disaster.

Extreme weather is exhausting, wherever it happens.

 

My daughter’s city, New York, is also buried in snow.
It seems to have fallen throughout the night, to the point where commuting in the morning may be difficult.
Northern parts of the United States are facing severe snowfall as well, and that too is worrying.

 

Yesterday, I walked the Gionyama hiking trail for the first time in quite a while.
The course takes about an hour and a half in a loop from my house.
It is nothing like walking on flat ground—there is plenty of elevation change, and I worked up a good sweat.
It was solid exercise.

When my children were small, I used to walk this trail with ease.
This time, narrow paths along the cliffs felt tighter than I remembered, and the ups and downs more demanding.
I could not help but feel my age.

 

Still, it was refreshing.

The number on the scale, which has been creeping upward lately, somehow managed to stay in the 76-kilogram range.
That alone felt like a small victory.

Having such a lovely companion as Ann, my dog, and not taking her out often enough feels like a real waste.
I would like to walk with her more, but in this cold, it is not so easy.

I find myself wishing for warmer days to come soon.

Different from University Professors

A professor of dermatology at the University of Tokyo was arrested on suspicion of bribery.
According to reports, he lived lavishly—so much so that the party offering the bribes eventually reported the matter themselves.

He is 62 years old, the same age as I am.

 

On social media, it was said that he was rarely seen on campus.
Perhaps his evenings were simply too busy, leaving him unable to wake up in the morning.

For someone like me, who checks the clock every day and rides a crowded commuter train to work, it feels like an entirely different world.

This made me wonder:
why do people become university professors in the first place?

Ordinarily, one would assume the answer is research.
But perhaps some are also drawn to what comes along with the title.

There are unspoken rankings for lectures and conference chairs—
so much for a professor, so much for an associate professor.

I once heard that a substantial portion of a professor’s income comes from such side earnings.
The so-called “perks” of the position can be quite remarkable.

Because he was a professor at a national university, the issue of bribery became a serious public matter.
Had he been at a private university, it might not have attracted quite the same level of scrutiny.

I have lived a life mostly unrelated to titles like “professor.”
And I have certainly remained untouched by late-night entertainment and lavish hospitality.

That may not be such a bad thing after all—
or is that simply sour grapes?

 

Are Politicians Working for the Country—or for Their Own Lives?

I sometimes wonder whether politicians are truly working for the country, or simply for their own livelihoods.
Politics, after all, is also a profession. And like any profession, it comes with incentives, anxieties, and self-interest. 

I do not believe that most politicians place the nation or its people first.
At best, those things come second.
Their own lives and stability come first.

Of course, not all politicians are the same.
Some are born into wealth, and personal survival may not be their primary concern.
But politicians who are involved in creating slush funds or hiding money likely fit this pattern rather well.

There is a saying: poverty dulls the mind.
Without a stable livelihood, it is difficult to think clearly or act responsibly.
So I do not think politicians should be poor.
Still, there must be a reasonable limit.

What troubles me is that politicians seem far more occupied with election campaigns than with their actual work in parliament.
That may only be how it appears from the outside, and I am sure many of them study their respective fields seriously.
Yet, that effort rarely becomes visible.

Perhaps this is an inevitable consequence of parliamentary democracy.
No individual is meant to stand out too much.
Within such a system, maybe this is what politics inevitably looks like.

In this election, we will finally hear about their achievements.
So let us listen carefully.
What, exactly, have they been doing?

 

A Vote for an Uncertain Future, and for Hope

 Today, Japan’s House of Representatives is dissolved, and a general election begins.
Whether the dissolution itself was right or wrong is debatable. But what lingers more strongly is not the argument—it is the unease about what comes after.

Today marks the dissolution of Japan’s House of Representatives and the start of a general election.

There are, of course, many opinions about whether dissolving the Diet was appropriate. That debate is unavoidable.
Still, when I think about what comes after the election, I cannot help but feel uneasy.

We are repeatedly told about “a bright future” and “hope” by every political party. Yet such words are, by nature, uncertain. A promising future is not something that can be guaranteed to everyone.

This is not about which party or which policy is right or wrong.
No policy is perfect. None can satisfy everyone.

Inevitably, dissatisfaction emerges. It grows louder, amplified, and politics becomes unstable.
Starting over again and again leads nowhere—but for some politicians, moments of instability become opportunities: a debut, or a comeback.

Japan’s so-called “lost thirty years” owe much to long-standing ruling-party politics.
At the same time, responsibility also lies with those who failed to form a credible alternative.

In the end, no one truly took responsibility.
That is the political reality of this country.

Still, perhaps politicians everywhere are much the same. They are born from society itself, after all—human, all too human.

It is only one vote.
But how that vote is used is the one thing I want to keep certain.

 

How AI Is Breaking Language Barriers—and What It Means for Cultural Exchange

Artificial intelligence has transformed the way we communicate across languages—especially in academic and professional settings.
As translation becomes faster, more natural, and increasingly invisible, the long-standing barrier of language is rapidly disappearing.
But as that barrier falls, a deeper question emerges: what happens to culture when language is no longer an obstacle?

 

 At large academic conferences today, Japanese subtitles generated by simultaneous interpretation often appear alongside the speaker’s presentation.

It can be challenging to shift one’s gaze back and forth between the images on the screen and the subtitles, but before long, it may become entirely normal to listen to spoken translations delivered directly through our smartphones.

Writing letters to people overseas has also become remarkably easy.

What once required considerable effort—even for a simple seasonal greeting—can now be done in as little as five seconds, producing a polished and appropriate response.

All of this is thanks to AI.

AI-generated English may differ subtly from that of native speakers, but as long as it can be accurately translated back into Japanese, communication rarely fails.

Unless one is attempting to produce refined literary prose, AI-generated English is more than sufficient for non-native speakers to convey objective facts at academic meetings.

The language barrier has been dramatically lowered in just the past few years.

One commonly cited reason Japanese people struggle with English is that Japan rapidly translated and absorbed Western knowledge into its own language.

In medicine, a classic example is Kaitai Shinsho.
Through this early translation work, much of anatomical terminology became firmly established in Japanese, reducing the need to consult original foreign texts.

It is easy to dismiss this as a form of linguistic “Galápagos isolation,” but the reality may be more nuanced.

While working with AI on submissions for international conferences, I began to notice that Western and Japanese patterns of thinking appear to differ.

To me, these differences seem subtle, but AI appears to detect them quite clearly.

This observation suggests a new possibility: the importance of presenting Japanese ways of thinking to the global community.

Until now, the Japanese language—complex and distant from Western languages—has served as a kind of protective barrier for Japanese culture. How this will change in the coming years remains uncertain.

Many people around the world have long been drawn to Japanese culture, but their numbers may well increase further.

 

Last year, the number of visitors to Japan reportedly exceeded 40 million, and this trend is likely to continue.

With so many people coming into direct contact with the country, the number who become deeply captivated by Japanese culture will surely grow.

AI is rapidly lowering the barrier of language—and in doing so, it is also lowering the barrier of culture.

How far will that cultural barrier ultimately fall?

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What Does “Peace” Mean When It Loses Its Principles?

 The United States is probably the wealthiest nation in the world.
Yet today, that same country speaks openly of territorial ambitions, boasts of deserving the Nobel Peace Prize, and laments that it no longer feels obliged to think “purely of peace.”

This contradiction raises a fundamental question:
What, after all, is peace?

 

The United States is likely the richest country on Earth.
And yet, it now shows renewed enthusiasm for claiming Greenland as its own.

Despite having resolved neither the war in Gaza nor the invasion of Ukraine, Donald Trump has openly declared that he deserves the Nobel Peace Prize.
When that recognition did not materialize, he reportedly complained that he no longer feels obliged to think purely of peace.

The statement is striking—not only for its bluntness, but for what it reveals.

Barack Obama did not necessarily “solve” global conflicts either.
Yet the ideals he articulated still remain.
Peace without principles brings little to the world.

Working for the Nobel Prize does not lead to the Nobel Prize.
That such a simple truth appears to be lost is troubling.

So what is peace, exactly?

Is it peace if no one is openly fighting, even when some live in great wealth while others struggle in poverty?
Surely not.

Is it peace if people accept discomfort and compromise at a tolerable level, coexisting without open conflict?
That, too, feels insufficient.

Those who make efforts should be rewarded.
If those who do not work are treated the same as those who do, then effort itself becomes meaningless.

Yet inequality inevitably emerges, and with it, social tension.
Eventually, such disparities erode any fragile balance we might call peace.

America’s wealth was not built solely through the hard work of its people.
It was also built on fertile land taken from Indigenous peoples by European settlers.

There is no inherent moral legitimacy in that history.
And yet today, that accumulated wealth appears to be used to exert pressure—and even domination—over other parts of the world.

What does “peace” mean to President Trump?
From his words and actions, little becomes clear.

Still, many Americans likely feel that the current situation is not so bad.
That perception alone may be enough to keep him secure in power.

Even if his party were to lose a midterm election, second and third arrows would surely follow.

The question, then, is not only what this means for America—but what it will mean for Japan.

Why This General Election May Not Be a Bad Thing

 I was able to watch Prime Minister Sanae Takaichi’s press conference live last evening.
Her words were clear and steady, and her speech conveyed a sense that Japan can overcome this national crisis and move toward a brighter future.

 

Last evening, I watched Prime Minister Sanae Takaichi’s press conference live.

It was a strong speech, delivered with clarity, that suggested Japan could weather this national crisis and still look ahead to a hopeful future.

She repeated the word “work” again and again—perhaps five times in a row—saying, “I have always worked, worked, worked, worked, and worked.”

I believe Japan’s prime minister should be someone capable of working harder than anyone else in the country. At the very least, it is reassuring that she is not someone who spends every weekend playing golf.

Watching someone two years older than me continue to push herself forward makes me feel that I, too, should keep working hard for a while longer.

 

There have been many criticisms of this dissolution of the Diet.
The argument that it interferes with the passage of the new fiscal year budget is understandable.
But complaints about heavy snow, or the fact that it is exam season, strike me as irrelevant.

If we start avoiding elections because it is typhoon season, conference season, or any other inconvenience, when would elections ever be possible?

It is also pointed out that the current members of the House of Representatives still have a considerable term remaining. Even so, it is obvious that governing without a clear electoral mandate is a fundamental weakness for any cabinet.

 

For these reasons, I believe that this general election is, at the very least, not a bad thing.

The Japan Innovation Party will likely once again campaign on reducing the number of Diet members, and that issue itself deserves to be tested at the ballot box.

Calling an election while declaring that defeat would mean stepping down as prime minister and party leader is a bold and admirable stance.

In this era of fragmented politics and multiple parties, voters are presented with many choices.
This election is likely to become a memorable one.

How Far Will Trump’s America Change the World?

 Reports say that U.S. President Donald Trump is considering imposing high tariffs on European countries that oppose America’s claim over Greenland.
What once seemed like an unshakable alliance is beginning to look far more fragile than many had assumed.

 

According to recent reports, President Donald Trump is prepared to impose high tariffs on European nations that oppose American claims over Greenland.

Europe may have grown accustomed to relying on the United States in times of crisis, and if so, this sudden reversal by Washington poses a serious challenge. What many Europeans believed to be an absolute ally now appears to be collapsing, almost audibly, before their eyes.

If the United States were to deploy its own military forces to Greenland, it is unclear how NATO could function without contradiction. Whatever the legal or strategic arguments, inconsistencies would be inevitable.

From a Japanese perspective, the situation evokes mixed emotions.

Since Japan was forced to open its doors by Commodore Perry, the country has been repeatedly shaped—and shaken—by American power. Even the last war might have taken a different course had Japan not confronted the United States directly.

Today, Japan is bound to the U.S. through a security alliance. While Washington urges Japan to shoulder a greater share of defense costs, concerns about China and Russia make it difficult to respond with outright refusal.

In just one year, the world has changed dramatically. Much of this change can be attributed to President Trump. One cannot help but wonder how much further the world will be transformed in the remaining three years of his term.

Inside the United States, however, global affairs seem distant.

People and money continue to flow in effortlessly. Trump Tower still stands gleaming against the skyline, seemingly indifferent to global tensions.

Perhaps many Americans feel that, as long as things remain this way at home, there is little reason to worry about the rest of the world.

 

What Does “Always on the Battlefield” Really Mean?

 As Japan heads toward a snap general election, political headlines are everywhere.
New alliances are rumored, old positions seem blurred, and familiar slogans are repeated—sometimes without much thought.

 

Day after day, the news is filled with reports about the dissolution of the Diet and the upcoming general election.

There is talk of new centrist parties being formed, and the whole situation feels increasingly confusing.

Politicians often use the phrase “always on the battlefield.” But for them, the battlefield does not seem to be the parliament itself. It is clearly the election.

Of course, without a seat, a politician is just an ordinary person—almost unemployed. From that perspective, their anxiety is understandable.

They would argue that they are fully engaged in parliamentary debate, while opposition parties complain that a snap election creates a political vacuum.

Still, the question remains: where should I cast my vote this time?

When I was younger, I supported the center-left. Since then, I have been swept along by many twists and turns, ending up where I am now.

I wish things would settle down. But when even the heartland of democracy, the United States, seems so unstable, it becomes hard to know what kind of political system is truly best.

Until election day, I will listen carefully—and think carefully.

 

Yesterday, I Unusually Avoided the Trouble

 When I turned on the TV yesterday morning, I saw that the Yamanote Line had stopped due to a power outage. I braced myself for the worst, expecting serious trouble once I reached Tokyo.

 

Fortunately, the route I use was unaffected.
On the way, I even saw the Yamanote Line running and thought things might be fine, but later it stopped again. I felt sorry for those who had no choice but to rely on it.

That evening, the news reported that as many as 670,000 people were affected. It made me wonder just how widespread the disruption had been.

Being trapped inside a train must have been unbearable, but being stranded in a station concourse would have been just as hard. As someone with claustrophobia, I know I wouldn’t have lasted long.

All things considered, the fact that both the Shonan-Shinjuku Line and the Chuo Line—usually notorious for delays—escaped unscathed was at least a small consolation.

Because of Those Around Me

 It is a warm day today.
The relationship between temperature and my throat is obvious—no pain, and hardly any coughing.
As I reflect on recent events, I find myself thinking about how little I truly do on my own, and how much I owe to the people around me.

 

Today is very warm.

The connection between temperature and my throat is clear.
There is no soreness, and I hardly cough at all.

After the year-end and New Year holidays, I found myself needing to make several adjustments. I am not sure whether this was the price of having taken things too easily, but for a while I was flustered and unsettled. Still, I somehow managed to regain my footing.

This, too, was thanks to the people who did their best in their respective roles. There are no words for it other than gratitude.

When I was younger, I believed I had accomplished everything on my own. Only recently have I begun to understand that this was not the case.

That is why, when I hear athletes say in interviews,
“This is all thanks to my family, my coaches, and everyone who has supported me,”
I cannot help but feel impressed.

To be able to say such words at barely twenty years of age—perhaps that is precisely why they achieve results worthy of interviews in the first place.

When I was twenty, I was nothing more than an arrogant fool.
Being accused of self-importance would still have been an understatement.

One of my regrets in life is that I lacked a sense of gratitude toward those around me. If I were somehow given the chance to live my life over again, correcting this would come right after relearning how to study.

There was once a television program that proudly bore the phrase “thanks to everyone” as its banner. At the time, I watched it without much thought. Looking back now, however, I find myself wondering whether the weight of those words was truly carried as it should have been.

That said, I was hardly admirable enough to criticize others.
In my youth, I was simply immature—someone who never stopped to consider the true meaning of gratitude.

Although social norms change with time, certain ideas of justice should remain. People grow, perhaps, only by being bound in some way to their past.

Maybe it is foolish of me to still struggle to come to terms with my former self.

But in the end, other people’s stories do not matter much.

What matters is that today, I can take quiet joy in having learned to feel gratitude toward those around me—and in being able to recognize that as a kind of happiness.

 

Yokozuna Onosato Lost

Sunrise was at 6:50 a.m.
I left home while it was still dark.

Yesterday’s sumo matches, recent political news, and the coming election—all of it lingered in my mind as the day began.

 

In yesterday’s grand sumo tournament, Yokozuna Onosato was defeated by Yoshinofuji, a maegashira ranked just below the top division.
Both Ozeki, Kotozakura and Aonishiki, also lost their bouts. The sense of stability among the top-ranked wrestlers disappeared almost instantly.

It was disappointing, but I hope they can regroup and fight back without letting this turn into a downward spiral.

Speaking of comebacks, a mayor who resigned after his visits to love hotels with a married subordinate became public knowledge has now been re-elected.
It is not my city, and I have no direct involvement.

Still, I find myself wondering: should a politician’s private sexual conduct be treated as entirely separate from their public role?
Or is this simply something we are expected to overlook when it comes to politics?

The governor of Kanagawa Prefecture and the leader of the Democratic Party for the People have both been involved in extramarital affairs, yet these were effectively forgiven.
Surely there are people without such scandals who could govern just as well—so why do figures like these continue to be supported as politicians?

Perhaps they are considered “irreplaceable.”
Indeed, politics is not something just anyone can do.

A general election is approaching.
It may be an attempt to crush the opposition all at once, but is Takaichi’s popularity really that strong?
Entering an election without resolving issues related to China may actually be risky.

That said, the opposition parties are in even greater disarray, so a landslide victory might still occur.
The movement toward a centrist new party is not uninteresting, but time may be running out.
As for Sanseito or Reiwa Shinsengumi—are they still riding a wave of popularity?

Everything will become clear once the election results are in.

Talk of the Osaka metropolitan plan has resurfaced as well.
Decentralizing government functions is an important issue, but is this really connected?
Both the mayor and the governor are said to be stepping down again, though I cannot quite understand why a simple referendum would not suffice.

Elections cost money.
In snowy regions, even setting up poster boards is a major undertaking.
Because elections require such effort and expense, voting is something we must not neglect.

Will Onosato win today?

 

It’s Time to Let Someone Else Gain the Experience

I finally finished the handout manuscript for my lecture at the pathology conference.
It was one of those tasks that had been weighing on me more than I realized.

 

 

I somehow managed to complete the handout for my upcoming lecture at the pathology conference.

The day before yesterday, after writing and revising it, I sent the manuscript—despite it being a day off—to a longtime expert colleague to ask for a careful review. By yesterday morning, it was already back, marked up with comments.

There had been one part that bothered me slightly, and he pointed it out precisely. That alone was immensely helpful.

The revised version was uploaded to the conference website without incident, and I could finally breathe a little.

This year, I told myself I would try not to do things I don’t want to do.
But that resolution hasn’t gone very far.

I should probably just say no when asked, but I can’t seem to do that.
People ask me to handle things because they assume I can manage them, and I accept, thinking it will somehow work out.

In the long run, that can lead to stagnation in the field.
And yet, there often isn’t anyone else who clearly fits the role.

Still, I have just over three years left in what you might call my active professional life.
Whether I like it or not, I need to start passing things on. And to be honest, I’m getting tired.

So the question remains: who should take the baton?
That is a discussion I’ll have to face again today.

Fully Refreshed After a Three-Day Weekend

 The morning is still cold, but the day is expected to warm up quickly, almost like early spring. As I get ready to start work again, I can feel both my body and mind settling back into their usual rhythm.

 

It is cold again this morning.
The temperature is around 4°C early on, but it is supposed to rise steadily, reaching something like March weather by midday. I hesitated over what to wear, but chose clothes that would let me adjust as the day warms up.

During this three-day weekend, I managed to pick up Ann and finish my manuscript, which was a relief. My jet lag also seems to have mostly resolved, and this morning I can tell that my head feels clear again. I even dreamed about work, which suggests that, for better or worse, I am back in my normal mode.

There is still a bit of “homework” left from the winter break, but that has little to do with the break itself. As long as I keep accepting work, there will always be something unfinished. Thinking about it that way makes things easier.

In any case, I will treat today as the true start of my working year and move forward with a fresh mindset.

Somehow, I Managed to Finish It

 I spent the entire morning working on a manuscript.
It was a rush job, but by the end of the day, it was finally done.

I spent the morning pushing myself to write.

Halfway through, I took Anne out for a walk for about an hour.
As expected, there were quite a lot of people out today as well.

The weather was clear, but the wind was cold.

The manuscript was completed in something of a rush, but somehow, I managed to finish it.
There were a few points still bothering me, and I woke up early again this morning because of that.

I wonder if I’ll be able to sleep soundly tonight.

That said, work resumes tomorrow,
so sleeping in is not really an option.

Oh, So It Was the New Year After All

I spent the morning writing, trying to finish what felt like the biggest assignment of the winter holidays.
It wasn’t until later, out on a walk, that I finally realized—this was the New Year.

The morning was cloudy, but by around noon the sky cleared.

I woke up before six, unable to fall back asleep, and spent the morning focused on writing, determined to finish what I thought of as the biggest homework assignment of the winter break.

By midday, I reached a stopping point and went out to walk Anne.

The strong winds from the day before had not yet died down, and fallen leaves were swirling everywhere.

Perhaps because the Sagichō ritual on the fifteenth has not yet passed, there were still many people out for their first shrine visit of the year.

This year, between being in mourning and being away from Japan, I had almost no sense of the New Year at all.
Only today did I finally realize that.

 

Anne Is Back Too

 While I was away in Boston, my hometown, Anne was also spending time back where she came from.

While I was visiting my hometown of Boston, our flat-coated retriever, Anne, was staying with her breeder—her own place of origin.

Today, we went to pick her up.

Among many puppies, Anne alone turned toward us, letting out small, excited cries.

She remembered us.

On the way home, we took her for a short walk, and she seemed to remember the timing of everything.

Now, everyone is together again.

 

An Unexpected Pile of Winter Homework

 After returning to work and sharing chocolates from my trip, I casually remarked on how cold Japan felt. That small comment opened the door to a realization—not only about the weather, but about the work quietly waiting for me.

 

As I was handing out chocolates from my trip at work, I remarked that Japan felt cold.
Apparently, the cold had intensified over the past few days.

It felt colder than I remembered.
Rather than comparing it to New York, I had the distinct impression that this winter was colder than last year.

For me, the personal threshold for cold is three degrees Celsius.
Once it drops below that, the cold sinks deep into my body.

Some might say that this is nothing to complain about, but I have always been sensitive to the cold, and there is little I can do about it.

Last year, I don’t recall many days like this, but yesterday and today the temperature hovered around two degrees.
The only small consolation is that sunrise seems to be coming a little earlier each day.

Yesterday, I felt somewhat drowsy during the day, but thanks to the efforts of my colleagues while I was away, I managed to get through it.

Then I started sorting through my emails—and realized just how much work had piled up.

None of it was new.
These were tasks I had optimistically assumed I could finish during the twenty hours spent on round-trip flights. In reality, I spent most of that time watching movies, and I lacked the concentration to do anything productive.

What became clear was that the workload demanded far more than I had anticipated.

Some items are already pressing up against their deadlines, and there is no choice but to tackle them now.

It feels like starting on winter vacation homework after the new term has already begun.
Complaining won’t change anything.
All I can do is press on.

 

New York Was an Intense City

After returning from New York, I found myself strangely sensitive to cold, fatigue, and silence.
What unsettled me most, however, was not the jet lag—but the quiet uniformity I felt upon coming home.

 

While I was in New York, I was surprised by the cold day after day.
Still, when I compared it with weather reports from Japan, it seemed no colder than Aomori or Sapporo.
If I thought of it as similar to northern Japan, it felt manageable.

Then came this morning in Kamakura: zero degrees Celsius.

That was cold.

In New York, perhaps by coincidence, the lowest temperature was three degrees.
Yet somehow, Kamakura felt far colder.

Yesterday, I stayed awake for most of the flight, making an effort to endure the long hours.
As a result, my body ached all over.
Exhausted, I passed through customs and then faced a simple question: how should we get back to Kamakura?

When I return to Haneda from a business trip, my wife usually picks me up by car.
This time, however, she had been traveling with me.
On the way out, we had reserved a flat-rate taxi, and she even brought my luggage along.
On the return trip, though, the arrival time was uncertain, so we did not make such arrangements.

Taking a taxi from Haneda to Kamakura would be expensive, and buses toward Yokohama have been significantly reduced.
In the end, we decided to take the Keikyu Line and then transfer to JR.

We arrived around 5 p.m., right in the middle of the evening rush hour.
Still, many people on the train were carrying large suitcases, and somehow we managed to blend into the crowd.

 

Even so, the silence of Japanese trains is unsettling.

The noise and chaos of the New York subway were stressful in their own way, but the quiet, wordless atmosphere I felt after returning to Japan was eerie.
No one stared openly at our luggage, yet we seemed to be recognized as a category—people with large suitcases—from which a faint sense of discomfort radiated.

Everyone had black hair.
Body types were nearly identical.

I wonder how visitors from abroad perceive this uniformity.

I had never felt this way when returning from overseas before.
Yet this time, coming back from New York, the sensation was unmistakable.

Was that city truly different from all the others in the world?

Heading Home — New York Stay, Day 13

 At the end of last year, I abruptly announced that I would be taking a break from my blog and then closed it without much explanation.
The reason was simple: I was going to be away from home for a while, and it felt wiser to stay quiet.
Now that I am finally heading back to Japan, I feel it is safe enough to share the last moments of this journey.

Last night, as I looked out at the city lights, I realized it would be the last time—at least for now.
That thought made the view feel especially profound.

I had felt slightly feverish, but by morning my temperature was back to normal.
The sore throat and cough had also eased considerably.

I managed to call an Uber to JFK on my own without any trouble.
The driver was a sincere-looking young man who told me he had come from Nepal and had been living in New York for four years.
It must be incredibly hard to make a life in a place like this, yet he seemed to be doing his best.
He also said he had many friends in Japan.

“Japan is safe,” he told me.
“New York is dangerous.”

Staying in New York long-term would surely be exhausting, yet I cannot say I never want to return.
Still, that feeling probably exists only because I am on the plane right now.
Once I breathe the familiar air of Japan again, I suspect New York will quickly fade from my mind.

I may be a little too old now to broaden my horizons as much as I once hoped.
But at last, I was able to set foot on the land where I was born.
That alone allowed me to bring a long-unresolved chapter of my life to a close.

This journey was one in which I was able to complete something profoundly important to me.

 

 

The Final Day, Feeling Unwell — New York Stay, Day 12

 On the day before our return to Japan, I woke up feeling feverish.
Rather than letting it worsen, I decided to rest and take care of myself.
From the room, familiar landmarks of New York were still quietly in view.

Just as we were about to head home, I woke up feeling uncomfortably warm.
Before things could get worse, I chose to rest and recuperate.

Looking out from the room, I could see both the Empire State Building and the newer tourist attraction, Edge.
All things considered, it was not such a bad place to take it easy.

At lunchtime, we ate at a restaurant near Central Park.
Seeing my daughter arrive with her employee badge hanging from her neck, I felt quietly reassured—she must be doing her job properly and steadily.

The television was filled with news about Venezuela.
My English is not good enough to fully grasp the details, but the commentators seemed careful not to offer strong opinions.

From an objective standpoint, one could argue that in a dictatorship where so many citizens have fled the country, the emergence of someone worthy of the Nobel Peace Prize suggests an extraordinary situation—one in which a helping hand was extended amid chaos.

That said, had there been no oil, the world might not have paid much attention at all.
It is a complicated story.

It was startling to think that somewhere in this vast city, such a person might be detained.
Yet New York itself seemed entirely indifferent.

With the New Year holidays over, the city had returned to its usual calm.
In restaurants, women who were clearly affluent chatted cheerfully, as if none of this had anything to do with them.

 

Back in the room, I lay down and slept deeply.
When I woke up, the fever had gone down.

A great relief.
Tonight, I plan to sleep well again.