A Happiness One in 650,000 | Naoyuki Agawa (Vice-President in charge of Shonan Fujisawa Campus)

2008.08.21

When I was in elementary school, I was always terribly bored during summer vacation. I had more than enough time, but nothing to do. It was hot when I moved. I had already read most of the books I owned. I couldn't stand insect collecting. I didn't want to do the homework that had piled up. Even though I knew the last few days before the new semester would be a disaster, I couldn't get motivated. The chirping of cicadas was noisy. I was hungry. There was still a long time until dinner. With nothing else to do, I just stared into space. In short, I was a lazy child.

One of the reasons I became a university professor was this summer vacation. Even if the salary was low, there was summer vacation. I could spend nearly two months just spacing out. Just like in elementary school, with so much time on my hands, I could read books and write. I could probably go on spontaneous trips. I was tired of being chased by time as a company employee or a lawyer. With that in mind, I looked forward to becoming a university faculty member.

But what happened? Contrary to my expectations, the profession of a teacher is incredibly busy. Sure, there's a summer vacation, but there's no free time. "It was my fault for believing I could take the whole summer off, I was such a fool" (I think there was an enka song like that). It's been especially miserable since I became a dean. I used to teach at an American law school every September. I can't do that anymore. Work from the university chases me. Editors chase me. I'm scared to open my email every morning.

This summer, too, as soon as the exam period ended and the vacation began, I became even busier. The only exception was at the end of July when I was invited aboard a U.S. Navy Aegis destroyer and spent a relaxing day at sea. (Writing about this would take too long, so I'll reluctantly skip it). After that, I read and graded student reports, went on a seminar retreat, taught 14 consecutive class periods over four days at Doshisha University in Kyoto, wrote a newspaper column, spent three consecutive nights with scholars in Kyoto, wrote another manuscript, handled my duties as dean over the phone, and replied to emails. Ah, I was exhausted. I felt dizzy twice during class. I thought, "Is this it? Am I finally going to 'die in Kyoto'?"

I returned home on August 9, and since then, I've been working nonstop at home. I had to finish a major paper that was due at the end of July, so from morning till night, I was constantly at my computer, writing and rewriting. Writing every day, it grew to the equivalent of 100 pages of 400-character manuscript paper, and the editor told me it was too long. So I cut 30 pages, and I'm still working on it now. From morning to night, day after day, it's a battle with writing. On top of that, even though it's the middle of summer vacation, the deadline for the "Okashira Nikki" (Dean's Diary) is approaching. By early September, I have three more manuscripts and three lectures. Ah, why did I agree to take on so much? By the time I finish all this piled-up work, summer will probably be over.

Since working all the time is bad for my health, I decided to swim every day at the municipal pool near my home. For a 200-yen admission fee, I can swim for an hour. If I go in the evening, it's not too crowded. After 6:00 p.m., the lights come on for night swimming. I take a cold shower, jump into the pool, and briskly swim 400 meters freestyle in one go. (In reality, I'm gasping for air and barely staying afloat).

The pool at dusk is nice. It gradually gets dark, and the green of the trees around the pool deepens. The lights reflect and glitter on the water. In the darkness, a bright blue space extends over the pool and its surroundings, where men and women jump, float, and move through the water as they please. Swallows skim the water's surface as they fly by. A butterfly flutters past over the pool. Floating on my back, I see a patch of sky open up in the city, and clouds glide from east to west.

There is a work by the nonfiction writer Bill Bryson titled "A Short History of Nearly Everything" (the Japanese title is "Jinrui ga Shitteiru Koto Subete no Mijikai Rekishi"). It is a wonderful book that describes, in simple and humorous prose, the process from the birth of the universe to the emergence of life and the appearance of humankind, as well as the unique scientists who discovered, researched, and theorized about it. I highly recommend it to all you students who have too much time on your hands during summer vacation.

In the book's introduction, the author states that "you" are made up of tens or hundreds of trillions of atoms. Moreover, for "you" to exist, all of "your" ancestors had to meet correctly, reproduce correctly, and successively create new generations without a single mistake over the past 3.8 billion years. And yet, "you" will only exist in this world for an average of 650,000 hours.

Since a day has 24 hours, a year has 8,760 hours. If you divide 650,000 hours by 8,760, you get 74 years. With some wishful thinking, I feel I might live a little longer, but I could also die sooner. Well, let's just say life is 650,000 hours. In my case, I've already used up about 500,000 hours. I only have 150,000 hours left.

My swim at the pool today was for one hour, due to the admission fee structure. (If I stay longer, I'll get pruney, and I'd have to pay another 300 yen). That was one 650,000th of my life, and one 150,000th of my remaining time. When I was a child, I thought I had all the time in the world, but now there's hardly any left. As I gazed blankly at the sky with its flowing clouds from the pool water, a sense of both transience and happiness deeply touched my heart.

(Date of publication: 2008/08/21)