I recently attended the funeral of a person who had been a tremendous support to me since my youth. He was a handsome gentleman, the very image of a refined Ginza businessman. He also had a playful streak that instantly put those around him at ease. He had long served as the head of an industry association and, despite my youth and inexperience, he always welcomed my ideas with an open mind. As the time came to send him off, memories of him in his prime came flooding back, and I couldn’t hold back the tears.

“We all reach our time eventually.”

　That’s how I always feel when I attend a funeral. Eventually, after bidding farewell to family, relatives, and those who have supported or shared time with us—whether in work or personal life—our own turn will inevitably come. I believe it is of utmost importance that we live our lives mindful of this inevitable and undeniable reality. In other words, it is our awareness of death that allows us to truly appreciate the fullness of life. Few people wake up each morning with an awareness of death, thinking, “I’m lucky to be alive today.” That is precisely why those occasions when we encounter the death of others hold such profound importance. In that sense, I see funerals not as events concerning others, but as deeply personal experiences.
These days, however, fewer and fewer people attend funerals. This trend is very unfortunate, because funerals present an important opportunity to reflect on one’s own life by witnessing the passing of others.　

　I consider myself fortunate that my work in end-of-life planning has made me more aware than most that life will inevitably come to an end, and that our time is finite.

“Another 20 years.”

　This is the remaining time I have set for myself at the age of 62. Incidentally, the average life expectancy for Japanese men is about 81, but for Japanese men who reach old age, the most common age of death is around 88. Given that, I might live a little longer. However, if I think of life not just as the time my heart keeps beating, but as the time I remain healthy and independent—a crucial distinction, then 20 years still seems like a reasonable estimate. When I saw the lifeless body of the mentor I mentioned at the beginning of this column, I envisioned the moment when my own turn would come. Right now, I feel like a child at an elementary school sports event, sitting at the very end of the line in a crouched position, waiting for my turn to start the 50-meter dash.
　
　When you become aware of how many years you have left, your priorities change. Obviously, the first thing is time. Recognizing its value, you begin to contemplate how to use it meaningfully. You reflect on what you want to accomplish and what truly matters to you, and choose to spend your time on those things.
　Then comes money. We don’t know what the afterlife is like, but it’s hard to imagine money having any use there. That means you still need money for your remaining years, but it’s not as important as it once was. By being conscious of your remaining years in this way, you can develop a new perspective on time and money, allowing you to lead a more fulfilling life. That’s what I wanted to convey here.
　
　This is what I define as “end-of-life planning,” and through my involvement in work related to this, I hope to be of service to society and others. By helping more people live happily in our aging society, I wish to repay my debt of gratitude to those who have supported me and make a difference for future generations. While completely transcending worldly concerns is impossible, I hope to live out my remaining years with purpose, finding the right balance between practical needs and a meaningful life.

Hirotaka Shimizu
Chairman and CEO
Kamakura Shinsho, Ltd.

Image material：PIXTA