‘It is not for me to say that one system is better than another. That is the domain of politics and reformers. I’m content just to sniff out scraps of information, here and there, and wonder if the smell comes from the wine of Bordeaux, the beer of Belgium, or from onion soup. And I wait for confirmation.

My observations are not scientific, they are simply sensations. My feelings are more or less dulled, like those of all civilised people who have received a modern education, that is, who are under the pressure of various systems.

However, I try to revive my feelings, to purify them, so as not to confuse wine with beer’²Tsuda Itsuo, The Way of the Gods, Chap. I, 2021, Yume Editions, p. 12.

But what is the point of reviving one’s sensations, one might ask? For many people, sensation is rather cumbersome. Or perhaps we should only feel good things, things that are fun and beautiful. Unfortunately (or fortunately?), sensation is a whole, inseparable and necessary to human beings. It is ‘a vital activity that enables [civilised men and women] to grasp the real world’³Tsuda Itsuo, One, Chap. V, 2016, Yume Editions, p. 35, said Tsuda sensei.

Through his philosophical research and dual training (Japanese for body practices, Western for anthropology and sociology), Tsuda Itsuo attempted to show what we lose by becoming insensitive. To show that despite the apparent short-term advantages of no longer feeling, we come out diminished, weakened. His journey led him to understand that the more we surround ourselves with objects and technologies that help and support us, the more we rely on them to do things, and the more we gradually lose the ability to do things ourselves.

This is not a bad thing in itself and is part of our evolutionary capabilities. Palaeo-anthropologist Pascal Picq writes on this subject:

‘Technical and cultural innovations are in fact the causes of our biological transformations. […] Since Erectus, behavioural and cultural factors have themselves become drivers of evolutionary change: biology and culture are weaving increasingly complex interactions, even into the most fundamental aspects of what it means to be human.’⁴Pascal Picq, Et l’évolution créa la femme [And Evolution Created the Woman], pub. Odile Jacob (Paris), 2020, p. 243

Problems arise when we are so supported from all sides that we become incapable of doing things for ourselves. It is not a question of rejecting all technological progress, but of taking into account what we lose with each dependency. Tsuda sensei regretted that ‘[w]e are flooded by rubbish science that removes any chance we have of exercising our ability to focus our attention and to feel.’⁵One (op. cit.), Chap. XIV, p. 105

Perceiving life in all things

Tsuda Itsuo, as a Japanese man and with his anthropological perspective, highlighted the differences in approach between East and West. Not to rank them or pit them against each other, but rather so that they could enrich each other. Among the main features of the traditional Japanese vision, Noguchi Hiroyuki (from Seitai creator Noguchi Haruchika’s family) talks about the notion of Perceiving life in all things as an essential axis of the concept of life for the Japanese. Acknowledging the omnipresence of life was the cornerstone of the Japanese human experience and gave everyone the certainty that all things are connected. It can be said that Western society, which has been built since the Enlightenment, is based on reference points external to man, such as the movement of the planets for its calendar, the division of time based on mathematical calculation, the measurement of temperatures by a centesimal scale, etc. The predominant character is one of abstraction and objectivity.

Yet we all know that an hour spent in pleasant company passes more quickly than an hour on the underground or at the office, if we are bored. It even passes more quickly than fifteen minutes waiting for a bus. It is all about the frame of reference: to be organised as a society, we need an external frame of reference, but human perception is based on our own frames of reference, which are our sensations, which are totally subjective and depend on our state of mind, the situation, etc.

In contrast, more than a century ago, Japanese society was entirely based on direct experience and the sensitive relationship between humans and their environment and themselves. The point of reference was sensation. For example, the traditional calendar was calculated according to the rhythm of the seasons and the life cycles of animals. Thus, it changed every year and placed more importance on how people experienced the seasons than on dates. In music, it was the rhythm of walking that set the tempo, not the metronome. Similarly, in all areas of craftsmanship, masters (dyers, potters, blacksmiths, carpenters, etc.) considered the materials they used to be alive. What mattered most was the sensitivity that was exercised in the relationship between man and the material he was working with.

It is also worth noting that all ancient cultures had this type of individual-based approach as long as they were not systematically organised by official knowledge, which was often disconnected from the changing reality on the ground. This practical knowledge, in touch with people’s reality, is called vernacular knowledge. Anthropologist James Scott gives an example:

‘A case in point is the advice given by Squanto [a Native American] to white settlers in New England about when to plant a crop new to them, maize. He reportedly told them to “plant corn when the oak leaves were the size of a squirrel’s ear”.’⁶James Campbell Scott, Two Cheers for Anarchism, 2012, Priceton University Press, p. 31

James Scott points out that a farmer’s almanac would have indicated a date or a period, but that a date would not have taken into account the differences between each year, the differences between a field in the north and a field that benefits from longer hours of sunshine. A single prescription is ill-suited to the context, whereas a vernacular indication is based on the person who can make this rigorous observation of spring events, which occur every year, but differently each time, earlier or later. Vernacular knowledge is not transferable or universal, but it is very true and real for those who experience it directly.

Seitai

The same question arises in relation to the body. The same reversal of the frame of reference also applies, because rather than starting from general medical knowledge, which has undeniable value but is difficult to adapt to a changing reality that is unique to each individual, Seitai does not take as its basis external references such as weight, temperature or analyses, however sophisticated and accurate they may be, but rather the individual’s overall condition. Internal sensations are the guides to balance and health.

The concept of Seitai, created by Noguchi Haruchika sensei in the 1950s, differs significantly from conventional approaches to healthcare. His view of the body’s activity is based on the observation that the body has a natural ability to rebalance itself in order to function properly. And if we listen to its need for balance, if we are sensitive enough to its signals, the body will maintain its balance on its own in most cases.

Health is not considered to be the absence of illness, as illness is merely a symptom of the body working to restore its balance. It was during his years of intense activity as a practitioner that Noguchi Haruchika realised, on the one hand, that by constantly seeking to make life easier or to protect oneself in order to stay healthy, the body weakens, leading to the need for new support, etc., and on the other hand that if the body hardens to the point of becoming insensitive, it is also weak because it lacks the flexibility that allows for responsiveness:

‘Impatient people imagine that they are in good health because they are never sick. But if the body is sensitive to a bad stimulus, resists it, overcomes it and orders itself, the body’s safety valve is working and you pass through an illness’. ‘If a leper is injured, he feels no pain. If the body does not feel that something is wrong, its restorative powers are not aroused. The body only reacts if it can feel that something is abnormal.’ ‘It is necessary to make the extra-pyramidal system sensitive so that the body’s recuperative powers naturally arise to correct even small abnormalities. It is from this point of view that I teach katsugen undô.’⁷Noguchi Haruchika, Order, Spontaneity and the Body, ‘II — Katsugen Undô’, ‘Getting the Body in Good Order’, 1984, Zensei Publishing Company (Tōkyō), pp. 71–2, 73 & 73–4

Katsugen undō – a practice from Seitai, translated as Regenerating Movement by Tsuda sensei – therefore has the particular function of sensitising the body. We become more sensitive, our sensations become more refined. This does not mean that we will never need assistance; it all depends on our body’s capabilities. Again, there is no absolute truth, only the sensation that guides us in knowing whether we need help or whether our body is reacting normally to a disturbance.

Over time, the sensation of our physical and mental states becomes more refined and precise. Similarly, our perception of the states of others becomes much clearer. Through the practice of Yuki in pairs during Katsugen undō, we are led not to intervene in others, but simply to merge through a light touch on the back and attention to breathing. Gradually, our perception of others becomes much more penetrating; we are no longer satisfied with the words they say to us or the social masks they wear. It is not a question of falling into interpretation or analysis. We remain simple in the face of these natural sensations, although they are often forgotten.

Aikidō

Another tool used in our School to sensitise the body is Aikidō. People practise it for various reasons, of course, but one of the consequences of practising Aikidō can be increased sensitivity if one takes a certain orientation. Master Sunadomari’s School, for example, attaches great importance to three principles: Ki no nagare (circulation/flow of ki⁸[ki no nagare: 気 の 流れ]), Kokyū Ryoku (breathing/rhythm⁹[for the interpretation of kokyū ryoku 呼吸 力 as “rhythm”, see e. g.: ‘Kokyū ryoku consists in harmonizing one’s ki with aite’s’, Sunadomari Kanshu, interview by Léo Tamaki (in French), Dragon Magazine Special Aikido n° 18, Oct. 2017]) and Sesshoken Ten (contact with the partner through ki¹⁰[probably comes from sessuru 接する]). It can be said that these principles are also the foundations of the Itsuo Tsuda School and that they require us to refine our senses in order to discover and put them into practice.

It is not surprising that constant attention to certain sensations develops them. Researchers studying proprioception are impressed by the capabilities of what they consider to be a sense in its own right, and one that can be trained. They are currently conducting studies to see how, in certain professions for example, we develop a keen sense of proprioception that encompasses our environment and others. This can be seen spectacularly with the pilots of the National Aerobatic Team, who perform a preparation ritual before each flight. This ritual is called ‘the music’. Sitting on a chair, each team member mimics the piloting movements of the sequence according to the leader’s commands. This is how the pilots’ minds rehearse the choreography of a breathtaking aerial display. During the performance, they say themselves that they will not have time to think; they will be guided by their internal sensations, which they train daily.

It is in this same spirit that we all practise in the morning, quite slowly. There are more dynamic moments in a session, of course, but a lot of slow work that requires a certain amount of concentration and attention to our sensations. It is also necessary to pay attention to what the other person is giving us back, as this will confirm whether or not we are in the right line and at the right angle. It is not a matter of objective measurements, millimetres or anything else, but rather the sensation of the other person, Uke or Tori, which will determine whether we have performed a correct Kuzushi or a sufficient Tenkan at that moment.

In the last part of the session, we always do what we call free movement, a free exercise where the partner(s) attack(s) Tori as they see fit. Each tori must deal with their uke’s attacks by reacting spontaneously, as it is impossible to predict the movement and there are no instructions. As we do this exercise every day, everyone participates regardless of their level. Beginners often tense up and become fearful, so Uke must slow down and make more predictable attacks so that Tori has time to sense them. The goal is not to execute the technique at all costs or to block Tori. The goal is still to practise your sense, the one that allows you to take the attack in stride, deflect it and move at the same time without calculation. Gradually, by practising slowly, you can speed up more and more, and it becomes more spontaneous. Then, the speed of the attack, its commitment, or making it less predictable, will no longer be a problem, because you will be in the tempo.

I remember very well that my piano teachers all made a distinction between when I played fast to keep the right tempo, and they would say to me, dissatisfied, ‘it’s fast, rushed, hurried’, and when, through hard work, I managed to play fast, but it seemed controlled. Then it was no longer fast. That was the right tempo, even though it was the same objective speed on the metronome, or even faster, as I checked with rage! The sensation of speed depends on the musician’s control and the listener’s perception. In short, it depends on how the unique moment is felt.

The great conductor Sergiu Celibidache refused to make concert recordings because, for him, they captured a moment that was perfectly in tune with reality, turning it into a frozen, reproducible moment that became false once taken out of context. For him, tempo was not a matter of physical time, it was not a metronomic datum but a condition for musical expression.

The sense of touch

In many martial arts, the acquisition of special abilities to sense attacks before they happen has been the subject of research and fascination. Yomi, Hyōshi, Metsuke, Yi, etc.¹¹[yomi 読み (reading), hyōshi 拍子 (rhythm), metsuke 目付 (“laying of the gaze”), yi 意 (Chin.: intent)], all these “concepts” refer to this, to heightened senses, which are obviously necessary in real combat. But there is an even more mundane sense that our society is increasingly forgetting, reaching a climax today: the simple sense of touch. Yet this primary, “simple” sense is vital to us.

It may be sad that we have to wait for researchers to confirm what we know intuitively, but touch is literally a vital sense. It is the first sense to develop in infants and the last to decline at the end of life. While the other senses decline, the skin nerve fibres that respond to touch remain active for the most part until the end. It is the first and last mode of communication between humans. More importantly, physical contact is a vital need: being touched is essential for proper physical, immune and brain development. Without regular physical contact during childhood, the consequences are numerous and catastrophic. Even for adults, being deprived of physical contact for too long leads to physical and psychological problems. According to Francis McGlone, one of the leading neuroscientists studying touch, ‘touch is as essential as the air we breathe and the food we eat. […] The risk of premature death from smoking, diabetes or pollution is around 40%. The risk from loneliness is 45%. But no one has yet really realised that what lonely people are missing is precisely physical contact.’¹²Prof. Francis Philip Mcglone, quoted in Die Macht der sanften Berührung [The Power of Gentle Touch], documentary by Dorothee Kaden, 2020, Arte production [(Eng. transl. from the French, emphasis added by M. S.)]

Furthermore, according to this research, the body becomes unaccustomed to touch and therefore finds it increasingly difficult to tolerate being touched, even though the damage caused by this absence is felt. There is a process of desensitisation. This is in line with Tsuda sensei’s view that: