Manon Soavi is an aikidōka and martial arts teacher in the Itsuo Tsuda School in Paris. Her entire childhood was steeped in the philosophy of Non-doing developed by Itsuo Tsuda, whom her parents met in the 1970s. This philosophy, along with the practice of Aikidō and Seitai (the Regenerative Movement), became an integral part of their daily lives. Manon Soavi never attended school, and began practising Aikidō at the age of six and studying classical piano at the age of eleven. As an adult, Manon Soavi complemented her martial arts practice with Japanese sword and jūjutsu; she also worked as a concert pianist and accompanist for over ten years. At the same time, she began teaching Aikidō and the philosophy of Non-doing herself. Today, she devotes herself entirely to passing on this knowledge.
[Oct. 22] We are delighted to announce the publication of Manon Soavi‘s book Itsuo Tsuda, The Anarchist Master, published by L’Originel – Charles Antoni (France)1reunified since 2025 within French publisher L’Originel (Obernai).
Delivery delays are affecting distribution, but it is already possible to order it from your bookshop (which we recommend) or online from the publisher (€19 plus €2.50 postage for France) or from French Fnac or Amazon.
In this essay, Manon Soavi offers an exploration of Itsuo Tsuda‘s philosophy and its points of convergence with libertarian ideals. Indeed, Itsuo Tsuda‘s philosophy draws mainly on two cultures that are rarely considered on the same level: Taoism and anarchism. Anarchism, like Taoism, is a path to freedom, but in order to bring about other modes of existence and relationship, as proposed by anarchism, humans must first and foremost rediscover themselves, their unity of being and their power to act.
In parallel, and based on Itsuo Tsuda‘s philosophical and historical trajectory, Manon Soavi brings his ideas into dialogue with those of other thinkers, philosophers, researchers and scholars, such as Miguel Benasayag, Jean François Billeter, Mona Chollet, Guy Debord, Ivan Illich, Emma Goldman… She thus addresses topics related to the capacity for self-determination, the search for autonomy, the reversal of perspectives, and the change of relational paradigms.
Click on the image to enlarge the summary:
Several events are planned to present the book and meet Manon Soavi, including on 8 November at Tenshin dōjō in Paris and on 19 November at Yuki Hō dōjō in Toulouse. For a complete list of bookshop events, visit this page.
Vidéo de présentation
Notes
1
reunified since 2025 within French publisher L’Originel (Obernai)
Our world is sick with violence (whether physical, verbal, psychological, symbolic, social, economic, etc.), sick with a dominant model based on competition, appropriation and fear that has been in place for centuries. From the powerful who own the world to our entertainment and media, violence is everywhere. The world often leaves us no choice: we either perpetrate violence or suffer it, or even both1this title is a reference to The World We Live In: Self-Defence by Edith Garrud (newspaper Votes for Women, 4 March 1910). For women, violence is often inherent in the very fact of being born female. Throughout our lives, we will be underestimated, mistreated and judged against the male model to which we are constantly compared. Martial arts are no exception to the rule: violence, condescension and sexist comparisons do exist. Much more than we want to admit.
Violence is therefore a festering wound that affects us all, with women unfortunately on the front line. While Aikidō is obviously not a solution to all the world’s problems, I believe that this art can be an exceptional tool for women to break free from the constraints imposed on them. It is a path that can lead us to overcome violence and escape the dualism of victim or perpetrator. To achieve this, I believe that the first step is to reclaim the issue of violence so that it is no longer seen as an inevitable fate.
Fate? Or political choices?
To do this work, we need to break free from certain deeply ingrained patterns of thinking. The historically narrow view that women have been subordinate to men since the dawn of time is no longer relevant. As some researchers have shown2cf. e. g. Marylène Patou-Mathis, Neanderthal, Une autre humanité [Neanderthal, Another Humanity], 2006, éd. Perrin (Paris), coll. Tempus; and Alison Macintosh, ‘Prehistoric women’s manual labor exceeded that of athletes through the first 5500 years of farming in Central Europe’, Science Advances, Vol. 3, No. 11, 29 Nov. 2017, during the thousands of years of prehistory, like other species in the animal kingdom, women and men gathered, hunted, cared for others, fought and used projectile weapons. As people became more sedentary, the status of women deteriorated throughout the world, but it was in Europe, during the Renaissance, that religion and political power brought about a decisive turning point in the history that shaped us. In her book In Defense of Witches, author Mona Chollet explores the immense violence of the witch hunts in Europe in the 15th and 16th centuries. These mass crimes, which have been largely ignored, not only killed thousands of women and children under the pretext of “witchcraft”, but also helped shape the world we live in today ‘by sometimes wiping out entire families, spreading terror, and mercilessly repressing certain behaviours and practices that are now considered intolerable’3Mona Chollet, In Defense of Witches: The Legacy of the Witch Hunts and Why Women Are Still on Trial, Introduction, ‘ “A Victim of The Moderns, Not of The Ancients” ’, pub. St. Martin’s Press, March 2022. [Our transl. from the original French: Sorcières, la puissance invaincue des femmes, 2018, pub. La découverte (Paris), p. 13] . The status of women was already difficult, but this historical episode marked a historic turning point in our world. Our European culture would establish itself as the dominant universal model, a consequence, among other things, of our conquests. In her book, Mona Chollet analyses the deep trauma that would remain with women and the indelible message that would be engraved and passed down from generation to generation, from woman to woman: submit! Do not rebel, for those who did so paid dearly.
Women of the 21st century, we are the heirs to this ultra-violent past, and the wound still festers, kept alive by the accumulation of violence today. In a number of countries, it is true that we no longer risk being burned and tortured – but that is because it is no longer necessary, as we have accepted the rules of the game and have even internalised violence to such an extent that we often no longer see it! And if we ever doubt, violence will always be there to remind us, in case we forget our place.
Master Bow Sim Mark. Kung Fu expert in Wudangquan Shaolin Style (Tai chi, Bagua, Tanglangquan boxing) and mother of actor Donnie Yen (star of _Ip man_ movies by Wilson Yip. Photo courtesy of Bow Sim Mark Tai Chi Arts Association.)
Women and violence
As a woman who practises and teaches martial arts (aikidō, jūjutsu, kenjutsu), I cannot help but feel concerned by this issue and seek answers. While yesterday’s society told women that they should not react, today’s society seems to oscillate between perpetuating this silence and immobility and suggesting that we become as aggressive as men (at work, in love, in combat, etc.). Are we then condemned, in order to liberate ourselves, to become as violent as men? Is this desirable? And can we compete on the same level?
Should we, like Hollywood, make the same action films but with female heroes to keep up with the times? Personally, while I do not doubt for a moment the power of women, I doubt that this is the right way to express it. So how can we find the right balance?
First, we must go back to the root cause: education. From childhood onwards, boys are allowed to occupy space, run, climb, kick a ball around, compete with each other, test their bodies and thus gain confidence in their developing bodies. Girls, on the other hand, are more or less excluded from this space. They are confined to more static games and cute, frivolous toys. Not to mention the clothes “so pretty” that hinder them. Their bodies are thus denied the experience of unfolding and discovering their power. We are conditioned to internalise any expression of violence and seek to please others. Fictional female role models will also show us the way.
As I have already said, I did not go to school and was not educated “like a girl”. I therefore remember my anger as a teenager at the lack of reaction from female characters in books and films. I did not understand why they were so submissive, so passive, or why they became schemers working in the shadows, using their charms to get revenge. As a result, I did not identify with the female characters at all, but always with the male characters, who took action, fought for great causes, and were free to do as they pleased.
As adults, women still find it very difficult to allow themselves to react to violence. I am not saying that victims are responsible for their assaults, absolutely not! But we are thus doubly punished, as Virginie Despentes says: ‘An ancestral, relentless political enterprise teaches women not to defend themselves. As usual, there is a double bind: we are made to understand that there is nothing more serious [than rape], and at the same time, that we must neither defend ourselves nor seek revenge.’4Virginie Despentes, King Kong Theory, ‘She’s so depraved, you can’t rape her’ (3rd Part), 2009, pub. Serpent’s Tail (London), p. 37. Trans. from the original French: 2006, pub. Grasset (Paris) I recently spoke with a young woman (an engineer and team leader in her company) about how difficult it is to break out of this pattern. She said that she was often afraid of her own violence if she reacted, so she often let the aggressor have his way, waiting a little longer (it may be “just” inappropriate gestures, heavy flirting or other ordinary violence) rather than reacting and having that reaction judged as disproportionate or hysterical.
Why is this the case? Is it fundamentally feminine? Philosopher Elsa Dorlin provides some answers by discussing a process she calls ‘the fabrication of defenceless bodies’5Elsa Dorlin, Se défendre : une philosophie de la violence [Defending Oneself: A Philosophy of Violence], 2017, pub. La Découverte (Paris), p. 21 or p. 66. This philosopher studies the ways in which bodies considered subordinate (slaves, colonised peoples, women, etc.) find their ability to defend themselves restricted, in the broadest sense of the term. For her, if women are “defenceless”, it is because of social forces that have been at work for centuries. We are taught that if we react, things will get worse, that it is inevitable that we will be attacked at some point, and that men will always be stronger. This male superiority is often nothing more than a fantasy.
Shimada Teruko sensei, expert of Jikishin-kage-ryū. Photo from Michel Random’s book _Les arts martiaux ou l’esprit des budô_ [Martial Arts or the Spirit of Budō], 1977, pub. Nathan (Paris)
I was “lucky” not to be seriously assaulted; so far, I have “only” experienced “minor” assaults. When I was a young girl, for example, I slept in a shared room in a building reserved for a summer music academy. In the middle of the night, a boy entered the room, whose door had no lock (which had shocked me when I arrived). He was drunk and came in shouting that he wanted to kiss us. Half awake, I heard him lean over the first bed where another girl was sleeping. She protested but was still more or less “groped”. I hear him approaching my bed, he leans over and gets my arm in his face. He is surprised, staggers and leaves the room after a few expletives. I was lucky, yes, and I did not use “Aikidō” to ward him off. But in my mind, I was certain that I was justified in reacting immediately, and that made all the difference. I am not advocating violence for violence’s sake, but the ability to exercise one’s capacity to react, to use the rage that rises within us when we are attacked. But we did not choose to be in this situation! The challenge then is to react effectively and, if possible, proportionately, but in that order of priority.
But practising an art such as Aikidō can be, like Jūjutsu practised by English feminists in the early 20th century, more than just a defensive art, but a “total art“ ‘because of its ability to create new practices of self that are political, physical and intimate transformations. By freeing the body from clothing that hinders movement, by deploying movements […] by exercising a body that inhabits, occupies the street, moves, balances’6ibid. and thus establishes another relationship with the world, another way of being. Little by little, our posture changes from ‘how can I defend myself without hurting anyone’ to ‘being myself’ and what means are at my disposal to maintain my integrity. Perhaps rage will be needed as a force for action, perhaps it will be enough to stand up and say ‘no’. It is our determination that will change everything.
Violence or coagulated energy
When we talk about violence, we are not usually referring to the violence of the wind or the violence of the feelings that pass through us. And yet, the word originally referred to willpower, strength (the force of the wind, the heat of the sun, etc.), even deriving from the Latin vis, which can mean life force or vitality! So why is this energy, this vitality, so often expressed through destruction? Tsuda Itsuo sensei explained:
‘When this invisible energy is unleashed, it gives rise to violence without justifiable reason, and then one feels pleasure in hearing shrill cries and crashing sounds. On the other hand, when reason curbs this unleashing, the unconsumed energy coagulates and prevents normal balancing.
[…]
[…] there are a great many people who, simply in order to deal with society, run around in circles in search of an easy solution, and never find the radical solution: the awakening of the being.’7Tsuda Itsuo, The Dialogue of Silence, Chap. VIII, Yume Editions, 2018, p. 68
Once we realise that blocking our energy and reactions traps us in the unbearable role of “victim” and can lead us to express our vitality by destroying others or ourselves, we can then take the next step: working to control violence. Stopping a hand, a word, looking the other person in the eye. Controlling does not necessarily mean restraining violence. It is not easy, but it also means assessing situations to know what the next step will be. We no longer hope that the other person will not approach us; we know that if we wait, it will be too late, and then the violence will be there. One of the tasks at hand is to be more sensitive, to feel our own state and that of others.
In our school, the tools for this awakening, which comes through the body, are Aikidō and Katsugen undō, which is part of Seitai. ‘The principle of Seitai is extremely simple: life always seeks to balance itself, despite the structured ideas we heap upon it. Life acts through our instincts and not our faculty of reason.’8ibid., p. 69 Thus, it is not a matter of external action or letting off steam, but rather a subtle balancing of our own energy. Through the involuntary movement that allows it to flow, it pacifies us from within.
For its part, the practice of Aikidō confronts us with the energy that comes to us from others. How do we deal with this, how do we react? In our school, the answer is harmonisation. Even if the other person is a danger, especially if the other person is a danger, harmonisation is necessary. As Ellis Amdur says, ‘There is, in fact, a naked intimacy in hand-to-hand combat […]. Expertise is not just skill at movement or technique – true expertise is the ability to be as un-barriered as a baby’9Ellis Amdur, Steal the Technique, KogenBudo blog, 21 Mar. 2021. Of course, harmonising does not mean giving up. It is a subtle process that leads to not really using force against force, but to guiding, to channelling that force elsewhere. It is through the areas of focus that are breathing, the development of sensation and non-doing that we practise. This is not a question of cheap non-violence. On the contrary, our dojos offer daily practice, and the intensity will gradually increase, always depending on tori’s ability to maintain these areas of focus, even when faced with attacks that become faster and more demanding. Women find a special place in this work, where they can exercise their abilities and gradually discover that ‘it is not so much a matter of learning to fight as of unlearning not to fight.’10Defending Oneself (op. cit.)
These two practices enable us to regain a more refined sensitivity. Often, in order to cope with things, we end up no longer feeling anything: neither suffering, nor the caress of the wind, nor, unfortunately, danger. Ellis Amdur puts it this way: ‘To truly survive in high-risk encounters, one has to develop an exquisite sensitivity to other people, both one’s own allies and one’s enemies. The development of kan [勘, intuition] is essential.’11Ellis Amdur, Senpai-Kohai: The Shadow Ranking System, KogenBudo blog, 21 Mar. 2021 This ability to sense others and listen to one’s intuition is essential in all aspects of our lives.
Aikidō is not some self-defence, it is much better than that, it is the possibility of rebalancing our relationship with the world. Reconciling with ourselves and the world by rediscovering our inner strength. This may seem very ambitious, but it is a possibility. I know a practitioner who, for years, following the violence she had suffered, had terrible nightmares. She would regularly wake up in the night screaming. When she reached a stage in Aikidō where the intensity of the exchanges increased, she began to react in her dreams. She still had nightmares, but she was no longer passive; she reacted in her dreams so that she would no longer be a victim. This “simple” fact was of paramount importance to her and her journey.
Shimada Teruko sensei, cf. supra
Female gaze
In 1975, film critic Laura Mulvey theorised the male gaze in cinema, characterised by the fact that the camera always has a male point of view, looking at women’s bodies as objects. Since then, some female filmmakers have spoken of a female gaze, which is not the opposite (viewing men’s bodies as objects) but seeks to place itself at the heart of the experience of individuals, particularly women. This monopoly of representation based on the male point of view, highlighted in cinema, can be found in almost all fields.
This is especially true in martial arts, which are seen as almost exclusively masculine because they are warrior arts. But history is written by the victors. As author Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie says, this is the danger of a single story: ‘Start the story with the arrows of the Native Americans, and not with the arrival of the British, and you have an entirely different story.’12Chimanda Ngozi Adichie: The danger of a single story (from 10’30”), UTube channel TED, 7 Oct. 2009 Sometimes, telling the story from the other point of view means repairing deep societal traumas.
As I said earlier, the film industry today shows us more and more female heroes who fight. Although I recognised a certain satisfaction of my teenage frustration in this, I quickly grew tired of it. These women fight “like men” and are not realistic. So they are still not really the kind of female role models I would have wanted when I was sixteen. In Aikidō, as in most fields, the over-representation of men gives us a masculine universe with its physical and mental characteristics as our horizon and model of practice. Women who want to persevere often have to prove that they can perform on the same level as their male counterparts.
I am not advocating a feminine way of practising Aikidō, but rather the possibility that there are other ways of practising that are equally respectable and respected. Moreover, if the idea of a feminine way of practising Aikidō seems so unbearable to us women, it is because we still value a certain perspective, a certain way of doing things. We have done so for so long that we have internalised the superiority of a model that is no longer even masculine, but simply THE model. In order to recognise our excellence, we must compete with this model, in the same way, on the same ground, otherwise it will be a despised sub-discipline. We forget to ask ourselves the fundamental question: why is this male model more justified, more universal? It is, incidentally, a contemporary Western male model, as other cultures have had other models.
This phenomenon can be found in all fields. For example, writer Tanizaki Jun’ichirō explored this issue of the Western monopoly on science:
‘I always think how different everything would be if we in the Orient had developed our own science. Suppose for instance that we had developed our own physics and chemistry: would not the techniques and industries based on them have taken a different form, would not our myriads, which would consequently have evolved along different paths, would we not our myriads of everyday gadgets, our medicines, the products of our industrial art – would they not have suited our national temper better than they do? In fact, our conception of physics itself, and event the principles of chemistry, would probably differ from that of Westerners’.13Tanizaki Jun’ichirō, In Praise of Shadows, 1977, Leete’s Island Books (Sedgwick, state of Maine), p. 7 (Trans. by Thomas J. Harper & Edward George Seidensticker from the original Japanese: 陰翳礼讃, In-ei Raisan, 1933)
The trend towards “situated knowledge” in science follows the same line of thinking. Initiated by women, this trend is based on work that describes and analyses how all scientific knowledge is “situated”, coloured by culture, historical context, and the position (social, gender, etc.) of researchers. According to this trend, all knowledge, even scientific knowledge, is partial, and claiming to have neutral and objective knowledge is an illusion. It is by multiplying points of view and positions, and by explaining and accepting our situated nature, that we can move towards more solid and reliable knowledge.
Another example is that Native Americans can teach us a different way of adapting to the environment than our own:
‘Unlike European peasants stooped to the grind of agriculture, anxiously accumulating grain against future want, the Indian appeared free because confident of his ability to bear hardship; leisured because tough’14Matthew Bunker Crawford, The World Beyond Your Head: On Becoming an Individual in the Age of Distraction, Introduction, ‘Individuality’, 2015, pub. Farrar, Straus and Giroux (New York), p. 19 rather than far-sighted. Would it be possible to live without worrying about the future?
Similarly, is it possible that there is another way to fight? If prehistoric women were capable of fighting, there were also the Celts, the Amazons of Amazonia, several traditions of female warriors in Africa (the Amazons of Dahomey, the Linguères of Senegal, or among the Zulus), and there were also some in China and Japan. Or even Native American women15Patrick Deval, Squaws, la mémoire oubliée [Squaws, The Forgotten Memory], 2014, pub. Hoëbeke (Paris), who could be chiefs, shamans, healers, or warriors. And then there were the women of the French Revolution, the anarchists, and the English suffragettes. And surely there were other forgotten cultures where women were the bearers of specific martial traditions, and there is no reason to think that they could not have been effective in this field, depending on the goals sought. I would give anything to see how they fought, how they took advantage of their physical and psychological characteristics.
Hino Akira Sensei recounts his encounter with Tai Chi Chuan and Shaolin Kung Fu:
‘The teacher was a woman, an old lady who was very flexible. I was perplexed and wondered if it was a form of health gymnastics or a martial art. I asked her the question and she replied that it was a martial art. I then said to her, “Excuse me, but if it is a martial art, would you be so kind as to show me what you would do against a chūdan tsuki, for example?”. She said that was no problem, and I attacked her. Before I knew what was happening, I was thrown!
I thought to myself, “It really exists!”. Although I am not tall, I was still a young man full of vigour, and an old granny had just surpassed my attack with her flexibility. I had just discovered that there really were principles that allowed gentleness to overcome strength. I was stunned, but I had just discovered one of the keys that would allow me to continue my search.’16Léo Tamaki & Frédérick Carnet, Budoka no Kokoro (in French),‘Hino Akira, the Tengu of Wakayama’, Oct. 2013, self-pub.
Why, in Aikidō, could we not also develop our own way of doing things? If Aikidō is unique, it is in its multiplicity, both Yin and Yang, masculine and feminine. It does not matter if a 45kg woman is unable to perform kokyū hō when faced with a ryōte-dori grip from a 70kg man; we are competent precisely because we do not find ourselves in that position! If we move well beforehand, or if as a last resort we headbutt or kick you know where… So why compare? Imagine an arena with a strict rule that tori must wait passively for uke to arrive and grab his wrists in a downward blocking manner. Could the 70-year-old Master Ueshiba in this situation have beaten the 40-year-old Master Ueshiba grabbing his wrists like that? Probably not if he had tried to do as the 40-year-old did. It was precisely because he had a different body, a very different feeling of attack, that he was capable of something else.
It was the same absurdity of comparison within a defined framework that enabled Anton Geesink, a 1.98m tall Dutchman weighing 115 kg, to defeat the Japanese in jūdō in 1961. But was it not absurd to get to that point?
The power of women lies in being women. As Abe Toyoko sensei, a 70-year-old emeritus teacher of Tendō-ryū, says:
‘The first [naginata] tournament I saw my teacher in, it was amazing. She walked her opponent all the way across the hall, from the east side to the west side, not using any technique, just her stance and spirit. Everyone, even the old teachers were enthralled. Then she moved to cut, just once. […] She won the match’. ‘To be like a woman is not simply to be soft. To be woman-like is to be as strong or as soft, as servile or as demanding as a situation calls for: to be appropriate and act with integrity. This […] is the heart of real budo.’17Ellis Amdur, Interview with Abe Toyoko of the Tendo-ryu, KogenBudo blog, 21 Mar. 2021
Paradoxically, it is by developing our specificity that we can create a completely different idea of an art, of a universal science. A multiple universal full of a diversity of colours and forms. An Aikidō that embodies the diversity of human beings in general.
Mona Chollet, In Defense of Witches: The Legacy of the Witch Hunts and Why Women Are Still on Trial, Introduction, ‘ “A Victim of The Moderns, Not of The Ancients” ’, pub. St. Martin’s Press, March 2022. [Our transl. from the original French: Sorcières, la puissance invaincue des femmes, 2018, pub. La découverte (Paris), p. 13]
4
Virginie Despentes, King Kong Theory, ‘She’s so depraved, you can’t rape her’ (3rd Part), 2009, pub. Serpent’s Tail (London), p. 37. Trans. from the original French: 2006, pub. Grasset (Paris)
Tanizaki Jun’ichirō, In Praise of Shadows, 1977, Leete’s Island Books (Sedgwick, state of Maine), p. 7 (Trans. by Thomas J. Harper & Edward George Seidensticker from the original Japanese: 陰翳礼讃, In-ei Raisan, 1933)
14
Matthew Bunker Crawford, The World Beyond Your Head: On Becoming an Individual in the Age of Distraction, Introduction, ‘Individuality’, 2015, pub. Farrar, Straus and Giroux (New York), p. 19
15
Patrick Deval, Squaws, la mémoire oubliée [Squaws, The Forgotten Memory], 2014, pub. Hoëbeke (Paris)
16
Léo Tamaki & Frédérick Carnet, Budoka no Kokoro (in French),‘Hino Akira, the Tengu of Wakayama’, Oct. 2013, self-pub.
Did you know that Morihei Ueshiba, one of the greatest budoka of the 20th century, would shout angrily whenever he saw his students practising: ‘No one here is doing aikido! Only the women are doing aikido!’1words reported by Guillaume Erard in « Entretien avec Henry Kono: Yin et Yang, moteur de l’Aïkido du fondateur » [‘Interview with Henry Kono: Yin and Yang, the Driving Force Behind the Founder’s Aikido’], 22 Apr. 2008 (French available online)?
Fukiko Sunadomari sensei at the Hombu Dōjō, teaching the women’s section, in 1956. in www.guillaumeerard.com
How could a Japanese man with a traditionalist view of the family and the place of women say such a thing and even claim that men are at a disadvantage in aikido because of their use of physical force2these words can be found – at least – in: ► Itsuo Tsuda, The Path of Less, 2014, Yume Editions, Chap. XVI, p. 157 (1st ed. in French: 1975, pub. Le Courrier du Livre (Paris), p. 148) ► Virgina Mayhew’s interview by Susan Perry pub. in Aikido Today #19, Vol. 5, No. 3, fall 1991 (French translation available online) ► Miyako Fujitani, ‘I am glad I have Aikido’, Magazine of Traditional Budo, n. 2, March 2019 (pdf link available online – at page bottom), p. 29 ► Mariye Takahashi, ‘Is Aikido the pratical self-defense for women ?’, Black Belt, Nov. 1964?
These remarks remain relevant today, since mainstream aikido still values strength. So why are these words, which shed light on the path developed by O-sensei, not better known?
This may be due to the silencing of the transmission of Ueshiba O-sensei’s female students. For, beyond the obvious injustice of rendering women invisible, silencing ways of doing things means erasing all memory of the gestures and ideas of the people who did those things. Our actions are nourished by the past, and the less we talk about women’s actions and how they operate, the more limited the range of possibilities is for future generations. We can see this clearly in aikido today: where are the women?
Men do not have to justify the need to be heard, but when it comes to women, we are obliged to justify the interest for everyone. However, men’s experiences cannot “count for everyone”; it does not work that way. Women’s experiences and ways of doing things are specific and different. That is why I am inviting you to discover a woman about whom very little is known, even though the path she followed would have justified her a place in the history of aikido.
Herstory, an militant history?
History is often mistakenly perceived as neutral and factual, when in reality it is a construct of those in power that influences the present. This is why Titiou Lecoq writes: ‘When working on women’s history, female historians are always suspected of being activists. Why should women’s history be militant? Isn’t the history we learn, which is masculine and non-mixed, also a form of militancy?’3Titiou Lecoq, « Tant qu’on ne cherche pas les femmes dans l’Histoire, on ne les trouve pas » [‘As Long as We Don’t Look for Women in History, We Won’t Find Them’], France Inter (French radio broadcast), 19 Sept. 2021 (available online)
The play on words her-story emphasises that history reflects male points of view: his-story. Herstory restores the active role of women in history. In her book The Great Forgotten Ones: Why History Erased Women, Titiou Lecoq explains that her aim ‘was not so much to feminise history as to demasculinise it. The approach is different. Demasculinising or devirilising implies the idea that there was a prior political process of masculinising society.’4Titiou Lecoq, « INTERVIEW: Pourquoi l’histoire a-t-elle effacé les femmes ? » [‘Interview: Why did History Erase Women?’], 7 June 2022, Revue Démocratie (French online review)
Lecoq cites French grammar5[In French, the standard gender is masculine, especially job names, and the plural of a list of items is traditionally masculine as long as at least one item is masculine] as an example of deliberate masculinisation6« Tant qu’on ne cherche pas les femmes dans l’Histoire, on ne les trouve pas », op. cit., as well as the fact that in the Middle Ages there were ‘female doctors, jugglers, goldsmiths, authors, illuminators and cathedral builders, and it was only at the end of this period that men forbade them from practising these professions.’ The masculinisation of society involved erasing women, their stories, their actions and their names.
A very obvious example of this erasure is that of Alice Guy, who invented cinema! While Méliès was interested in creating illusions and others used the camera to document their times, Alice Guy imagined telling fictional stories. In over twenty years, she made around a hundred films as a director, screenwriter and even producer. Yet the Lumière brothers and Méliès enjoyed great posterity despite having much shorter careers. Alice Guy was literally erased: many of her films were deliberately re-attributed to men in the registers, and many of her films were destroyed. She was not even mentioned in cinema encyclopaedias for a long time.
The story of Alice Guy is just a classic example of what happens to female creators. And if a work reaches us, historians question whether they really created it, when they do not outright dispute the existence of the person.
The delegitimisation of women is a form of symbolic violence that plays a major role in the mechanisms of male domination. This is why Aurore Evain advocates for the reintroduction of the term Matrimoine7[In French, patrimoine means heritage, and literally means ‘the inheritance of our fathers’. Matrimoine stands for women’s heritage.], because ‘[t]he symbolic power of language is immense[…]. Naming our matrimoine allows both women and men […] to recognise themselves in male AND female role models.’8Aurore Evain, « Vous avez dit “matrimoine” ? » [‘Did You Say “Matrimoine”?’], Mediapart blog, 25 Nov. 2017 (French available online)
The women’s heritage of aikido
What do we know about the her-story of aikido? Almost nothing. Once again, we need to “demasculinise” history in order to recover the memory of female aikidoka. This is why I wrote about Miyako Fujitani9Manon Soavi, ‘Miyako Fujitani, the “Matilda effect” of Aikido?’, Self&Dragon Spécial Aikido n° 17, April 2024, available online. Since I began my research on Fukiko Sunadomari, I have gone through phases of despondency and anger, as the potential seemed so interesting and yet there were no traces to be found.
Here is what little we know: Fukiko Sunadomari was born on 9th May 1914 into a family of devout followers of the Oomoto Kyō religion. In the late 1930s, she began studying naginata in the Jikishingake school under the guidance of Japan’s greatest expert – a woman –, Hideo Sonobe sensei.
Fukiko Sunadomari with her naginata. Sunadomari family Archives, all rights reserved.
In 1939, Sonobe sensei met Ueshiba O-sensei during a demonstration in Manchuria. She was enthusiastic about it and decided to send some of her advanced female students to learn aikido. This is how Fukiko began at the Hombu Dojo in the 1950s. Her two brothers (Kanemoto and Kanshu) had already begun practising under the guidance of Morihei Ueshiba.Fukiko ‘lived for many years in O-Sensei’s Wakamatsu Dojo in Shinjuku with his family and the live-in uchideshi.’10Stanley Pranin, Historical photo: Morihei Ueshiba, Aspiring Calligrapher!, 6 Nov. 2011, Aikido Journal, available online She held the position of Fujin Buchō (director of the women’s instructor section)11Stanley Pranin, The Aiki News Encyclopedia of Aikido, 1991, pub. Aiki News (Tokyo), p. 106, available online until O-sensei’s death in 1969. This tells us that there was a section for training female instructors! This raises many questions: why a separate class? How did it work, how many were there…?
A letter12Guillaume Erard, « Biographie d’André Nocquet, le premier uchi deshi étranger d’O-sensei Ueshiba Morihei » [‘Biography of André Nocquet, O-sensei Ueshiba Morihei’s First Foreign Uchi Deshi’], 2 Feb. 2013 (Fr. available online) written by Fukiko to André Nocquet’s family reveals that she was a key figure at the Hombu Dojo. She was involved in the dojo’s internal running and was close to the Ueshiba family. She was O-sensei’s confidante and personal assistant for twenty years, during which time he awarded her the rank of sixth dan. There is also a very short video of a demonstration on the roof of a building in Tokyo where O-sensei is seen demonstrating Ki no musubi with Fukiko.
Ueshiba O-sensei and Fukiko Sunadomari, Iwama, 1966
As O-sensei’s assistant, Fukiko often happened to accompany him on trips to the Kansai region, where he taught aikido while visiting long-standing students and friends. During these trips, O-sensei would often choose Fukiko to be his demonstration partner, particularly when teaching women13‘I am glad I have Aikido’, op. cit., p. 26. Fukiko apparently had many unpublished photos from this period14Historical photo: Morihei Ueshiba, Aspiring Calligrapher!, op. cit..
According to aikido researcher Stanley Pranin, Fukiko accompanied O-sensei on a series of trips in the mid-1960s and took the opportunity to gather material for a biography. She took photographs and interviewed former students of Morihei Ueshiba, as well as members of the Oomoto religion who had known him.15ibid.
After O-sensei’s death, she continued her extensive research and co-wrote the first authorised biography, Aikido Kaiso Morihei Ueshiba, with her brother Kanemoto. Of course, she is only mentioned as a collaborator; her brother is the sole official author of the book!
In the mid-1980s, Fukiko wanted to pay tribute to O-sensei by building a small votive temple in his memory in Kumamoto16Simone Chierchini, ‘Paolo Corallini’s Traditional Aikido Dojo’, 31 May 2020, available online. To finance her project, she decided to sell some of the many original calligraphies by O-sensei that he had given her17ibid..
Fukiko Sunadomari passed away on 1st May 2006 in Fujisawa, at the age of 92.
Make history
Stanley Pranin stated:
‘I knew Fukiko Sunadomari very well. Our association began in 1984 and continued through the end of 1996. She loved to come visit the Aiki News office in Tokyo, and we spent hours talking about aikido, Morihei, and the Omoto religion. I have many hours of recordings of our talks, one of which is being transcribed now.
Fukiko Sensei knew a great deal about the Founder’s public and private life due to her living in the Hombu Dojo and role as an assistant to Morihei. […]
[…] Fukiko Sensei’s testimony is very important to a deep understanding of Morihei’s history, character, and art.’18Historical photo: Morihei Ueshiba, Aspiring Calligrapher!, op. cit. (emphasis by M. Soavi)
From right to left: Stanley Pranin, Kanshu Sunadomari, and Fukiko Sunadomari
So, where are these hours of interviews, these articles reporting her words? I have searched thoroughly through all of Pranin’s publications, including books, AikiNews magazines and Aikido Journal issues – both print and web versions. I found nothing. There is no trace of them.
Current Aikido Journal editor Josh Gold confirmed to me that there are no recordings, either digitised or on archive tapes.
Pranin wrote in a short article: ‘[Fukiko] was an outspoken person and distanced herself from the Ueshiba family following Morihei’s death. As such, her comments and recollections are not always suitable for publication, and we have long refrained from releasing transcripts of these recordings, even in edited form. Given time and resources, we hope to remedy this situation’.19ibid..
In 2011, he justified himself as follows: ‘These areas are very sensitive, otherwise, I would have already published certain documents and testimonies. Even though many decades separate us from some of the events in question, the sensitivities of key individuals are a matter of concern. This is something I have wrestled with for a long time, and still don’t have a good solution. I felt very hesitant to publish Koichi Tohei Sensei’s letter of resignation, for example. We’ll see how things play out.’20ibid..
Thus, with a gentle shift, almost without intention, the masculinisation of history continues. Women disappear one after another from the scene, leaving only prevailing male voices.
‘She must be his mistress’ – a strategy for discrediting women
Given Fukiko’s position, it is not surprising that rumours spread that she was “sleeping with the boss”. This is the oldest weapon used to silence women.
It is assumed that if O-sensei “burdened” himself with a woman, there must have been a romantic story behind it. Strangely enough, the same is not assumed of the young male uchideshi of the dojo. Nor is it assumed that O-sensei had a secret lover in Iwama!
Fukiko Sunadomari and Ueshiba O-sensei
We can hypothesise about Fukiko’s views. Based on Pranin’s comments and the few comments she left, it is clear that she was a mystic21Michi-o Hikitsushi sensei said of Fukiko that she ‘understands spiritual matters well’ – see Hikitsushi sensei’s online biography (In French) or his biography pub. in Aikido Magazine No. 40, Oct. 1988 (French trans. available online) like Ueshiba O-sensei. She often emphasised the importance of this aspect in O-sensei’s path. Did she criticise the beginnings of a desacralised, sporting – and ultimately very masculine – aikido that, in her opinion, did not correspond to the founder’s vision?
Text by Fukiko Sunadomari written for the “Aikido Friendship Demonstration Tournament” in 1985. An event organized by Stanley Pranin. Sunadomari family archives. All rights reserved.
This aikido corresponds to Kisshōmaru Ueshiba’s efforts to expand his father’s art internationally. But for O-sensei, aikido was ‘a spiritual act’22Ellis Amdur, Hidden in Plain Sight: Tracing the Roots of Ueshiba Morihei’s Power, Chap. 13, 2018, Freelance Academy Press, p. 281: ‘[Ueshiba offered] not more spiritual lessons with which the world is uselessly glutted, but spiritual acts.’ (full quotation available online) and he himself stood on “Ame no Ukihashi, the celestial floating bridge”, that which connects the visible and invisible worlds. It was an art of universal love, recreating the bonds that unite us both as humans and to non-human living beings.
Could the West hear this? given that, as Isis Labeau-Caberia says, ‘[as a cosmovision, it] first set about destroying indigenous cosmovisions on the European continent itself – those of peasant, rural and “pagan” worlds; those of druids, bone-setters and witches – before pouring to the rest of the world’.23Isis Labeau-Caberia, « “La tête ne nous sauvera pas” (part. 1) : L’Occident est une cosmovision, la “raison” en est le mythe fondateur » [‘“The Head Alone Will Not Save Us” (Part 1): The West is a Worldview, and “Reason” is its Founding Myth’], 4 July 2023, blog La Griotte Vagabonde [The Wandering Female Griot] (available online). [Bold emphasis removed by M. Soavi.]
Elevating the intellect to the top and rejecting the body, emotions and spirituality: this artificial dualism was the matrix of the reification, domination and exploitation of everything that was not a “rational modern man”, i. e. non-human beings, women and non-white people, all of them being sent back to the belittled state of “Nature”.
In this context, aikido has become mainly a combat sport or a gold mine for gurus, when what we desperately need are spiritual but immanent practices for the body, stripped of all domination.
Other students of O-sensei criticised this new direction taken by the Aikikai, breaking away from the Ueshiba family: Kōichi Tōhei, Noriaki Inoue (O-sensei’s nephew), Itsuo Tsuda and Kanshu Sunadomari. However, we have no shortage of interviews with these famous practitioners.
There remains one difference: Fukiko was a woman with expertise who spoke to convey her truth, no more and no less than the others. But she was a woman… so they did not listen.
Fukiko Sunadomari in demonstration. Sunadomari family archive, all rights reserved.
Was O-sensei referring to her in particular when he said that his ideal aikido was that of young girls24The Path of Less, op. cit., loc. cit.? Or when he shouted: ‘Only women practise Aikido here!’?
Through the fragments of the story of Morihei Ueshiba’s closest female disciple, perhaps even his best, we can discern a relationship of transmission from master to student, and even beyond that, a spiritual relationship. So how can we not suppose that Fukiko’s aikido must have been breathtaking? And how can we not regret the loss of this link to the founder’s aikido?
I hope that I have played a small part in demasculinising aikido and raising awareness of this extraordinary figure. I would like to take this opportunity to thank Fukiko’s sister-in-law for kindly providing me with the unpublished photos and press clippings presented here.
By doing so, she is helping to preserve a women heritage where each piece of the puzzle is important.
these words can be found – at least – in: ► Itsuo Tsuda, The Path of Less, 2014, Yume Editions, Chap. XVI, p. 157 (1st ed. in French: 1975, pub. Le Courrier du Livre (Paris), p. 148) ► Virgina Mayhew’s interview by Susan Perry pub. in Aikido Today #19, Vol. 5, No. 3, fall 1991 (French translation available online) ► Miyako Fujitani, ‘I am glad I have Aikido’, Magazine of Traditional Budo, n. 2, March 2019 (pdf link available online – at page bottom), p. 29 ► Mariye Takahashi, ‘Is Aikido the pratical self-defense for women ?’, Black Belt, Nov. 1964
[In French, the standard gender is masculine, especially job names, and the plural of a list of items is traditionally masculine as long as at least one item is masculine]
6
« Tant qu’on ne cherche pas les femmes dans l’Histoire, on ne les trouve pas », op. cit.
7
[In French, patrimoine means heritage, and literally means ‘the inheritance of our fathers’. Matrimoine stands for women’s heritage.]
8
Aurore Evain, « Vous avez dit “matrimoine” ? » [‘Did You Say “Matrimoine”?’], Mediapart blog, 25 Nov. 2017 (French available online)
9
Manon Soavi, ‘Miyako Fujitani, the “Matilda effect” of Aikido?’, Self&Dragon Spécial Aikido n° 17, April 2024, available online
10
Stanley Pranin, Historical photo: Morihei Ueshiba, Aspiring Calligrapher!, 6 Nov. 2011, Aikido Journal, available online
11
Stanley Pranin, The Aiki News Encyclopedia of Aikido, 1991, pub. Aiki News (Tokyo), p. 106, available online
Simone Chierchini, ‘Paolo Corallini’s Traditional Aikido Dojo’, 31 May 2020, available online
17
ibid.
18
Historical photo: Morihei Ueshiba, Aspiring Calligrapher!, op. cit. (emphasis by M. Soavi)
19
ibid.
20
ibid.
21
Michi-o Hikitsushi sensei said of Fukiko that she ‘understands spiritual matters well’ – see Hikitsushi sensei’s online biography (In French) or his biography pub. in Aikido Magazine No. 40, Oct. 1988 (French trans. available online)
22
Ellis Amdur, Hidden in Plain Sight: Tracing the Roots of Ueshiba Morihei’s Power, Chap. 13, 2018, Freelance Academy Press, p. 281: ‘[Ueshiba offered] not more spiritual lessons with which the world is uselessly glutted, but spiritual acts.’ (full quotation available online)
The search for inner freedom in the practice of Aikido and Seitai
by Andrea Quartino
Restrictions on freedom of movement are easing [May 2020 lockdown], although the timing and manner remain uncertain. For those who practise Aikido in a dojo of the Itsuo Tsuda School, the day when they will be able to resume practising does not seem to be near. Beyond the different opinions on the cause of the emergency, the restrictions decided by governments should not limit our ability to judge. It is normal to maintain a critical view of the effectiveness and consequences of such measures while applying them.
Seitai founder Noguchi Haruchika did not shy away from talking about freedom during a period such as that experienced by Japan during the Second World War, when markedly nationalist and militaristic tendencies prevailed to such an extent that the word “freedom” was banned. Of course, he could count on the fact that he had several representatives of the ruling class among his clients.
The end of the war for Italy on 25 April 1945 was a relief for everyone, as was the fall of fascism, even for those who shared that ideology. The same relief was felt by many Japanese.1Tsuda Itsuo, Heart of Pure Sky (posth.), ‘Booklet no. 183’ (end), Yume Editions, 2025. See also Itsuo Tsuda. Calligraphies de printemps, [Itsuo Tsuda, Spring Calligraphies], Yume Editions, 2017, p. 399 It was not only the return of peace and more or less formal freedom, but also the end of a climate of constant tension, which was felt everywhere and to which no one was immune. Allowing for the necessary differences, and net of the perplexities aroused by the war metaphors used by many when talking about the effort to contain the contagion, anyone with a modicum of sensitivity cannot fail to feel how everything and everyone is permeated by mistrust and fear, whether caused by the virus or by the penalties imposed for violating the rules. It is a very heavy oppression, and we too will feel relief when and if it ends.
‘When [Master Noguchi] heard about the cessation of hostilities on the radio, he suddenly felt a heavy burden lifted from his shoulders and an unexpected release of tension throughout his body.
His breathing deepened, revealing a deep calm in his mind. This calm brought a surge of fresh energy and inside his skin he felt a new world was beginning.
“Why did I talk so much about freedom during the war?” he said, “it was just words. On the contrary, I was just stuck in my attitude. The more I tried to fight the trend, the more I became locked into a narrow frame of mind, unable to breathe deeply.” ’2Tsuda Itsuo, One, Chap. IX, Yume Editions, 2016, p. 67. The following lines state that ‘[a] truly free man does not discuss freedom, just as a healthy man does not think about health.’ These very words seem to be echoed by Chinese poet Bai Juyi’s verses: ‘Those who speak do not know. Those who know do not speak.’ Tsuda also traced these verses in three of his calligraphies (see Itsuo Tsuda, Calligraphies de printemps (op. cit.), p. 284), quoted them verbatim in The Non-Doing (Chap. XVII, 2013, Yume Editions, p. 180), and evoked them in The Way of the Gods (‘I work in the hope […] another kind of freedom.’, Chap. VII, Yume Editions, 2021, pp. 53–4).
Why was this freedom nothing more than a word for Noguchi? Had he perhaps changed his opinion about the nature of the wartime regime? It is unlikely, but that is beside the point. The question is what we mean by freedom.
Tsuda Itsuo returns repeatedly in his books to the idea of freedom
For Tsuda, modern man ‘has fought some tough battles to acquire his right as a Man. He has obtained some liberties and keeps on struggling to acquire more. But one day he finds that these liberties only concern material conditions external to him.’3Tsuda Itsuo, The Non-Doing, Chap. I, Yume Editions, 2013, p. 15 So human beings often fight for freedoms in the plural, which are conditioned. ‘The fixation of ideas that guides us in the organisation of life, can also work against us by imposing unpredictable constraints upon us. Freedom becomes a fixation that fetters us. The more freedom one has, the less one feels free. Freedom is a myth.’ ‘We struggle against constraints to acquire freedom. Freedom gained never fails to produce other constraints. There does not seem to be any definitive solution. For the freedom we seek is primarily a conditional freedom. We do not possess any idea of absolute and unconditional freedom.’4One, op. cit., Chap. III, p. 24
“Conditional freedom”, almost an oxymoron, if this phrase were not used in law language. We are conditioned by the linear time of clocks, by the social organisation of work and by the market that urges us, with increasingly sophisticated and invasive advertising techniques, to satisfy needs that are mostly induced. Among the abundance of things on offers, available online or otherwise, ‘we find everything except desire. So we choose the chef’s recommendation, the advice of people who aren’t paying for the meal, the seductions of advertising, the clamour of the opinion leaders.’ ‘Certainly we have the freedom to choose, but it is a negative freedom: the freedom to accept or reject what on offer. As for the positive freedom, that of creating, we have neither the intuition nor continuity to enjoy it.’5Tsuda Itsuo, The Science of the Particular, Chap. IX, Yume Editions, 2015, p. 76
Masters Tsuda Itsuo and Noguchi Haruchika
Tsuda points out the possibility of “letting go” of everything that is apparent freedom, choices imposed on us by the market, consumable goods, marketable goods, however difficult this may be for civilised man, who is afraid of losing everything if he renounces his possessiveness. By letting go, we can ‘finally see the All that is ours; the sky, the earth, the sun, the mountains and rivers, without our having to put them in our pocket.’ We may feel ‘the desire to know true freedom.’ ‘Nothing external, such as money, honour and power, can bring us true Freedom, which is an inner sensation and does not depend on any material or objective condition. One can feel free under the worst kind of duress, and a prisoner at the pinnacle of happiness.’ 6Tsuda Itsuo, The Dialogue of Silence, Yume Editions, 2018, pp. 85-6
The deep desire for another kind of freedom arises together with an inner conviction, which in reality is rediscovered, found again because it has been in every human being since the beginning, since conception. But its rediscovery is not possible as long as we remain on the “path of acquisition” that is the norm in our society, where ‘[a]ll these accumulations weigh heavily on our destiny.’
‘In the way of less, we move in a diametrically opposite direction. We gradually get rid of all that is unnecessary to life. We feel more free because we no longer impose prohibitions or rules on ourselves for living well. We live simply, without being torn this way and that by false ideas.
We do not have to be anti-social or anarchists to feel free. Liberation does not require destruction. Freedom does not depend on conditioning, environment or situation. Freedom is a very personal thing. It arises from deep conviction on the part of the individual.
This conviction is a natural thing that exists in all human beings right from the start. It is not a product thrown together after the fact. But it will remain veiled for as long as we live in a climate of dependency. It isn’t worth it, says Noguchi, to help people who do not want to stand on their own two feet. If we release them, they fall down again.’7One, op. cit., Chap. VI, p. 47
It was this awareness that led Noguchi, when he found another freedom, a deeper breathing and calm at the end of the Second World War, to give up therapy and devote himself to awakening people, allowing each individual to rediscover their inner freedom in the times and ways that suit them.
How can practising arts such as Aikido and Katsugen undo guide us in rediscovering our individual freedom?
One answer can be found in the words of Taichi Master Gu Meisheng:
‘Can “true naturalness” only be acquired through long and diligent practice? Are you like a child? Because only children are spontaneously natural and free at the same time. In fact, if you have not become like a child again, you are neither free nor natural. […] Usually, for an ordinary person, the body is an obstacle, not a driving force from which spiritual momentum can be drawn. Yet, thanks to very long training combined with diligent and rigorous practice, it is possible to liberate this ordinary person and allow them to act with wonderful, creative spontaneity. Then neither the body, nor the outside world, nor the many ties that bind him to the world constitute an obstacle for him. I first experienced this feeling of freedom in 1970 when I was in prison, and this freedom grew progressively throughout my imprisonment.’8La vision du Dao du professeur Gu Meisheng (vidéo)
The words of Master Gu, who was imprisoned during the Chinese Cultural Revolution, apply equally to Tai Chi, Aikido and Katsugen Undo, and echo those of Tsuda when he says that one can be free even under the greatest constraints. And if the constraints we live under today are not those of a prison, they are nonetheless an opportunity to rediscover our inner freedom9The title refers to the passage from Dante Alighieri‘s Divine Comedy, ‘He goes seeking freedom’, in originale « Libertà va cercando », even giving ourselves the chance to practise alone when there is no dojo available. This discovery is not exclusive to great masters such as Master Gu, Master Noguchi or Master Tsuda, and although it is an individual quest that is pursued through continuous practice, we can begin here and now to be free as human beings, because “being free makes others free”10cf. the video and interview Manon Soavi, être libre rend les autres libres [Manon Soavi, Being Free Makes Others Free].
Andrea Quartino
Notes
1
Tsuda Itsuo, Heart of Pure Sky (posth.), ‘Booklet no. 183’ (end), Yume Editions, 2025. See also Itsuo Tsuda. Calligraphies de printemps, [Itsuo Tsuda, Spring Calligraphies], Yume Editions, 2017, p. 399
2
Tsuda Itsuo, One, Chap. IX, Yume Editions, 2016, p. 67. The following lines state that ‘[a] truly free man does not discuss freedom, just as a healthy man does not think about health.’ These very words seem to be echoed by Chinese poet Bai Juyi’s verses: ‘Those who speak do not know. Those who know do not speak.’ Tsuda also traced these verses in three of his calligraphies (see Itsuo Tsuda, Calligraphies de printemps (op. cit.), p. 284), quoted them verbatim in The Non-Doing (Chap. XVII, 2013, Yume Editions, p. 180), and evoked them in The Way of the Gods (‘I work in the hope […] another kind of freedom.’, Chap. VII, Yume Editions, 2021, pp. 53–4).
3
Tsuda Itsuo, The Non-Doing, Chap. I, Yume Editions, 2013, p. 15
It is undoubtedly certainties that cause the most harm in the practice of martial arts, as they often stem from thinking that has become stuck in patterns that others have tried and tested in the past. By keeping doubt at bay, we confine ourselves to a familiar world that is certainly reassuring, but which risks blocking the mind and body.
Certainties often lead to repetition – which is reassuring – and monotony – which is demotivating –, if not to pretension or complacency – which, for their part, prevent any real progress. Uncertainty, on the other hand, if not a pretext for shying away from a situation that could have been dealt with courageously, and if it does not block action already undertaken with doubts that are often unfounded and lead to going round in circles, can be a source of understanding, originality, creation, and therefore open-mindedness which leads to intelligence. By questioning established certainties, it can reveal the origin of techniques that were previously misunderstood, their importance at a given time and, consequently, their sometimes uselessness at another. When certainty is the result of the practitioner’s personal experience and is based on concrete practice devoid of presumptions, it can bring about a sense a tranquillity that is not artificial and encourage the awakening of an inner strength that knows how to use intuition in order to be in harmony with the situation at hand.
favouring neither certainties nor uncertainties
Teaching
One of the difficulties in teaching is to avoid promoting either certainty or uncertainty, and to avoid idealisation that could arise from overly peremptory statements about the power of certain techniques, certain schools, etc. It is entirely possible and even very healthy for some students to have uncertainties and questions about their practice. All they need to do is react simply and ask for an explanation of the reason for a particular posture. This does not mean questioning the person in charge of the session, nor is it an opportunity to doubt their abilities in order to provoke them into demonstrating their skill. The principle of uncertainty should not be used to question the teacher’s qualities, with the aim of proving that there are flaws and causing problems by not following the rules of training, breaking them, or mixing techniques. When used correctly, uncertainty forces us to look further and deeper, both physically and mentally, to understand why this art has already convinced so many people before reaching us, and how it has been able to survive for years and sometimes centuries in hundreds of countries while remaining perfectly relevant in essence.
Certainty
Certainty can be very useful if one has a good understanding of the Taoist philosophy of Yin and Yang, each of which contains an active though small part of the other. There is therefore no disadvantage in using our conviction in the worth of a technique that is essentially considered Yang, as it intrinsically contains doubt (its Yin component). If this technique is undermined despite our certainties, an adaptation immediately arises to compensate for the imbalance that has been created, and order is restored. It is not the technique itself that is called into question, nor the certainty of its worth, but rather its overly rigid use due to overconfidence, poor mastery due to lack of training or a certain level of incompetence, or even a misunderstanding of the action being performed. Competence can sometimes lead us to certainties, which is important in terms of survival, for example, because there are circumstances where we cannot afford to have doubts; being uncertain could cause terrible damage. In this case, it is essential to set aside anything that could hinder the desired outcome.
While certainty drives us forward, with all the risks that this sometimes entails, uncertainty tends to hold us back or immobilise us. But it also forces us to reflect on reality, to escape the confusion created by the virtual and thereby unreal images, series and films that the world around us offers us. An individual will achieve greater balance if, after reflection, they move from uncertainty to certainty, even if it is relative, rather than following the opposite path, because uncertainty, if it is the result of this approach, can present itself as wisdom, serving as an excuse for fear or mistrust. In this case, it leads to hesitation, blockages and very often regrets about not having found the right path.
regular practice of Aikido transforms our perspectives
Living with uncertainty
In fact, each of us lives day by day and therefore in uncertainty about what will happen the next day. Who can say with certainty when our life will end or what will happen tomorrow? Even though we have no certainty about anything, we live as if we were sure of the future, or to be more accurate, we avoid worrying too much because we instinctively know the consequences of worry. If this uncertainty prevents us from living normally because of the tension it causes, the logical consequence will be illness, debilitating blockages or mental problems, or even some form of neurosis. It is always possible to live with the conviction that our ideas are unquestionable, but if, on the occasion of an event, perhaps fortuitous, we step out of the illusion, we very quickly realise the falseness of the path we have taken.
Fundamentally, in order to live with certainty, it might seem almost unavoidable to embrace an ideology, whether religious, political, sectarian, scientific or otherwise, even unconsciously. It is an extremely reassuring and calming solution, and it makes life enviable because it seems to be a recourse, perhaps even the ideal refuge from the daily difficulties faced by human beings. It is not necessarily weak individuals who adopt this solution; there are many people who, thinking themselves free from influence or even being rebellious, find themselves drawn in by reasoning that, although fallacious, seems extremely convincing to them. Very often, it is also a mode of behaviour made indispensable or simply necessary by those around them in certain types of societies, whether modern or ancestral, and which thus makes relationships easier. Education and the media coverage of certain ideologies have ended up indoctrinating entire populations, with the result that people have become apathetic and thereby more easily manipulated.
Aikido to get through
Without certainty or uncertainty, the practice of Aikido allows us to reach that moment in the present so often described in Taoism or Zen Buddhism. It is through Non-Doing that we can rediscover the serenity that is essential to our practice. No technique is of any interest if it does not support the flow of a Ki that aims to purify our mind and body of what burdens us.
It is a matter of awakening phenomena buried deep within our humanity, which may escape rational understanding but bring us closer to childhood and, by the same token, to the Sacred in its simplest sense. From the moment we begin practising, we embark on an initiatory journey that takes us to shores that were unknown to us, but which we suspected existed because we had sensed them for a very long time.
At the end of each session, when the “free movement” part begins, we have the opportunity to escape for a few moments from the issues of certainty or uncertainty and, being in the present moment, busy feeling and even merging with our partner, communicate with a different dimension, one that is familiar to us but too often blocked in everyday life. Our attention, focused on what is happening “here and now”, is freed from what hinders it, allowing us to let the movements and techniques flow, unfolding with the greatest freedom and at the same time with the rigour that is essential to their realisation.
This Indian fable, which has become one of the most famous philosophical parables, has been around for at least two and a half thousand years. It tells the story of six learned blind men who wanted to increase their knowledge and compared their information after touching an elephant, but because of their blindness, each of them had only had access to one part of the animal’s body. The result was disastrous because none of them had the same answer. One said it resembled a wall, another a long tube, and a third, who touched the leg, thought it was like a tree or a column. Each was individually convinced that he was right and, based on his past knowledge and his experience of yesterday and today, he was certain that he was correct. Their certainty could even lead them into conflict; a wise man who was passing by brought them the solution, resolving their problem and dispelling the conflict, thus restoring their peace of mind. They left feeling calm because neither of them was wrong, but simply because their truths were incomplete.
As in this tale, certainties can lead us in the wrong direction if we do not know how to look beyond appearances whenever we encounter and recognise them. Like blind people, we can recognise that our certainties are indeed a reality, but certainly not the only one, and if we search sincerely within ourselves, we may find answers that are different from what we thought. Where there were uncertainties or certainties, we may find understanding and intelligence.
Unimaginable
Regular practice of Aikido transforms our perspectives and takes us further than we initially thought possible. We cannot imagine what lies behind this practice, or perhaps I should say, at its core. It is a return to self-confidence, which is based on and verified by the experience gained during years of practice without competition but not without emulation. This confidence becomes both assurance and spontaneity, which we often thought we had lost due to disillusionment or disappointment over time.
It is no longer a question of seeking certainties in order to live in peace, or of feeling persecuted by the uncertainties of everyday life, but of facing reality and living it to the full, relying on our own unsuspected and unimaginable abilities, which are in fact more real and concrete than the world had, until now, allowed us to imagine. It is less a hope of resolving something that prevented us from fulfilling ourselves than an awareness of who we really are, which, thanks to this union of body and mind resulting from working on the circulation of Ki, finally blossoms to allow us the satisfaction of living without uncertainties or certainties.
Tsuda Itsuo, pushing of the bokken (uke : Régis Soavi & Jean-Marc Arnauve)
In the practice of aikido, I have always loved the ken. The sword, like kyūdō in the way Herrigel talks about it in his book on the art of archery, is an extension of the human body, a path to the realisation of our being. In our School, the first act at the beginning of the session is a salute with the bokken in front of the calligraphy. Every morning, after putting on my kimono and meditating for a few minutes in a corner of the dojo, I begin the respiratory practice with this salute towards the calligraphy. It is essential to harmonise with my surroundings, with the universe.
The simple fact of breathing deeply while raising the bokken in front of the tokonoma, with a calligraphy, an ikebana, changes the nature of the session.
For me, it is a matter of realising Ame no Ukihashi1see the Kojiki (古事記), a collection of myths about the origins of the islands that make up Japan and of the Kami, the celestial floating bridge, which links the human and their surroundings, the conscious and the unconscious, the visible and the invisible.
Throughout the respiratory practice, the first part of the session, my bokken is by my side, the same bokken I have had for forty years. It is like a friend, an old acquaintance. A gift from a simple and generous woman who used to run the shop when I was a young aikido teacher at Master Plée’s dojo in the rue de la Montagne Sainte-Geneviève.
My study of the sword
Tsuda Itsuo never taught ken. Of course he did use it for the salute in front of the tokonoma at the beginning of the session, and then when we ran in a circle around him on the tatamis before lining up to watch the demonstration. Otherwise he used it mainly to demonstrate the pushing of the bokken with two partners, as he had seen Ueshiba Morihei O-sensei do.
In fact, I make no distinction between bare-handed aikido or aikido with bokken or jō aikido. The most important thing to me is the fusion with the partner’s breathing. This other person so different and yet so close, and also, at times, so dangerous.
My main roots in weapons come from what I learnt from Tatsuzawa sensei. He is the one who influenced me the most. In the 1970s I started practising Hakkō-ryū Jūjutsu with Master Maroteaux. Then I studied weapons at the Noro Institute where specific courses were held, and during workshops with Tamura sensei and Sugano sensei – this work was part of aikido. What Tatsuzawa sensei showed me was a koryū (ancient school), which is something else. In Paris for his studies, this young Japanese man (we were both in our twenties) turned up unexpectedly one evening in the dojo where I was teaching aikido. So we started an exchange: he practised aikido with me and showed me techniques from his family’s school, which we worked on for a certain number of hours a week, maybe four or five, for about two years.
We practised a lot of Iaijutsu and also Bōjutsu2the bō is a long stick, 180 cm long, wielded with both hands The techniques he showed me impressed me by their extreme precision. He was the young master of his family’s school, Jigo-ryū. At that time, I did not even know the name of the school. Today, he is an important sensei, the 19th master of Bushūden Kiraku-ryū, a school that is over four centuries old.
There is a reality in weapons that can be lacking in the practice of aikido as it is sometimes taught today and then risks becoming a kind of dance.
With Tatsuzawa sensei, there was a breathing. It was not the same breathing I found with Tsuda sensei, but there was something and I liked what he taught. It was something so fine, so precise, so beautiful that I wanted to share it with my students. And for years, when I gave workshops, I would say: ‘What I’ve just shown is a technique from the School of Tatsuzawa sensei’. Gradually these two skies, the teaching of Tatsuzawa sensei and the work on breathing with Tsuda sensei, led me to give this name to what I was discovering myself, Ame no Ukihashi Ken, the sword that links heaven and earth, the conscious and the unconscious, the voluntary and the involuntary.
Tatsuzawa sensei and I did not see each other for thirty years, and it was during a trip to Japan that we met again! For the last ten years, my students have been studying the art of Bushūden Kiraku-ryū with him and one of his students, Sai sensei. It is a way for us to better understand the origins of the techniques we use, and it is a historical research that allows us to discover the path walked by Ueshiba O-sensei.
Régis Soavi, uke nagashi
A principle of reality
For Tatsuzawa sensei training had to be real; during our training sessions in the seventies, he used an iaitō and he hit like hell! ‘Men, men, kote, tsuki, men, tsuki’. Of course, at some point I got tired and caught the sword in my shoulder – I still remember it. Because it was a metal sword, it went a few centimetres into my shoulder, three, maybe four. It woke me up. I was never asleep on dodges again. Never again. It was a wake-up call, because obviously he was not there to hurt me. His state of mind was to wake me up, to push me in a direction, so that I would not be some kind of clumsy sleeping lump. Well, it served me right. In that sense, the sword can wake you up. A good kick in the ass is sometimes better than a thousand caresses. I am still very grateful to my master for bringing reality into my body.
Today, when aikido seems to have become a pastime for some, I gently but firmly bring them back to reality.
I have too often seen people parodying the drawing of the katana with a bokken where they simply opened their hand to draw the sword (those who practise Iai will understand).
We must not confuse the Noble Art of the Sword with the way we use it in aikido.
I have always advised my daughter, who has practised aikido since she was a child and loves the sword, to go and see a real sword school. As well as aikido, she too has chosen to study Bushūden Kiraku-ryū with Tatsuzawa sensei and Iaijutsu with Matsuura sensei, who teach her what I could never have taught her.
Aikiken is not Kendo
Aikiken is not Kendo or Iaidō. Poetry is not the novel, and vice versa, each art has its specificities, but when we use a bokken we must not forget that it is a katana which also has a tsuba and a scabbard, even if they are invisible. We must use it with the same respect, the same rigour and the same attention.
Every bokken is unique, despite its often rather industrial production. It is up to us to make it a respectable, unique object, through our attention, the way we handle it and the way we move it. For example, when working with a bokken, if we visualise drawing the sword, we must also visualise sheathing it. Little by little, as it is getting charged, you may get the impression that it is getting heavier. Moreover, the students who have the opportunity to touch my bokken, to hold it, or sometimes to work with it, always find it very special, both easier to handle and at the same time more demanding, they say. It is not quite the same, it is not an ordinary bokken. That is why I advise my students to have their own bokken, their own jō. Weapons get charged. If you have a bokken or a jō that you have chosen well, that you have charged with ki, and that you have used for years, it will have a different nature, it will resemble you in some way. You will already be able to know exactly how big it is, the size of the jō, the size of the bokken, to the nearest millimetre. This will prevent accidents.
It will have a different consistency when we act in this way, it will be a reflection of who we are. The circulation of ki changes the bokken and we can begin to understand why the sword was the soul of the samurai.
We remember the legendary swords that reflected the soul of the samurai to such an extent that they could only be touched by their owner. I had the opportunity to discover this at a time when, to continue practising and support myself, I was working in the field of antiques. I specialised in the resale of Japanese swords: katana, wakizashi and tantō. Being around them – for I could never have afforded to buy them – allowed me not only to admire them, but also to discover something inexpressible.
Some of them had such a charge of ki, that was extremely impressive! Just by drawing the blade ten or fifteen centimetres, you could feel if the sword had an aggressive or generous soul, or whether it exuded great nobility, and so on. At first this seemed absurd to me, but the dealers I worked with confirmed the reality of these sensations and later discussions with Tsuda sensei gave them the reality they needed.
Régis Soavi, during the circle run
A weapon without breath, without fusion, what is it? Nothing, a piece of wood, a piece of metal.
Zhuangzi does speak to us of fusion, of the extension of the being with the tool, the weapon, when he speaks of the butcher:
The fusion with the partner
‘When I first began cutting up oxen, all I could see was the ox itself. After three years I no longer saw the whole ox. And now — now I go at it by spirit and don’t look with my eyes. Perception and understanding have come to a stop and spirit moves where it wants. I go along with the natural makeup, strike in the big hollows, guide the knife through the big openings, and following things as they are. So I never touch the smallest ligament or tendon, much less a main joint. […] whenever I come to a complicated place, I size up the difficulties, tell myself to watch out and be careful, keep my eyes on what I’m doing, work very slowly, and move the knife with the greatest subtlety, until — flop! the whole thing comes apart like a clod of earth crumbling to the ground. I stand there holding the knife and look all around me, completely satisfied and reluctant to move on, and then I wipe off the knife and put it away.’ 3Zhuangzi, translated Burton Watson, The Complete Works of Zhuangzi, 2013, Columbia University Press, pp. 71–72
If there is no fusion with the partner, you cannot work with a weapon, otherwise it is nothing but brutality, fighting. Precisely because we use it by merging our breath with our partner, you can discover what great masters have discovered before us. All their efforts to show us the way, the path to follow, will be lost if we ourselves do not make the effort to work as they suggested. With a weapon in our hands, we can discover our sphere and make it visible. And thanks to that, we can extend our breathing to something greater, which will not be limited to our little personal sphere, but will go further. If we use weapons in this way, I think it makes sense, but if we use them to try to cut off other people’s heads, to hurt them, or to show that you are stronger, we have to look elsewhere, not in our school.
Weapons are extensions of our arms, which are extensions of our centre. There are lines of ki that run from our centre, from the hara. They act through the hands. If we put a weapon at the end, a bokken, a wakizashi, a stick, these lines of ki can converge. They have an extension. It may be easier when you work with your bare hands, but it starts to get more difficult with a weapon. However, it also becomes very interesting: you are no longer limited, you become “unlimited”. That is what is important, it is a logical progression in my teaching. At the beginning you work a little bit small, in a way limited, then you try to extend, to go beyond while starting from your centre. Sometimes there are interruptions, the ki does not go to the shoulder, the elbow, the wrist, the fingers. Sometimes the bokken becomes like the stick of a puppet hitting the policeman, and then it makes no sense. That is why I show these lines, which everyone can see. This is something known in acupuncture. You can also see it in shiatsu and in many other arts. And there we go further. If we could materialise them as lines of light, it would be amazing to see. It is what binds us to others. It is what allows us to understand others. These are lines bound to the body, not just the material body, but the body as a whole, both physical and kokoro. It is the subtle, the immaterial that is bound, there is no difference.
Seitai-dō
In our School we practise the art of Seitai-Dō, the way of Seitai. This art, which includes Katsugen undō (Regenerative Movement in Tsuda Itsuo’s terminology), allows us to rediscover an unusual quality of response, both involuntary and intuitive.
It awakens the “animal” instinct in the good sense of the word, rather like when we were children, playful or even sometimes turbulent but without any real aggressivity, taking life as a game with all the seriousness that it implies.
It was thanks to this art that I discovered the breathing intermission, that space of time between inhaling and exhaling, and between exhaling and inhaling. That infinitesimal, almost imperceptible moment during which the body cannot react. It is in one of these moments that the seitai technique is applied. At first it is difficult to feel it, and even more difficult to act exactly in that moment, very precisely. Gradually, however, you get a very clear sense of this space – you get the impression that it is expanding, and in fact you get the impression that time is passing in a different way, as it sometimes does when you fall or during an accident. You may ask what this has to do with the use of weapons in aikido. Well, our research follows precisely this direction, and the following anecdote told by Tsuda sensei reveals us just how much:
Too high a level
Noguchi Haruchika sensei, the creator of Seitai, wanted to practise Kendo when he was young and enrolled in a dojo to learn this art. After the usual preparations, he was confronted by a kendoka. As soon as the other raised his shinai above his head, Noguchi sensei touched his throat, even though he did not know any of the techniques. The teacher sent him a more advanced practitioner, with the same result: he was given a sixth dan: no better. The master asked him if he had ever practised Kendo: ‘Not at all’, he replied, ‘I stab at the breathing intermission, that’s all’. ‘You’ve already reached too high a level, sensei’ he said. So Noguchi sensei could never learn Kendo.4[this story seems to be told in Tsuda Itsuo, The Path of Less, Chap. XII (end), 2014, Yume Editions (Paris)]
Whether you practise aikido with empty hands, Aikiken, Jō, Bō, Koryū or any other art, like Tsuda Itsuo himself who recited Nō, the essential thing is not in the technique, but in the art itself and its teaching, which must allow the realisation of the individual. Tsuda sensei told us, citing the various arts he had practised:
Master Ueshiba, Master Noguchi and Master Hosada5nō theatre: Kanze Kasetsu School dug ‘wells of exceptional depth […]. They have reached the streams of water, the source of life. […] However, these wells are not interconnected, although the water found in them is the same.’ 6Tsuda Itsuo, The Non-Doing, 2023, Yume Editions, p. 12 (1st ed. in French: 1973, pub. Le Courrier du Livre (Paris), p. 10)
‘If I have to give my Aikido a goal, it will be to learn to sit, stand up, move forward and backward.’1Tsuda Itsuo, The Path of Less, Chap. XVIII, 2014, Yume Editions, p. 174 (1st ed. in French: 1975, Le Courrier du Livre (Paris), p. 166Tsuda I.
Movement: coordination, posture
To move correctly, you need to be stable, and stability issues cannot be resolved through learning. Stability must come from balance, which itself comes from the involuntary system. Human beings have the unique ability to stand upright with only the tiny surface area of their two feet as support. If it were just a matter of standing still, that would be fine, but we move around, and what is more, we are able to talk, think, move our arms in all directions, as well as our head and fingers, all while remaining perfectly stable. Involuntary muscle coordination takes care of everything. If we lose our balance without being able to hold on to anything, our body tries by all means to regain the lost balance, and often succeeds by shifting weight from one leg to the other, finding extremely precise points of support that we would have had difficulty finding using only our voluntary system. Tsuda Itsuo recounts a personal anecdote about his learning of Aikido that I find edifying in his book The Science of the Particular:Read more →
Notes
1
Tsuda Itsuo, The Path of Less, Chap. XVIII, 2014, Yume Editions, p. 174 (1st ed. in French: 1975, Le Courrier du Livre (Paris), p. 166
Talking to my students about the masters I have known is obviously part of my teaching. Some were so important that I cannot simply dismiss them and claim that I made it on my own. The masters I have known left their mark on me, shaping me and, above all, opening my mind to fields I knew nothing about, or which I sometimes suspected existed but could not reach.
Are the Masters of the past masters of life?
I have always felt it was important not to turn these masters into supermen, geniuses or gods. I have always considered these masters to be much better than that. Idols create an illusion, lulling us to sleep and impoverishing idolaters, preventing them from progressing and spreading their wings. In this regard, Tsuda sensei, now a master of the past, wrote in his eighth book, The Way of the Gods:
‘Mr Ueshiba planted signposts pointing the way, and I am very grateful to him. He left some excellent carrots to eat which I am trying to assimilate, to digest. Once digested, these carrots become Tsuda, who is far from excellent. That is inevitable. But it is necessary that carrots become something other than carrots, otherwise, on their own, they will rot, uselessly.
It is not for me to worship, deify or idolise Mr Ueshiba. Like everyone else, he had strengths and weaknesses. He had extraordinary abilities but he had weaknesses, especially vis-à-vis his students. He was fooled by them because of considerations that were a little too human.’1Tsuda Itsuo, The Way of the Gods, Chap. XVIII, 2021, Yume Editions (Paris), p. 144 (1st ed. in French: 1982, Le Courrier du Livre (Paris), p. 156–7)Read more →
Notes
1
Tsuda Itsuo, The Way of the Gods, Chap. XVIII, 2021, Yume Editions (Paris), p. 144 (1st ed. in French: 1982, Le Courrier du Livre (Paris), p. 156–7)
Escape route: a clever and indirect way of getting out of a difficult situation.
These are the definitions given by the [French] Larousse dictionary. Synonyms for escape route include: sidestep, exit, evasion, and even way out. Is this not the meaning we should give to ukemis, which, in fact, in Aikido, are simply intelligent responses to throws?
Ukemis, a way out
As we saw in a previous issue about ukemis, falling in our art is never considered a defeat but rather a way of surpassing oneself. It is also, sometimes, simply a means of escaping from a situation that in reality could be dangerous, even fatal if accompanied by certain atemis, or if there is a risk of hitting a vital spot at the end of the movement. Similarly, although throwing may seem like a constraint during a session, it always leaves a way out for Uke, a means for them to regain their integrity, which is what Ukemi is for. During the years of training, one of the essential requirements for everyone is to perfect their falls, as they will be used to improve their responses to Tori’s throwing techniques.
Training should not be confused with fighting; without controlled falls, it is dangerous to throw someone unless you are willing to risk an accident and its possible consequences, which is not at all the purpose of practising on the tatami mats. Whether the throws are short, as in Koshi-nage, or longer, as in Kokyū-nage, they always leave Uke the possibility of escaping the technique unharmed. Only throws with strict control, for example to the ground, leave no ambiguity as to the fact that there is no escape, but if we only work in this way, we might as well practice Jūjutsu, for which this is the rule, and which is perfectly suited to combat. In my opinion, Aikido is not about seeking efficiency but rather about deepening one’s physical, psycho-sensory, and human skills in order to rediscover the fullness of the body and its entire capabilities.
Projecting means distancing
When someone has the bad habit of “sticking” to others, of being so close during a conversation that you feel oppressed, you have only one desire: to distance them by any means necessary. Only our social side, or even propriety, sometimes prevents us from doing so. If we do not push them away, we try to distance ourselves from them, we create space. In the same way, projecting is distancing the other person, it is allowing ourselves to reclaim the space that has been invaded, or even stolen or destroyed during an incursion into our living sphere – all the more so during a confrontation. It is a matter of rediscovering Ma-ai, that perception of space-time whose understanding and, above all, physical sensation is the basis of our teaching and which is so essential to the exercise of our freedom of movement, our freedom to be. It is recovering your breath, perhaps breathing more calmly, possibly regaining a reorganised mind, a lucidity that may have been disturbed by an attack that triggered a response technique that has become instinctive and intuitive as a result of training. It also means, of course, the possibility of making the attacker aware of the futility and danger of continuing in the same direction.
Treating the illness
Aikido leads us to have a different relationship with combat, which is more about clarity of mind in the situation than a violent and immediate reflex response to an attack. It is this attitude that can be described as wisdom, acquired through years of working on the body, which is the result.
The aggressor is seen in a way as someone who has lost control of themselves, often simply for social or educational reasons. A down-and-out, a misfit, an ill person in the psychological sense of the term as it were, who unfortunately can be harmful to society and those around them, who at best only disturbs the harmony of relationships between people, and at worst causes immeasurable damage to others. It is not a question of punishing the “ill” person, nor of excusing the illness on the grounds of societal contamination, but of finding a way out of the situation without becoming contaminated oneself. Aikido is a training for everyone, and its role is broader than many people generally think. It often brings relief, even peace, to our own psychological difficulties or habits. Through rigorous and enjoyable learning, it allows us to rediscover our inner strength and the right path, so that we can face these kinds of problems.
During training, if the throw comes at the end of the technique, it is never an end in itself. It could sometimes be considered a signature move, and a release for both Tori and Uke.
A good throw requires excellent technique, but above all, good coordination of breathing between partners. It is important never to force a practitioner to fall at all costs. Even at the last moment, we must be able to sense whether our partner is capable of performing a correct fall or not, otherwise an accident will occur and we will be responsible for it. It all depends on the partner’s level and their state “here and now”; if the slightest tension or fear manifests itself at the very last moment, it is imperative to sense it, feel it, and allow our Uke to relax so that they can fall safely. Sometimes it is better to abandon the idea of throwing and instead offer an effective yet gentle grounding technique, even if the ego of some will always remain unsatisfied at not having been able to show off as brilliantly as they would have liked. But it is by doing so that we will have enabled beginners to continue without fear. It is thanks to the confidence they will have gained with their partners that they will be encouraged to persevere. They will have realised that they are valued for their true worth, that their difficulties and their level are respected, and that their fear is not a handicap to practice. On the contrary, it allows them to overcome what they believed to be their incapacities and limitations. They are pleased to see that they are not guinea pigs at the service of the more advanced, but that with a little effort, they will be able to catch up with them or even surpass them if they so desire.
The most experienced members must be there to show the newer ones that falling is enjoyable when the projection is performed by someone who is technically capable of doing so in a way that combines gentleness and harmony, and therefore safety. Tsuda sensei recounts how O-sensei Ueshiba Morihei acted during the sessions he led:
‘If, when he was over eighty, Master Ueshiba, who was small of stature, would throw a band of robust young assailants as easily as if they were packets of cigarettes, this extraordinary force was in no way physical strength but respiration. Stroking his white beard he would lean over them anxiously and ask if he had not hurt them. The attackers did not realize what had happened to them. Suddenly they were lifted up as if on a cushion of air, and they saw the ground above them and the sky below before they landed. People trusted him absolutely knowing that he would never harm anybody.’1Tsuda Itsuo, The Non-Doing, Chap. I, 2013, Yume Editions (Paris), p. 21 (1st ed. in French: 1977, pub. Le Courrier du Livre (Paris), p. 18)
O-sensei’s behaviour towards his students should serve as an example to everyone, regardless of their level, because it leads us not towards renunciation or self-effacement, but towards wisdom, as expressed by Lao Tzu:
‘the sage is square but not cutting […], // Sharp but not injurious, // Straight but not overreaching, // Bright […] but not dazzling.’2Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching, Chap. 58, trans. Ellen Marie Chen
Projection or brutality
Today’s Aikido seems to oscillate between two main trends, one leaning towards competition and a sporting vision, the other seeking ways to strengthen itself, drawing on ancient combat techniques such as Jūjutsu for an effectiveness that is no longer recognised.
Today’s Aikido seems to oscillate between two main trends, one leaning towards competition and a sporting vision, the other seeking ways to strengthen itself, drawing on ancient combat techniques such as Jūjutsu for an effectiveness that is no longer recognised.
Why turn Aikido dojos into places for training in street fighting, where effectiveness becomes the ultimate benchmark? The dojo is another world that must be entered as if it were a completely different dimension, because that is what it is, even if few students are aware of it. If throws have become nothing more than constraints, where is the harmony emphasised by the founder and his closest students, and which we still claim to uphold today? I have too often seen practitioners asserting their ego by crushing Uke at the end of a technique, even though their partner had offered almost no resistance up to that point. Or others, putting up ultimate resistance when the technique is already finished from a tactical point of view, in terms of the positioning and posture of both partners, forcing Tori to apply a severe and unnecessary throw, which therefore becomes very risky for Uke if they are not at a sufficient level.
What about demonstrations prepared under the auspices of self-proclaimed masters, which the internet bombards us with, complete with contortions and somersaults, all accompanied by viewers’ comments?
Whereas the project supported by the practice of Aikido is of a completely different nature, living under the daily constraints imposed by the behaviours generated by the type of society we live in, and practising martial arts to learn to “endure them without complaint,” or learning how to coerce others in order to recover the few crumbs of power left to us – is this not completely absurd?
A champagne cork
As he often does in his books, Tsuda sensei recounts his experience and practice with O-sensei Ueshiba Morihei. Here is another excerpt:
‘There is an exercise that involves letting your wrist get caught by the opponent, who grabs and blocks it with both hands. And then you flip the opponent backwards, breathing from the belly. When the wrist is blocked by someone very strong, it is impossible to move. This exercise is designed to increase the power of respiration.
One day Mr Ueshiba, smiling, presented me with two fingers of his left hand to do this exercise. I had never seen anyone do it with two fingers. I seized them with all my ability. And then oof! I was thrown into the air like a champagne cork. It was not strength, because I felt no physical resistance. I was simply carried away by a gust of air. It was really pleasant and nothing about it could be compared with what the other practitioners did.
[…]
Another time when he was standing, he beckoned me to come. I went and stood in front of him but he continued talking to everyone. This went on for quite some time, and I was wondering if I should stay or withdraw, when suddenly I was swept away by a cushion of air and found myself on the ground in a tremendous fall. All I was aware of was his powerful kiai and his right hand, after tracing a circle, heading for my face. I had not been touched. We could offer any psychological or parapsychological explanation for this, but all would be false. Before I had time to react with any reflex whatsoever, I had already been thrown. The famous air cushion is the only explanation.’3Tsuda Itsuo, The Path of Less, Chap. XV, 2014, Yume Editions, p. 148–9 (1st ed. in French: 1975, Le Courrier du Livre, p. 140)
‘Talking about decontraction when one is talking about Aikido seems to confuse many people. They are sufficiently tense and need to be even more so in order to feel good. What they seek is physical exertion and nothing else.
My Aikido is classified as soft Aikido. There are those who love it. There are those who prefer hard Aikido. I’ve heard people’s reflections. Someone said: “The real Aikido is hard Aikido.” He had a broken wrist and as a result was blocked for a month. To each his own.
Personally, I stop right away when I feel that an opponent is too stiff to be able to fall properly. I know how to repair broken wrists, and even broken ribs. I know how to repair because I have respect for the living organism. I avoid breakage. Those who prefer breakage will easily find teachers.’4ibid., Chap. XVI, p.156 (1st ed. in French: p. 148)
Is the power of breathing comparable to the force of coercion? Which direction should we take? It is up to each individual to decide which direction to follow; no one should force us, regardless of the good reasons given.
Practising Aikido without using atemis is a bit like trying to play a stringed instrument that is missing strings or has loose strings.
Atemis are part of martial arts, and of course it is essential in Aikido to teach them well and understand their importance. From ikkyō to ushiro katate-dori kubishime, every time I demonstrate a technique, I show that everything is ready to place an atemi: the circumstances, the positioning, the posture. If we practice while constantly being aware of the centre of the sphere and the points of contact between the partners’ spheres, we can see that there are empty spaces that allow us to place one or more atemis. It is necessary to train students from the beginning, otherwise they will not understand the deeper meaning of the movements, as well as their reality and concreteness. From the very beginning, it is important to help students discover and feel the lines of penetration that can reach our body and put it in danger. For this reason alone, Uke must be taught the spirit of atemi.
‘Secret atemis’ by Fujita Saiko, Budo Magazine Europe, ‘judo Kodokan’, vol. XVI – n° 3, fall 1966, p. 55.
During the year, we hold a special workshop for more experienced practitioners, as well as those who lead sessions in their dojo. The training is more advanced and intense in every respect, and to feel the impact of strikes such as tsuki,shomen uchi, and yokomen uchi, we use portable makiwara. I think the best way to understand what this is about is that the atemis are really delivered, both for Tori and Uke, without real force and not every time, of course, but the mere fact of being touched leads to awareness of the risk.
It is about developing an instinct that awakens the true self that lies dormant behind an appearance of security caused by the comfort and assistance provided by developed societies. It is also about stepping out of the social role that each of us plays, in order to simply find ourselves.
When I started Aikido in the early 1970s, there was a lot of talk about vital points. Henry Plée sensei and Roland Maroteaux sensei showed us how to defeat an opponent by striking or touching one of these points with precision. There were maps, so to speak, of the human body that listed them. I feel that this has often been lost in many dojos in favour of techniques that are perhaps simpler, certainly more direct, definitely more violent, closer to street fighting, but which stray from the practice of Budō. Or, in the name of aesthetics, of a misunderstood and misinterpreted idea of peace, we have watered down and rendered harmless gestures that had a profound meaning.
The Itsuo Tsuda School is committed to preserving a traditional spirit, through teaching Aikido, of course, but also Seitai, without neglecting ancient knowledge. On the contrary, we draw on everything I have learned from the masters I have been fortunate enough to meet in both Aikido and jūjutsu, or in learning how to handle weapons in an era that still had a deep respect for traditions.
One point remains essential: KNOW-HOW. We could talk for hours on the subject, but if we do not teach correctly and concretely how to immobilise an attacker or render them harmless, at least for a moment, for example when grabbing someone by the collar or shoulders with one or two hands, which is a common approach when making sudden contact, all of this will be useless. It is through working on breathing in daily training and the ability to merge with a partner that we discover the breathing interval, that space between exhaling and inhaling where the individual is unable to react. Then it is the ability to use it when necessary that allows, with a fairly light but specific and deep strike to the solar plexus at that precise moment of breathing, to neutralise the opponent. At least for the few microseconds needed to execute a technique, immobilise your opponent, or sometimes simply when necessary to flee.
If the teaching we have received and integrated has changed our lives, if it has allowed us to deepen the values we hold dear and discover others that, although previously unknown, have proved essential to our quality of life, it is important to “pass on this treasure” because it is our responsibility not to let a heritage of humanity that is there to serve the living fall into oblivion.
Passing on
Teaching Aikido is not a profession in the usual sense of the word; fortunately for our art, it is something else entirely. It is a task that we are called upon to accomplish, a bit like a freely accepted mission that has been given to us in order to allow others to discover this path, this way, this Tao that we continue to follow. “[W]hen we work in the human professions, we work in de-mastery, that is, in something over whose outcome we have no control, since it is the person themselves who shapes what they are becoming.”1Jacques Marpeau, Un mot, un enjeu : « Profession » et « métier », [One Word, One Issue: ‘profession’ and ‘trade’], 3 March 2023 (pub. online), emphasis by R. Soavi It is the transmission of a legacy that has been passed down to us little by little over many years and continues to resonate in our daily lives. Whatever rigid rules are imposed by the state and implemented by the various federations, there is still a small margin that allows the teaching of our art to remain above all a gift of self, and a way to deepen our own journey. It is mainly about communicating the incommunicable, and despite this, succeeding in conveying the message that was passed on to us by Tsuda sensei. Changing the world, at least locally, “regionally,” was, in my opinion, an important part of Itsuo Tsuda’s philosophical and physical work. He particularly emphasised what he called “solitary practice,” which he conducted every morning.
Within the Aikido session, this is a very ritualised, profound first part, based solely on “Breathing” (the circulation of Ki and its visualisation), and it was his way, besides writing his books, of directly intervening in his surroundings, in the world.
Itsuo Tsuda
In our school, it is specified in the first articles of the statutes that we ‘practice without purpose.’ Tsuda sensei insisted that these few words be prominently featured, because therein lies the essence of our practice. They are rarely understood at the very beginning, and even later, unfortunately, because they are often considered practically inconceivable in the West – except for people who are seriously involved in the practice and who, as a result, deepen their knowledge of Japan or the East in general. A wide variety of opinions are expressed during initial encounters or when discussing it with friends and acquaintances. They range from the mildest, such as ‘that is crazy,’ to ‘that is ridiculous, that is nonsense.’
What is more, and often unsettling and difficult to admit, there are no “classes” as in gyms or yoga clubs, just daily sessions usually led by the most experienced practitioners. There is no progression either, but rather a real deepening, also an opening towards a strengthened sensitivity and a world of sensations which, as soon as one is capable of it, allows anyone who has the courage and desire to discover what it means to lead a session: all that is needed is continuity, respect for others, and, of course, the agreement of the group. Even in the practice of Aikido, it is not a question of teaching sophisticated techniques or correcting at all costs, but rather of creating an atmosphere conducive to the development of each individual. It is about allowing people to reach deep within themselves, at the level of the “Hara,” the “Breath,” to become aware of the circulation of Ki. This is all the more evident in the practice of Katsugen Undo, where, from a technical point of view, all you need to know is how to count to twenty at a given rhythm to enable the coordination of the group of practitioners.
The same applies to Aikido: it is the concrete, physical, non-intellectualized perception of yin and yang and posture that are the determining factors in conveying a message that is both visual and sensory. Conducting sessions has “no value in itself”; it is enough that they are appreciated by everyone. Nevertheless, it sometimes allows us to better understand where we are in our practice, to see if we are able to convey what we have discovered and which may be useful to others. It is important to communicate at different levels; sometimes we understand better when the demonstration is done by a senpai who is closer to what we are capable of doing, seeing, and feeling. On the other hand, if we understand this well, even if it does not flatter our ego, leading sessions allows us to break free from the social castration that limits our abilities and freezes us in whatever role we find ourselves in, to find ourselves without running the risk of a destructive overvaluation of the ego.
A School without grades
Given that our School is a School without grades, without levels, ‘without fixed benchmarks’ as Tsuda sensei told us, every step forward, every deepening of our practice is important, and even the smallest discoveries must be given their due value. Wearing the hakama is significant in more ways than one and has a meaning that must be discovered if we want to understand what it can bring us. There is incidentally an essential text available for those who wish to read it. The black belt is not a rank but an opportunity to be seized (there is a text that lists the words spoken on this occasion). Each practitioner follows a path that is personal and purely individual. No one should be jealous or even envious of another’s journey, at the risk of losing the meaning of what is being taught.
Becoming a Sensei
It is not a matter of “fate” but rather a destiny that has been created independently of desire or will, by someone who, through correct and regular practice over many years, has become capable of giving back what he or she has received. The term Sensei, as everyone knows, is not a rank or even a recognition and has no particular value. It could be interpreted as “walking ahead,” being older (regardless of the number of years) and having real experience and abilities in one’s art, understanding and feeling “the Other” and knowing how to communicate with simplicity. As in everything, there is “chocolate and chocolate,” and so in all arts there is “sensei and sensei.” I think that no one can claim or, above all, impose such a title. It can be attributed to someone for a variety of reasons. In any case, it can only serve those who use it, because considering someone as one’s sensei is the student’s position, and it is this position that allows them to understand other things from their sensei.
A journey
When I was a child in my judo school, as in all martial arts, there were coloured belts. We were children, then teenagers, and this was supposed to motivate us, to “allow healthy competition alongside the school system,” in order to get a bigger piece of the pie, even if it meant crushing others to get it. The world encourages a certain lifestyle and educates us in that direction, there are winners and losers, that is the form of egalitarianism that is offered to us, a far cry from equity, is it not!
At the time, I had no other choice. If I wanted to practice a martial art, I had to play the game, pass the exams, and win fights to earn ranks. First white belt, then yellow, then orange, then green, and finally blue. From there, I had to prepare for brown belt with a view to the ultimate achievement, the black belt.
Another point of view
The 1960s brought about a reversal in perspective. As a result of the post-war period, a social, societal, and cultural upheaval began. Everything was called into question. I was seventeen and took a break from my training to devote myself to other discoveries. The world, or rather “my vision” of the world, had changed. As society disintegrated, something impossible became possible. Nothing would ever be the same again. I WOULD NEVER BE THE SAME AGAIN.
After this break, I took up martial arts again, specifically “judo jujitsu,” but I no longer found the same spirit there. My spirit too was different.
The old world is dead, another world is blossoming within me. I want to use the remains of the old world to turn them against itself in order to create a new situation. Aikido is one of the non-lethal weapons available to me to continue in the direction I have taken. I am twenty years old and I am starting Aikido, a new and revolutionary path for me.
A new journey begins, with a white belt, of course. Very quickly, I serve as Uke during demonstrations (I know how to fall very well and I have good balance). Maroteaux sensei gives me the 1st kyu, which means I can wear the hakama and be sempai.
Next came the black belt, which I obtained in the three streams originating from the Aikikai – first from Nocquet sensei, then from Tamura sensei, and then by Noro sensei – but above all, it was my encounter with the man who would become my master, Itsuo Tsuda, that guided me.
With my master, I continued to wear the white belt every morning and during training sessions, while I wore the black belt and led sessions as an instructor throughout the three “official” schools approved by the federations. Finally, after seven years of inner conflict, I could no longer bear this imbalance, so I let go and decided to only lead sessions as Tsuda sensei had taught us. This decision puts me in a somewhat unusual situation in the various dojos I work with, but it is the price I must pay to regain stability in my practice and further deepen my search for the truth about the circulation of Ki. This is the moment I choose to start wearing the black belt during Master Tsuda’s sessions.
Régis Soavi
A grey Hakama
A few years later, I am fifty years old and have deepened my practice. I have gained experience that allows me to guide practitioners in our school. I am responsible for seminars in many dojos where I am invited, even in other federations. I seek to demonstrate our way of practising, to convey the flow of Ki, and the general spirit of our school. It is at this point that I decide to wear a grey hakama, which for me is a sign of seniority and a statement of position. My master has been gone for over thirty years, and I feel it is my duty to ensure the continuity of a teaching that must not disappear, as I consider it a path and a hope for humanity. Many elements have matured in my personal practice over the years, from my breathing and concentration to the way I circulate Ki in the simplest of moments. During kokyū-Hō, for example, by simply placing my hand on people’s backs to make them feel the flow of Ki, instead of giving them technical instructions on the position of their body or hands.
One morning during the first part of the session, which Tsuda sensei called solitary practice, my “breathing” suddenly intensified. It is an event that is impossible to describe except in terms that could be described as mystical, when in fact it was much more rudimentary and spontaneous. This is a new breakthrough for me, giving me a feeling of natural freedom, but it is also a new step on a path that is familiar, modest, and difficult, as well as unknown. For several months, I had felt that my practice was deepening, but something was missing, a kind of confirmation that would make it tangible, more physical in some way. Today I am in my seventy-fifth year and, as with other transitions I have experienced, a new opportunity to evolve is presenting itself to me. It seems important to me now to confirm it, to give concrete form to the work I have done over the last fifty years. A simple act must reflect this: since “that morning,” I have simply put on a white belt again.
Visualising
The act of visualising depends essentially on the posture that allows the circulation of Ki, or “vital energy.”
If the body posture directs energy toward the brain, imagination comes into play and takes over. Imagination can be positive or negative, is difficult to control, and can easily run wild, so it is not very useful in immediate action. If the imagination is positive, it can be used in everyday life because it can be creative, for example in writing, drawing, or art in general, but it is a hindrance when it comes to taking action and giving a direct physical response. When it is negative, it very often blocks action and makes it impossible to react unless it is overcome by a rapid and supreme effort of will to avoid being drawn into an unproductive spiral.
When energy is produced and gathered in the lower body, “the hara,” then visualisation becomes possible. You have to start training it with exercises that can be done daily during Aikido. The most important thing is the resonance it must have for each individual. It must correspond to their personality, their era, or something that touches them. Visualisation must be simple and immediately usable; it must “speak” to us.
Tsuda sensei warns us:
‘Aikido is at risk of becoming an intellectual philosophy in which the body does not participate, a kind of swimming in the living room, or gymnastics of the reflexes for turning men into Pavlov’s dogs. Or a combat sport from which you emerge completely demolished. Or indeed a form of politics.
In any case ki, the essential point, is absent. This will be Aikido without ki, which often leads to stiffening of the muscles. That is why there are so many people who have accidents.
Visualisation plays an all-important role in Aikido. It is a mental act at first, but it produces physical effects. One of the aspects of ki is to visualise. What do you visualise in Aikido? Circles, triangles and squares.’2Itsuo Tsuda, The Path of Less, Chap. XV, Yume Editions (2014), pp. 150–151
Sengai
Reflection or obedience
This overly simplistic, overly familiar translation is too strong in my opinion. It distorts the meaning and causes us to reject the deeper meanings of the proverb, which we risk taking literally. We might say to ourselves: ‘I too looked at the finger, and yet I am not a fool, I have degrees and even a doctorate…!’ or ‘It is obvious he is pointing at the moon, I saw it right away.’
Sengai was a Zen monk of the Rinzai School (Lin-tsi School in China), a school that uses koans in its teaching. His drawing of this proverb, while perhaps not a koan, gives us food for thought. Is it not the innocent, or perhaps the child who looks at the finger because he is in the action, in the moment, in the present instant? And what about the little character playing at his feet and jumping for joy, and the enormous bag that Hotei is carrying behind him?’ We can also see the sensei, the wise man who shows the way, the direction, but for now the student only sees the finger, that is to say, the practice, even if he suspects that he should see something that is still invisible to him. Or is it a warning to those who, in order to show off, point their finger, seeming to indicate that they have understood, when in fact they are only showing their ego in order to have admiring followers who obey their every command so that they can take advantage of them?
So many possibilities and reflections are open to each of us.
Little by little, something becomes clearer, more refined; we emerge from mental stupor and awaken.
‘When Hotei points at the moon, the fool looks at the finger.’. Sengai
Is Aikido a martial art?
Everyone, whether they practise it or not, has the right to ask this question. Today, there are many different approaches to our art, and a large number of schools claim to be more authentic than all the others or to have a longer history, while others evoke a need for renewal, perhaps the appeal of modernity! The range of forms and techniques taught is enormous, sometimes varying considerably, from the gentlest to the most violent, from the most flexible, even acrobatic, to the most rigid, even lethal. Who can calmly judge their appropriateness or value in our world? Our school, whether for Aikido or Katsugen Undo, is based on the practice of Non-Doing (Wu-wei), which has its roots in Chinese philosophies such as Chan and Taoism, as well as Japanese philosophies such as Shinto. Like so many other schools, it finds its place in the great pacifist and universalist movements that emerged after the Second World War.
This article by Régis Soavi was written for Self & Dragon Spécial Aikido before the magazine ceased publication in 2025; the topic was “Professionalisation.”
‘Ki belongs to the realm of feeling, not to that of knowledge.’1Tsuda Itsuo, The Non-Doing, Chap. II, 2013, Yume Editions (Paris), p. 27 (1re ed. in French, 1973). Tsuda Itsuo
As soon as you mention ki, you are dismissed as a mystic, a kind of crackpot: ‘It’s not scientific; no instrument or machine is capable of proving or demonstrating that ki exists.’ I completely agree. Indeed, if we consider ki to be a super-powerful energy, a kind of magic capable of throwing people across the room or killing them with just a shout, as was believed with kiai, we risk expecting miracles and quickly becoming disappointed.
Is ki an Eastern philosophy?
What is this “Eastern” philosophy that we supposedly do not have access to? Is there a specific domain reserved for a select few adepts, a handful of hand-picked disciples, or is this knowledge available to everyone, and what is more, without complicating our lives? I mean by leading a normal life, without being part of an elite group with access to secret knowledge, without having special, hidden practices that are doled out sparingly, but more simply by having a job, children, etc. When you practice Aikido, you are obviously engaged in both philosophical and practical research, but it is an “exoteric” rather than “esoteric” research.
Tsuda Itsuo wrote nine books, thus creating a bridge between East and West to enable us to better understand the teachings of Japanese and Chinese masters, to make them more concrete, simpler, and accessible to all. You do not have to be Eastern to understand and feel what it is all about. But it is true that in the world we live in, we are going to have to make a little effort. We need to break out of our habitual behaviours and references. We need to develop a different kind of attention, a different kind of concentration. It is not a question of starting from scratch, but of orienting ourselves differently, of directing our attention (our ki) in a different way.
First, we must abandon the very Cartesian idea that ki is one single entity, when in fact it is multiple. We must also accept that our bodies are capable of sensing things that are difficult to explain rationally, but which are part of our daily lives, such as sympathy, antipathy, and empathy. Cognitive science attempts to dissect all this using mirror neurons and other processes, but this does not explain everything, and sometimes even complicates matters.
In any case, there is an answer to every situation, but we cannot analyse everything we do at every moment in terms of the past, present, future, politics, or the weather. Answers arise independently of reflection; they arise spontaneously from our involuntary responses. Whether these answers are good or bad, analysis will tell us after the fact.
Ki in the West
The West was familiar with ki in the past; it was called pneuma, spiritus, prana, or simply vital breath. Today, this seems rather outdated. Japan has retained a very simple use of this word, which can be found in a multitude of expressions, which I will quote below, taking a passage from a book by my master.
But in Aikido, what is ki?
If any school can and should talk about ki, it is the Itsuo Tsuda School, not because we claim exclusivity, but simply because my master based all his teaching on ki, which he translated as breathing. That is why he spoke of a ‘School of Respiration’2ibid., Chap I, p. 17: ‘By the word respiration, I do not mean the simple bio-chemical process of oxygen merging with haemoglobin. Respiration is all at once vitality, action, love, a sense of communion, intuition, premonition, and movement.’3ibid., p. 16
Aikido is not a art of fighting, nor even a form of self-defence. What I discovered with my master was the importance of coordinating my breathing with my partner as a means of achieving a fusion of sensitivity in any situation. Tsuda Itsuo explained to us through his writings what his master Ueshiba Morihei had taught him. To convey this to us in a more concrete way, during what he called “the first part” – solitary practice, which we would now call Taisō – he would say KA when inhaling and MI when exhaling. Sometimes he would explain to us: ‘KA is the root of the Japanese word for fire, kasai, and MI is the root of the word for water, mizu.’4[see e. g.Tsuda Itsuo, The Science of the Particular, chap. XVIII, 2015, Yume Editions, p. 152–3 (1st ed. in French, 1976, p. 157–8)]. The alternation of inhalation and exhalation, their union, creates kami, which can be translated as the divine. ‘But be careful,’ he would tell us, ‘we are not talking about the God of Christianity or of any other religion – if you are lacking reference points, we could say that it is God the universe, God nature, or simply life.’
In the dojo, there was a drawing in Indian ink by Master Ueshiba containing fourteen very simple shapes and which we called Futomani because O-sensei had said that it had been dictated to him by Ame-no-Minaka-nushi: the Celestial Center. Tsuda Itsuo explains this in his book The Dialogue of Silence5Tsuda Itsuo, The Dialogue of Silence, chap. XII, 2018, Yume Editions, p. 106–7 (1st ed. in French, 1979, p. 157–8). Thanks to this, I gained a better understanding of the directions ki took when it had a form.
drawing by Master Ueshiba
Reconnecting, rediscovering the links with what already exists deep within us
The founder spoke of Haku no budo and Kon no budo: kon being the essential soul that must not be stifled, but, he said, we must not neglect the haku soul, which ensures the unity of the physical being.6[see e. g.The Dialogue of Silence (op. cit.), chap. XII, p. 100–2; or The Way of the Gods (2021, same author & publisher), Chap XIII, p. 103–4]
Once again, we are talking about unity.
If our practice is called Ai-ki-do – “the way of unifying ki” – it is because the word ki has meaning.
Practical experience will allow us to understand this better than long speeches. And yet we must try to explain, try to convey this important message, because without it our art risks becoming a fight where “may the strongest, the most skilled, or the most cunning win,” or an esoteric, mystical, elitist, even sectarian dance.
And yet we know ki well; we can sense it from a distance. For example, when we walk down a small street at night and suddenly feel a presence, a gaze on our back, and yet there is no one there! Then suddenly we notice a cat watching us from a nearby rooftop. Just a cat, or a curtain that flutters surreptitiously. The gaze carries a very strong ki that everyone can feel, even from behind.
One of the practices of Seitai-dō called Yuki consists of placing your hands on your partner’s back and circulating ki. This is not about laying hands on someone who is, on the face of it, not sick to heal them, but about accepting to visualise the circulation of ki, this time as a fluid, like flowing water. At first, neither person feels anything, or very little. But then, little by little, they discover the world of sensation. You could say that it is a dimension in its own right, in all its simplicity. It is simple, it is free, it is not linked to any religion, it can be done at any age, and when you begin to feel this flow of ki, the practice of Aikido becomes so much easier. The kokyū hō exercise, for example, cannot be done without kokyū, and therefore without ki, unless it becomes an exercise in muscular strength, a way of defeating an opponent.
I would never have been able to discover the Aikido that my master taught if I had not willingly and stubbornly sought it out. In sensitive research, through all aspects of daily life, to understand, feel, and expand that understanding without ever giving up.
Atmosphere
Ki is also atmosphere, so in order to practice, you need a place that allows ki to flow between people. In my opinion, this place, the dojo, should, whenever possible, be “dedicated” to a particular practice or school. Tsuda Itsuo believed that entering the dojo was a sacred act, which is why we bowed when stepping onto the tatami mats. It is not a sad place where people ‘should wear a scowling constipated expression. On the contrary, we must maintain a spirit of peace, communion and joy.’7Tsuda Itsuo, Heart of Pure Sky (posth.), ’Booklet n°3 – Respiratory Practice in Aikido’, 2025, Yume Editions, p. 102 (1st ed. in French, 2014)
The atmosphere of the dojo is nothing like that of a club or a multi-sports hall that is rented for a few hours a week and used, for reasons of profitability, by different groups that have nothing to do with each other. The kind of place, the kind of gym where you go, train, then take a shower and say goodbye; at best, you might have a beer at the local bar to chat a little with each other. When you know about ki, when you start to feel it, and especially when you want to discover what lies behind this word, a place like the dojo is really something else entirely. Imagine a quiet place in a small Parisian passageway at the end of the 20th arrondissement. You cross a small garden and on the first floor of a very simple building is “The Dojo.”8[more of which in Yann Allégret, On the wach for the right moment, pub. online (Feb. 2014)]
Dojo
You can come every day if you want, because there is a session every morning at quarter to seven: you are at home. You have your kimono on a hanger in the changing rooms, the session lasts about an hour, then you have breakfast with your partners in the adjoining area, or you rush off to work. On Saturdays and Sundays, you can sleep in, with sessions at eight o’clock.
Explaining ki is difficult, which is why only experience allows us to discover it. And for that, we must create the conditions that allow for this discovery. The dojo is one of the elements that greatly facilitates the search in this direction. It reconnects circuits, but also unties the bonds that constrain us and obfuscate our vision of the world.
Little by little, the work will be done, the knots will be untied, and if we accept that they are untied, we can say that the ki begins to flow more freely again. At that moment, it flows as vital energy; it is possible to feel it, visualise it, and in a way, make it conscious. Unnecessary tensions that cannot be released cause our bodies to stiffen. To make this as clear as possible, we could say that it is a bit like a garden hose that is blocked. It risks bursting upstream. The stiffening of the body forces it to react for its own survival. This triggers unconscious reactions that act on the involuntary nervous system. To avoid these blockages, micro-leaks of this vital energy occur, and sometimes even larger leaks, for example in the arms, at the koshi, and mainly at the joints. The immediate consequence is that people are no longer able to practice with fluidity, and it is strength that compensates for the lack. Parts of the body stiffen and begin to react like bandages or casts to prevent these losses of vital force. This is why it is so important to work on feeling the ki, on making it circulate. At first, visualisation allows us to do this, but as we deepen our breathing (the sensation, sensitivity to ki), if we remain focused on flexible practice, if we empty our minds, we can discover, see, and feel the direction of ki, its circulation. This knowledge allows us to use it, and the practice of Aikido becomes easy. We can begin to practice non-resistance: non-doing.
Women’s natural sensitivity to ki
Women generally have greater sensitivity to ki, or more accurately, they retain it more if they do not distort themselves too much in order to defend themselves in this male-dominated world where everything is governed by the criteria and needs of masculinity, the image of women that is conveyed, and the economy. Their sensitivity stems from the need to keep their bodies flexible so that they can give birth naturally and care for newborns. This flexibility cannot be acquired in gyms, weight rooms, or fitness centres; rather, it is a tenderness, a gentleness that can be firm and unwavering when necessary. Newborns need our full attention, but they cannot say ‘I’m hungry, I’m thirsty, or I’m tired,’ or ‘Mom, you’re too nervous, calm down, and tell Dad to speak more softly, it scares me.’
Thanks to their natural sensitivity, they sense the child’s needs, they intuitively know what to do, and ki flows between mother and child. When the father, who is always very rational, does not understand, the mother senses and therefore knows. Even if she is not a mother, even if she is a young woman with no experience, it is the body that reacts, it is the body that has this natural sensitivity to ki, and that is why, I think, there are so many women in our School. It is because ki is at the centre of our practice that nothing can be done without it. We focus our sensitivity in this direction and thus we can see the world and people not only on the level of appearances but much further, in their depth, what is behind the form, what structures it, or what drives it.
Some examples by Tsuda Itsuo, taken from The Non-Doing
‘“The most difficult thing to understand in the Japanese language is the word ‘ki’.”
It is true that the Japanese use the word many hundreds of times a day, without thinking about it, yet it is practically, and I would also say theoretically, impossible to find an equivalent in European languages.
While the word itself, taken out of context, remains untranslatable, it is nevertheless possible to translate current expressions of which it forms a part. Here are a few examples:
ki ga chiisai: literally, his/her ki is small. He (she) worries too much about nothing.
ki ga okii: his/her ki is big; he/she does not worry about petty things.
ki ga shinai: I do not have the ki to do… I do not want to. Or, it is too much for me.
ki ga suru: there is ki for… I have a hunch, a feeling, I sense intuitively…
waru-gi wa nai: he/she does not have bad ki, he/she is not a bad person or does not have bad intentions.
ki-mochi ga ii: the condition of ki is good; I feel well.
ki ni naru: it attracts my ki, I cannot free my mind from this idea. Something strange, not normal, is holding my attention, in spite of myself.
ki ga au: our ki matches, we are on the same wavelength.
ki o komeru: to concentrate ki. In the matter of concentration, nowhere else have I seen it taken to such heights as in Japan. […]
[…]
Ki-mochi no mondai: it is conditioned by the state of ki. It is not the object, the tangible result that counts, but the action, the intention.
[…]
One could give examples of several hundred more expressions which use the word ki.
Most Japanese themselves are incapable of explaining what ki is, yet they know instinctively when to use the word and when not.’9The Non-Doing (op. cit.), Chap. II, p. 25–7
Tsuda Itsuo started practising Aikido at the age of forty-five. He was not athletic, but his mere presence transformed the entire atmosphere of the dojo. I would like to tell you a story about one of the exercises I did in the 1970s, when my master was already over sixty years old. When I passed through the gate to the courtyard at the back of which the dojo was located, I would stop for a moment, close my eyes, and try to sense whether “he” was there. At first, it did not work very well; it was just random guesses, strokes of luck. Little by little, I understood: I should not try to know. So I began to “empty” myself, to stop thinking, and it came. Every morning, I knew whether he had arrived or not. I could feel his presence as soon as I approached the dojo.
From that moment on, something changed in me. I had finally understood a small part of his teaching, and above all, I had verified that ki was not part of the irrational, that it was concrete, and that its perception was accessible to everyone since it had been accessible to me.
It all started on an ordinary afternoon in my neighbourhood of Blanc-Mesnil in the “93” département1[number of French département Seine-Saint-Denis, colloquially referred to as “nine three” to emphasize the social difficulties in its working-class suburbs]. It was an altercation like many others, but that day, I found myself pinned down by a boy who was banging my head against the pavement and saying, ‘I’m going to kill you, I’m going to kill you.’ I do not even remember how it ended. But the following week, I was registered in a Jūdō Jū-jutsu Self-Defense class in the neighbouring town of Le Bourget.
I was twelve years old, and in my head there was this recurring thought: ‘Never again, never again.’
Two years later, at the middle school’s end-of-year party, the judo club was scheduled to give a demonstration. Everything was going very well when suddenly, a teenager wearing a black leather jacket jumped out of the front row and shouted at our group: ‘Your stuff is fake, you’re losers…’ Before anyone could react, he jumped onto the stage, pulled out a flick knife, and in a magnificent tsuki attempted to “stab” me. I dodged and executed a technique (I think it was a kind of oo-soto-gari). The audience was shocked and shouted! Then my attacker and I bowed to each other. The result: a lecture from the school principal, who made my friend Jean-Michel (the attacker) and me swear never to do anything like that again, because he had almost had a heart attack.
In addition to karate lessons for him and jūdō lessons for me, we trained as often as possible and for hours on end in my “personal dojo”.
Since we had moved into a detached house, located as we entered a small inner city where my mother had found a job as a concierge, I had converted the basement into a dojo, using pallets covered with recycled foam as tatami mats, and it was there that we had prepared our coup, he the karateka and I the jūdōka.
At the time, in the early sixties, we knew nothing about weapons such as katana, bokken, jō, or others. Apart from fencing, which was a sport, and Robin Hood’s stick, thanks to Errol Flynn, the only weapon we knew in everyday life was the knife.
When practising Aikido, there is always the possibility of imagining oneself as someone else. Cinema and special effects lend themselves well to inspiring dreams in teenagers and young adults of the new generations. In our industrialised countries, death has become virtual and often asepticised; spectacular fashion has distanced it. The screens everyone has today have enabled this psychological and physical distancing.
The work that can be done with a bokken, a jō, or even an iai is hugely important from a physical and psychological point of view. But I have never seen my students react in the same way as they do with a tantō.
As long as it is a wooden tantō, it is fine, but as soon as we offer a metal tantō, even if the blade is not sharp, there is a recognisable gleam in the practitioners’ eyes. With all kinds of nuances, from dread to panic to astonishment, in any case, fear – because we must call it by its name – is there. Whatever the denials, whatever the justifications.
We are often so far removed from this kind of reality.
Look under your feet
The calligraphy for our 2016 summer workshop was Look under your feet, written by my master Tsuda Itsuo. This phrase, which was displayed at the entrance to Zen monasteries, clearly resonates like a Koan. It is one of the many pieces of calligraphy he left behind and that intrigue us. A subliminal message? A message for posterity.
During our workshop, Look under your feet meant: “See and feel reality. Come out of your dream, your illusion, and become a true human being.”
The tantō is part of a principle of reality. Beyond the dexterity that training can bring, what is decisive and must be considered is precisely fear: fear of injury, which is already a lesser evil, and fear of death.
First, the people who will take turns being uke need to learn how to use the tantō: although the striking and cutting techniques are fairly simple, even rudimentary, they require what I would describe as rigorous training. The way to hold the weapon in the palm of the hand and the supports to be discovered for a good grip must be taught carefully and must be easy to understand, because if the tantō is held incorrectly, it can be more dangerous for uke themselves than for tori. In our school, very few people have ever held a weapon of this type in their hands when they arrive.
The simple fact of the blade’s direction, how it is held in the hand, the cutting angles. All of this determines a good attack.
Very often, people are reluctant to use metal tantō, which is too close to reality. They already visualise themselves as barbarians, their hands dripping with their partner’s blood!
No matter how much I explain and take the necessary precautions, these visions prevent them from making a real attack and block them. They stand there, waiting for I do not know what, or they attack weakly and, although the attacks are conventional, they warn, “call”, the moment of their attack. But if everything, absolutely everything, is planned, there is nothing left that is alive. If we protect and overprotect, life disappears. Breathing becomes shorter, gasping, inconsistent.
Instinct cannot be developed. All that remains is repetitive and tedious training.
And here I must say: this is not just about martial arts, because all attacks are planned, which is normal and necessary in order to acquire the correct posture. It is even important to work slowly for a certain amount of time in order to get a good feel for the movements, as when practising a Jū-jutsu kata, for example. But from a certain level onwards, the timing and intensity must remain random and you have to give your all. Free movement – a kind of randori at the end of each session – is precisely the moment when you can work on your reactions, while respecting everyone’s level.
What sets the great masters of the past apart is not their exceptional technique but their presence, the quality of their presence. What still makes the difference today is the quality of being, not the quantity of technique.
When practising with a sword or a stick, one can take refuge in the art, the style, the beauty of the movement, the rules, the etiquette. With the tantō, it is more difficult because it is closer to our reality. Knives and daggers are, unfortunately, weapons that are still used too often today. Aggression is frightening, and transforming ourselves into aggressors for a few minutes is intimidating. This constraint is extremely unpleasant and sometimes even impossible for some people to overcome. My job is to help them break out of this immobility, this blockage in their bodies, to go to the end of this fear, to reveal it, to show that it is what prevents us from living fully. The tantō reveals what is going on inside us. And here, two main paths are possible: the path of reinforcement or the path of less.
In the first case: the fight against fear and its corollary – the fight against oneself, which is an illusion, because in the end, who is the loser? It is a path of desensitisation, of stiffening the body, of hardening the muscles, and its consequence: the risk of atrophy of our humanity.
Or it is about overcoming fear by accepting it for what it is, and by promoting the flow of ki that made it incapacitating. Fear, which is initially a natural sensation, stems from our instinct. It is merely the blockage of our vital energy when it cannot find an outlet. It transforms into stimulation, attention, realisation, and even creation when it finds the right path.
That is why our School offers Regenerative Movement (one of the practices of Seitai taught by Noguchi Haruchika sensei) as a way to normalise the terrain by activating the extrapyramidal motor system. This normalisation of the body involves developing our involuntary system, which, instead of functioning reflexively as a result of hours and hours of training, regains its original abilities, liveliness, and intuition. Little by little, we will discover that many of our fears, our inability to live fully, to react flexibly and quickly in the face of difficulties, and even more so in the face of physical or verbal aggression, as well as our slowness, are due to our body’s lack of reaction. To the blockages of our energy in a body that is too heavy or to a “mentalisation” that is too rapid and ineffective. When the imagination is focused on the negative and develops excessively, it is often the source of many difficulties in daily life and can be dramatically debilitating in exceptional circumstances.
External flexibility and internal firmness
Tsuda Itsuo gives a striking example from the life of the samurai Kōzumi Isenokami, as recounted in Kurosawa Akira’s famous film Seven Samurai:
‘A murderer took refuge in the attic of a private home, taking a child with him as a hostage. Alerted by the locals, Kōzumi, who was passing through the village, asked a Buddhist monk to lend him his black robe and disguised himself as a monk, shaving his head. He brings two rice balls, gives one to the child and the other to the murderer to calm him down. The instant he reaches for the ball of rice, Kōzumi seizes him and takes him prisoner.
If Kōzumi had acted as a warrior, the bandit would have killed the child. If he had been just a monk, he would have had no other recourse but to plead with the bandit, who would have refused to listen to him.
Kōzumi was reputed to be a very reserved and humble man, and lacked the arrogance common among warriors. An example of his calligraphy has been preserved, dated 1565, when he was about age 58, and it is said to indicate extraordinary maturity, flexibility and serenity. It is this flexibility that enabled him to accomplish the instant transformation of warrior-bonze-warrior.
When I think of this personality of external flexibility and internal firmness, compared to how we are, we civilised people of today, with our external stiffness and internal fragility, I think I must be dreaming.’2Tsuda Itsuo, The Way of the Gods, Chap. IX, 2021, Yume Editions (Paris), p. 70–71 (1st ed. in French, 1982)
External flexibility and internal firmness
If I insist on the path of Seitai, which is unfortunately so little known in Europe, or sometimes so misrepresented, it is because it seems to me to be truly the path of guidance that a great many martial arts practitioners are seeking.
It is an individual path that can be followed without ever practising anything else, because it is a path in its own right. But when practising Aikido, I think it would be healthy to practice Regenerating Movement regardless of the level one has reached and even, or especially, from the very beginning. For example, it could prevent many inconveniences and minor accidents, and prepare you for the time when, as you are no longer young, you will need to rely on resources other than strength, speed of execution, or reputation, etc. to continue practising.
The Regenerative Movement is precisely what Germain Chamot refers to as ‘a regular personal health practice’ in his latest article3Germain Chamot, « Aïkijo : une histoire de contexte » [‘Aikijō: a matter of context’] (last paragraph, about Shiatsu), Dragon Magazine Spécial Aikido n° 13, p. 12–14. It is a path that requires neither funding nor physical fitness, but simply continuity and an open mind. I can only agree with his reflections on the difficulties in our society of offering a regular, long-term practice, as well as on the cost of weekly sessions with a Shiatsuki, etc. As the therapist treats the patient on an individual basis, they also have an obligation to achieve results, and the fact that they are consulted on an ad hoc basis for problems they are supposed to resolve as quickly as possible makes this difficult.
Seitai is not a therapy but a philosophical orientation, recognized by the Japanese Ministry of Education4[cf.Tsuda Itsuo, The Non-Doing, Chap. XI, 2023, Yume Editions (Paris), p. 120–121: ‘It was at the beginning of the 1950s, if I am not mistaken, that the department of physical education in the Japanese Ministry of Education chose the Regenerating Movement, after having studied many different worldwide known methods of relaxation, and of its own volition gave its support to the Seitai Society.’].
Noguchi sensei wanted to develop the practice of Regenerative Movement (Katsugen undo in Japanese). His aim was to “seitai-ise” (normalise) 100 million Japanese people, which is why he supported Tsuda Itsuo sensei in his desire to create Regenerative Movement groups (Katsugen kai), first in Japan and then in Europe. It was this, along with Tsuda Itsuo Sensei’s immense work, organising numerous workshops and conferences in France, Switzerland, Spain, etc., that made Regenerative Movement known and enabled the development of this invaluable approach to health.
Article by Régis Soavi published in October 2016 in Self & Dragon Spécial Aikido n° 14.
Notes
1
[number of French département Seine-Saint-Denis, colloquially referred to as “nine three” to emphasize the social difficulties in its working-class suburbs]
Germain Chamot, « Aïkijo : une histoire de contexte » [‘Aikijō: a matter of context’] (last paragraph, about Shiatsu), Dragon Magazine Spécial Aikido n° 13, p. 12–14
4
[cf.Tsuda Itsuo, The Non-Doing, Chap. XI, 2023, Yume Editions (Paris), p. 120–121: ‘It was at the beginning of the 1950s, if I am not mistaken, that the department of physical education in the Japanese Ministry of Education chose the Regenerating Movement, after having studied many different worldwide known methods of relaxation, and of its own volition gave its support to the Seitai Society.’]
My master Tsuda Itsuo, quoting Ueshiba O-sensei, wrote in his second book: ‘Aikido is an art whereby people unite and become separate again (musunde hanatsu)’ 1.
This was a very present aspect of his teaching, but he never used the terms awase and musubi. He spoke to us in French, he spoke about something greater than ourselves. He invited us to empty our minds in order to perceive something. Sometimes he would say: ‘God (in the sense of kami) is talking all the time, but we humans can’t tune in, so we don’t hear anything. Or we only hear sounds like a scrambled radio. But God speaks clearly’. So for him, it was up to us to put ourselves in a state where we could “receive”. The Itsuo Tsuda School’s aikido is based on what he called the fusion of sensitivity, so on fusing with the partner: faced with an attack, there is a response, but for our response to be adequate, we have to fuse with the partner. During the sessions I talk, for example, about merging and harmonising with the partner, feeling their centre – then we are bound by something, nothing is foreign to us any more. Today I am starting to go a bit further in the practice of aikido and I feel much more what Tsuda sensei meant about the link that unites us with the Universe. You really feel yourself like a link between this Universe and your partner, and you realise it circulates, that everything returns to the Universe.
The Respiratory Practice: a Musubi practice
The Respiratory Practice2 we do at the beginning of the session puts us in a “state of mind” that allows us to receive, to create this link between the Universe and ourselves. We do not really know what the Universe is. It is not the stars, it is not a black hole, etc. It is something else. For the Respiratory Practice we stay as close as possible to the teachings of Ueshiba O-sensei; Tsuda sensei was very precise about this.
For example, we do the vibration of the soul, Tama-no-hireburi, three times, each time with a different rhythm (slow, medium, fast) and only while breathing in. The first time we evoke Ame-no-minaka-nushi, the Centre of the Universe. I sometimes say this is an “invocation-evocation”. Ueshiba O-sensei used to say that it should be evoked three times during the vibration of the soul: the person leading the session says it out loud and then you evoke twice more internally. I heard this from Tsuda sensei, but nowhere else.
Tama-no-hireburi (vibration of the soul) by Régis Soavi sensei
So when we evoke Ame-no-minaka-nushi, as Ueshiba O-sensei used to say, we place ourselves at the Centre of the Universe. Centre of the Universe does not mean “Centre of the World”, nor “me and others”, nor something religious. It is somehow elusive, but at the same time extremely concrete. In any case, it does not encumber us, it is the Centre of the Universe and we can be there.
Then the second time we evoke Kuni-toko-tachi, the Eternal Earth, for me it is human, it is matter. The first is immaterial, the second becomes concrete, it is matter.
Then the third Kami evoked-invoked is Amaterasu, the sun goddess, life, what animates us. I sometimes tell the story of the cave where Amaterasu took refuge and of the rock door3. Ueshiba O-sensei often told it and Tsuda sensei also quoted it. It is life which had shut itself away in a dark cave and which has re-emerged. It is important to open the rock door inside us. We have closed ourselves off, we have become rigid, we cannot hear anything, and then one day we open up a little bit.
Aikido gives us a breath of air, something that allows us to breathe a little better. Then, with this breath, we can open up more and perhaps hear better what the Kami have to say to us, what the Universe has to say to us. I am not religious at all, but every morning I recite the Norito, as Tsuda sensei did, as Ueshiba O-sensei did. Every morning, at the beginning of each session, at quarter to seven, I recite the Norito, then I do the vibration of the soul, and I have been doing this for over forty years. And little by little I discover something, I go a little further, I am more permeable.
Awase: practising with the same partner can help you harmonise with the other person.
Straight from the first part of the session, which is an individual practice, it is important to get into a certain state of mind. The harmonisation work continues in the second part, where we practise with a partner. To facilitate this, in our school we work with the same partner throughout the session. Of course, we could change for each technique, but if you want to harmonise, it is difficult to do so in just five or ten minutes with each person. For those who have been doing it for twenty or thirty years, this is fine… But if you are just starting out, say for the first ten years, it is also reassuring to stay with the same partner, so that you have time to harmonise and become imbued with the other person. Thus you can feel them, the first few contacts can sometimes be a bit difficult. But with the same technique, a second, then a third, you can go a little further, get closer to your centre, breathe the “fragance” of your partner better. Tsuda sensei used to talk about discovering the inner landscape of somebody, but it is more difficult to discover the inner landscape of seven or eight people in the same session. Sometimes, particularly at the end of a session, I ask people to change partners, especially during Free Movement. But of course we change every session – they are not partners for life!
The Non-Doing
Uke has a role to play, without being violent, they must be sincere in their attack because without this energy, Tori will be in the “Doing” and not in the “Non-Doing”. In aikido, I often see very gentle Ukes and Tori happily slaughtering their Uke. This is not my principle at all. When I talk about attack, I mean when Uke does a Shomen, a Yokomen, a Tsuki or a seizure, it is important that an energy comes out of it, he or she “does”. Tori, on the other hand, diverts it, lets the energy that expresses itself in the gripping of the wrist or the striking pass, he moves to the side and transforms it, then it is “Non-Doing”. Tori does not respond to the attack, they let that energy, that ki, flow, they go beyond the attack. Of course, Tori does not foolishly wait to be hit! Non-Doing does not mean doing nothing.
I also assume that when someone attacks another person, it is because they do not feel good about themselves… When you feel good about yourself, when you are alive, you have no desire to go and attack others. It would not even occur to you. It is because you do not feel good about yourself that this happens. We live in a violent world, and we have been brought up to react in line with this violence – we have to defend ourselves against this, against that… It has made us sick. By practising aikido, when you are Tori, you are “healing” this violence. This violence, which is in the other person, which is expressed by the role and firmness of Uke, one guides it to transform it into something positive and liberating.
Almost thirty years ago, I decided to use the term Ame-no-uki-hashi ken to refer to the work with weapons that we do in workshops and sometimes in regular practice. The ken, the sword, is a representation of the celestial floating bridge: Ame-no-uki-hashi. We speak of a celestial floating bridge when we see the katana with the cutting edge facing upwards, and we also speak of a celestial floating boat when the cutting edge is facing the other way, downwards. It is quite curious because it is both the bridge and the boat… It is what unites heaven and earth, the conscious and the unconscious, the Universe and us. When we work with weapons, they are an extension of ourselves, beyond our skin, something that allows us to go a little further, to discover our sphere too.
Ame-no-uki-hashi: being on the celestial floating bridge, this was an image used by Ueshiba O-sensei and passed on to us by Tsuda sensei. To be on the blade of the sword is to be in a state of attention that could even be described as “divine”, where a different perception can occur. I do not want to get into a discussion about whether or not weapons should be used in aikido, it does not matter. I work with weapons because it forces us to be in a state of extreme concentration while maintaining relaxation. They also help me to make the ki lines visible in a more obvious way, both those of my partner and those that come from myself. For example, when I place two bokken on my centre in a demonstration, I show that the strength comes from the hara and not just from the muscles.
Weapons make ki lines visible, the strength comes from the hara (Régis Soavi sensei)
Kokyū Hō: breathing
Traditionally with Tsuda sensei, the session always began with the Respiratory Practice, then we did the exercise he called Solfège4, then we worked on techniques and at the end there was always Kokyū Hō in suwari wasa.
For Tsuda sensei, Kokyū Hō was an opportunity to do just one thing: breathe. He gave us, among other things, the visualisation of opening the arms as the lotus flower opens. There is no more technique, just a person grabbing you, and then you breathe through them, circulating the ki through your arms, through your partner. Whatever the partner’s resistance, we open up to it and achieve the fusion of sensitivity between ours and theirs.
For me, every Kokyū Hō is different, with every person. There is no particular technique, but there are lines that spread out from the hara, it is like a kind of sun that shines and you can follow each ray of sunlight to find that hara, something ignites and the person falls to the left, to the right and you do the immobilisation. For me, this is a special moment of deep breathing. When I talk about deep breathing, I am obviously talking about ki, meaning that when you breathe deeply the ki starts to circulate in a different way.
Awase beyond the tatami: taking care of the baby, the height of martial arts
‘Knowing how to treat babies well is for me the height of martial arts’ 5. When Tsuda sensei wrote this sentence, he was relating aikido to the way of looking after a baby in Noguchi Haruchika sensei’s Seitai. He also said that taking care of a baby is like having a sword over your head; as soon as you make a mistake, “snip” the sword falls.
If we draw a parallel with aikido, the baby is both much more demanding than the master and at the same time much more gentle; in Seitai, taking care of the baby means having constant attention, it means abandoning yourself. The greatest masters talk about the importance of abandoning yourself, it is central to martial arts. Awase, this fusion we talk about, is also accepting to abandon yourself. With a baby, it is all a question of sensation, we are in a constant fusion of sensitivity, like when a mother knows if her baby is crying because it has to pee or if it is hungry or tired. In the same way, but in reverse, for the samurai facing their adversary, the art was to discover in the other the moment when their breathing would become irregular, the moment when they would be able to strike. It means calling on all our abilities.
Taking care of a baby is discovering a world of sensitivity, for example through the art of giving a hot bath in Seitai. Knowing how to put a baby into the water when it breathes out and how to take it out of the water when it breathes in, when you are able to look after a baby in this way you are also in martial arts. Touching a baby, changing a baby in the rhythm of its breathing, putting a baby to sleep and laying it down without waking it up… Of course, it is much more flamboyant to pull out your katana and pretend to cut off a head! But for me, it is so much more difficult and important to put to bed a baby who has fallen asleep in your arms, to be able to take your hands out from under the baby without waking it up, that is art! With an aikido partner, you can “cheat”, you can use a little shoulder pressure, you can push… but with a baby, you cannot cheat. There is fusion or there is not. I learnt a lot from my babies, I think I learnt as much from them as I did from Tsuda sensei, although in a different way.
Musubi and awase: the beginning
It is generally believed that one must begin by learning the techniques and that after many years of work one can grasp awase and musubi. In our school, the Respiratory Practice and the fusion of sensitivity are at the beginning and inseparable from the rest. All our research is done through breath, “ki”. This direction allows us to deepen the research in simplicity rather than acquisition, and in this sense we meet Ueshiba O-sensei’s definition: ‘Aikido is Misogi’.
A Series of exercises done individually that precede the technique, cf. ‘The Itsuo Tsuda School, Meeting the Breathing’, an article by Régis Soavi published in July 2014 in Dragon Magazine Spécial H. S. Aikido n° 5 (on the theme: individual work), pp. 6–12
Myth described in the Kojiki
[French solfège literally reads music theory, and more precisely the basics of music theory. The solfège exercise contains indeed many fundamentals of Tsuda’s aikido but also refers to a “tuning” moment between the partners, akin to the moment before a concert when the musicians tune their instruments – for the sake of harmony. (Translator’s Note)]
Letting go… letting go… letting go… Forgetting in order to lose our judging habits on others as well as on ourselves, whose only purpose is, too often, to justify our actions, to hide our misunderstandings or our fears, and which confuse our healthy reflections coming from the depths of our beings. Progress or regression are part of the same world, a deceptive world in which learning, like training or competition, has become a commodity to be bought and sold. Deepening, on the other hand, cannot be bought with money.
Citius, Altius, Fortius
Faster, higher, stronger. This is the motto of the Olympic Games, the ideal of top-level sport. Aikido, on the other hand, belongs to a completely different dimension, one that is open to all, to everyone, without in the least diminishing its status as a martial Art, as an Art of breathing and above all as an Art of harmony.
In Japanese martial arts practices, it is often said that all the arts follow paths that may seem very different from one another at the start – and so, even for quite a long time –, but they all point in the same direction, towards the apex of the mountain, Mount Fuji. Some are tortuous or difficult to access, others seem easier, faster or simply slower, but they all converge at the summit. The patriarchs of Zen Buddhism, who encourage perseverance, add: ‘when you reach the top, do not stop, just keep climbing’.
HOKUSAI, Fujiyama / 富士山
As for Tsuda sensei, he offered us a different image, a visualisation that allowed us to see things from a different point of view, a way of thinking that has always served as an orientation for me and allowed me to open up to another essential and yet simple dimension, a reorientation of which I had an imperative need. When he spoke of his masters – whether Japanese, such as Ueshiba Morihei O-sensei, Noguchi Haruchika sensei, creator of Seitai, Hosada sensei of the Kanze Kasetsu School, with whom he studied the recitation of Nō, or French, such as Marcel Granet and Marcel Mauss at the Sorbonne University – he explained that they had dug “wells of great depth”1 thanks to their intense and continuous research in their speciality. And yet, although they were working in very different fields, what each of them had discovered as they got closer to their source was that it was the same “water” that flowed there. Speaking of his work and his research in Aikido, Seitai and communication through his books, he himself told us, two years before his death, that he was beginning to feel moisture. The direction he was pointing in was not the accumulation of knowledge, techniques and know-how, but always the path of less, which allows the individual to wake up, to emerge from their torpor. He gives us an example of this in this paragraph from his fifth book2:
‘The only thing that concerns me is how far I can develop my breathing. My experience tells me that there is no limit. […]
What seemed to me inconceivable, difficult, even impossible, one day becomes feasible, and then easy and joyful. […]
Everything takes place like the incubation of an egg. When the embryo becomes a chick, it breaks the shell and leaves. A new world opens up with the awakening of new sensations.’
Tsuda Itsuo
To go deeper is not to repeat endlessly
Every partner, every situation, is an opportunity to meet and discover something new, something subtly different. It is this diversity that allows us to grow.
On the other hand, I remember my first years of Judo. I was barely twelve at the time, and although we practised the method known as “Japanese Judo-jujitsu”, which was very different from “modern Judo” – for example, there were no weight categories and everything was based on imbalance rather than strength – our teacher saw fit to align himself with the more modern trends promoted by Anton Geesink, the first non-Japanese to win the world championship title in 1961. He began to make us work on a “special”, i. e. a single technique, two at the most, for each of us. We had to repeat them tirelessly in order to win in the few inter-community competitions and to be able to take part in the Île-de-France tournaments. For him, it was a stimulus that was perfectly in line with modern teaching methods, but as for me, I was already aware of how much we were moving from martial arts to sport. I loved sport, especially running, and more particularly cross-country running, but what I loved about judo was disappearing.
In spite of everything, I continued at the club, and at the same time, above all, in what I called my “personal Dojo” with a judoka and karateka friend of mine: it was a space of about twenty square metres of which I was very proud because I had managed to set it up in a basement on tatamis that were extremely homemade. But it had all the features we needed for our practice, including photos of the masters in a Tokonoma, etc. It was there that we practised the “real” martial arts, in the nobility of the spirit of the art, but of course also with suppleness and rigour, comparing our recently acquired experience – I was just fifteen at the time and had been practising for four years. Our repertoire was to be found in the first books published, and we did not leave out any kata, even the most difficult ones, although they were not yet at our level, but what fascinated us was to discover the richness and finesse of this art, which had its roots in the experience of past centuries.
Aikido and the discovery of ki
Our judo teacher had told us about aikido and showed us some simple techniques. What was behind the techniques he was talking about and of which he had given us a glimpse? How could we progress in martial arts? These were the questions that plagued me when I wanted to resume training after the events of 1968. I had left the suburbs where I lived and taken up a lot of different arts, as well as various training in all kinds of martial arts, but all this only partly suited me. When I enrolled at the Montagne Sainte-Geneviève dojo in Paris with Plée sensei, I hoped to finally find something that would satisfy me. It is just after the Judo lessons, and thanks to the Aikido sessions led by Maroteaux sensei and his demonstrations and explanations on the importance of Ki in both Aikido and Jiu-Jitsu, that I felt the direction I needed to take. It was through him that I found the thread that led me to the man who became my Aikido, Katsugen Undo and Seitai master over his last ten years: “Tsuda sensei” – and for that I can never thank him enough.
In all the masters I met later, I tried to see and feel the Ki that was invisible yet present in each of them. Through my encounters at national and international workshops, I also rubbed shoulders with practitioners from different schools, always with an eye not to confront myself or discover new techniques, or even to show what I could do, but to feel the Ki in the people with whom I practised. The essential thing for me was to perceive what was driving them, superficially or more deeply, no matter whether it proved positive or negative in relation to my own practice. All of this allowed me to check how far I had got to, but also to feel how far I had come to appreciate the path travelled, and so to go deeper and further.
Tsuda sensei’s books, in their simplicity and depth, were not only theoretical guides, but also practical guides that I used in my daily life, and which, little by little, forced me to “let go” so that I could finally find myself again and confirm what was propelling and leading me.
As long as we want to achieve a victory, whether over ourselves or over others, to gain advantages or comfort, we are basically following the same path – the path of acquisition, which focuses on the superficial, the container more than the content, the form more than the essence. Becoming aware of the path we are following – and the frustration that very often results – can lead us to reverse and begin to learn how to use dissatisfaction to seek out what is already there, waiting to be fulfilled, rather than try, in order to survive, to fill the gaps we feel in our character or physiological structure.
This is the path that Aikido offers us, an art of encounter, with a dimension that will surprise us as much as it will delight us, if we have the patience to discover it. To intensify sensation, not to fight against disappointment when it appears, but to accept it as a friend that helps us dig a little deeper in the direction we have ourselves decided to follow. To reawaken our intuition by merging with our partners and paying attention to every movement, to the flow of that inner energy that we need to discover and that is at our fingertips. To open up to our immanent humanity, without allowing ourselves to be dispossessed or invaded, because our sphere has become more perceptible, stronger, with a practice that is both realistic and, above all, without falsehood or complacency.
Going deeper means discovering an unknown world
It is when we are tired, depressed or sometimes just unwell that surprisingly unusual abilities come to the fore. Because we can no longer behave as we normally do, and provided we have worked in the direction of going deeper, then unknown abilities, different ways of doing things and understanding our surroundings emerge. Without us consciously noticing, our ego in that situation has the opportunity to submit to something it has never known. If we allow it to do so without fear, unsuspected possibilities then open up, the driving force of these being empathy and the consequence the desire to communicate. The need for action that arises from this situation propels us more or less quickly out of this difficult state, leading to an understanding of what we were looking for without being aware of it. The answers we find are often buried deep within ourselves. They are often very simple, such as “Why did I choose to practise Aikido?” or “Why do I keep digging despite the slowness and difficulty of this kind of path?”
The world we have access to is no different from the one we lived in, we need only add a new dimension, Ki. It is a fourth dimension, or a fifth if we think of time as the fourth dimension. If necessary, we can think of Ki in the same way we today conceive of gravity, or of anything else that is partly unknown to us at the moment, but I would not know how to define it because it is a “special” dimension. Tsuda sensei gave us a clue when he wrote in 1973, in the very first pages of his first book The Non-Doing:
‘Conveying the question of “ki” into the French vocabulary where every word must be defined and limited, is in itself contradictory, for “ki” is by nature suggestive and unlimited.’ 1 ‘In any case, the Western mind, with its intellectual and analytical tendency is incapable of admitting into its vocabulary a word as flexible as ki: infinitely large, infinitely small, extremely vague, extremely precise, very common, down-to-earth, technical, esoteric.’ 4
But after all, what we practise is called AI KI DO, is it not: the “Way of fusion and harmonisation of Ki”?
Article by Régis Soavi to be published in April 2025 in Self & Dragon Spécial Aikido n° 21.
Notes:
[cf.Tsuda Itsuo, The Non-Doing, Foreword (‘wells of exceptional depth’), 2013, Yume Editions (1st ed. in French, 1973, pub. Le Courrier du Livre (Paris), p. 12) (Translator’s note)]
In his teaching, Tsuda Itsuo sensei insisted on visualisation which, linked to breathing, is a means of discovering the path of ki no nagare, the flow of ki. Breathing and visualisation are tools for deepening our perception of this flow and taking advantage of its benefits in everyday life.
Imagination or visualisation
Imagination produces no tangible results other than disillusionment and disappointment when you return to reality. Visualisation, on the other hand, is not a mental process, a kind of wandering of the mind, but involves the whole body. Few people can tell the difference until they have experienced the two processes separately and verified their reality. Visualisation is both action and non-action, anticipating and waiting for the right moment. It requires the utmost relaxation and concentration, but there is no difficulty in finding them because visualisation is based on the felt foundation of experienced unity.
Tsuda sensei was an intellectual in the best sense of the word, a philosopher of the older generation. @Eva Rotgold
Ki no nagare: an ocean of interactions
Every culture develops its own understanding of the world, its own philosophy. Over the centuries, our Western culture has developed an analytical approach, leading to great precision and attention to detail. This interesting approach is clearly visible in science and technology, but also in martial arts. This quest for precision is also what drives human beings to excel, to become better at their discipline, as some top-level practitioners have already shown us. At that stage, it is not just about the detail of the gesture, it is also about understanding how the human being works, both physically and psychologically. Although important and necessary, it is the same direction, when becoming exclusive, which prevents us from reaching unity; if detail and control become too present, we lose the whole and in particular the perception of the flow of ki.
Others, such as Japanese culture, also pay great attention to detail, but have retained a more present conception of the links between living things and therefore of the whole. In his book Jamais seul [Never Alone], biologist Marc-André Selosse proposes a change of perspective on this subject: we have now broadened our understanding of living things with the notions of extended phenotypes or ‘holobionts’. But M.-A. Selosse goes even further, saying that we can see the world as an ‘ocean of microbes’ where larger, multi-cellular structures are “floating”’ 1 (plants, animals), and also have the ecologist’s vision of an ‘ocean of interactions’ where ‘[e]ach “organism” (this is also true of each microbe) is a node in a colossal network of interactions. The ecologist sees living organisms as this network, where what we call organisms are in fact no more than points between which these interactions are articulated.’ 2
M.-A. Selosse notes that this is a vision of the world already held by certain non-Western cultures, which ‘have a perception more focused on interactions and incorporate us into a whole with what surrounds us. […] [p]erhaps it is time to get rid of the avatars that Western individualism projects onto our biological… and everyday worldview. Western science has transposed a philosophy based on the individual into a biology based on the organism: beyond the successes achieved, the real breakthrough would now be to restore interaction to its central place.’ 3
Ki no nagare, which translates as flow, circulation of ki, is perhaps one way of understanding this ocean of interactions. I believe that the essence of Aikido lies in the physical, tangible understanding of this notion of the flow of ki. Because even a very small river can give a large river a different direction. Who is at the origin of the change, who acts on the other? It can take years, even centuries, to resolve such a question.
Breathing and visualisation are tools that enable us to deepen our perception of this circulation.
The Art of Non-Acting
Through an art such as Aikido, we can experience this sensation of ki no nagare in a very concrete and subtle way, and gradually discover that ki no nagare goes hand in hand with the spirit of Non-doing. You position yourself while accepting “to go with it”, without deciding to influence the direction in a voluntarist way, all while remaining a strong centre well in its place, without boasting nor taking advantage of the situation. This is the position of the “wise man” in the Taoist sense, as evoked by Zhuangzi in the story of the swimmer at the Lüliang Falls who maintained himself perfectly in a place where no animal could swim and who explained: ‘I let myself be caught up by the whirlpools and lifted up by the updraft, I follow the movements of the water without acting on my own behalf.’ 4Wei wu wei, literally “acting in non-acting”, is based on the sensation of flow, interaction or ki no nagare.
It is perhaps driven by an indefinable inner sensation, and because we have sensed this direction that we have chosen the path of Aikido, whatever our past life which, depending on circumstances, may have been different or even the opposite. Aikido opens up a different perspective to those who ask questions about their surroundings and their day-to-day lives.
Yet there are moments when everything stops, regardless of our daily routine. It is when everything comes to a halt that we sometimes become aware of ourselves, of who we really are and of certain faculties that are now discredited in so-called modern society. It can be an incident, an accident that happens unexpectedly, a fight, an emotional shock that we had not foreseen and that could turn out badly, or a twist of fate that strikes us and that we do not understand at all. And then you get the feeling that everything is falling apart, that nothing is worth anything any more, that all your efforts are pointless, futile and derisory. This can be the start of a deep depression, which some people only come out of with medical help.
But it can also be the starting point for a different direction in our lives, like a step backwards that will take us forward. And it was this kind of change of direction that I personally realised when I met my sensei, Tsuda Itsuo.
My experience over the years has shown me that by practising seriously, on a daily basis, doors opened and infinitely precise sensations guided me towards dimensions that I did not know about, or that I had forgotten – like many of us – from my childhood, or that I was no longer able to feel.
Intuition is one of these discoveries, and visualisation is its vehicle and its driving force. Not the perception of something becoming or some kind of premonition, but rather the perception of the relations between things; unchanging at times, if not hidden, at least invisible without this state of sensitivity.
Through an art such as Aikido, we can experience this sensation of ki no nagare very concretely and finely.
Conscious visualisation
Harmonising with your partner is obviously an essential part of Aikido practice, but Tsuda sensei‘s teaching took us much further. His insistence on making us work on visualisation every morning, despite our difficulties and laziness, gradually produced results for those who wanted to continue along this path. I remember once, during Kokyu Hō, I found myself trapped in the shoulders against a formidable partner who was determined not to let go; to be more specific, without any aggressiveness but with implacable determination. Suddenly, without my having seen or heard anything, I noticed that my partner lifted himself off the ground and fell back to my side without me having to make the slightest effort. I turned around and Tsuda sensei was standing behind me, looking as if nothing had happened and smiling mockingly, revealing a hint of irony. During his demonstrations, he never hesitated to make us feel how difficult, if not impossible, it was to resist this flow, as powerful as it was gentle, that he managed to bring out during the technique, leaving us both amazed and amused. Many times I felt like a child playing with his grandfather.
The beauty of visualisation is that it can begin consciously as a daily task and then move on to the unconscious level, sometimes very quickly, even if not permanently. The advantage of using visualisation is that by allowing the ki to flow in a direction other than the one blocked by the opponent, we find ourselves in a state of non-combativeness, non-aggressiveness and the desire to merge with the other person. It is perhaps here, in this territory with no map nor landmark, but which is nonetheless very concrete, that we will find the roots of the universal love of which O Sensei speaks.
Drawing by Ueshiba Morihei sensei representing his inner Aikido landscape and given by himself to Tsuda sensei
Here is a passage from one of Tsuda sensei’s books which I find enlightening and significant in terms of the development he sought to encourage in his students:
‘We often talk in Aikido about the flow of ki, ki no nagare, which psychologically speaking would correspond to visualisation. But the flow of ki has a content that is richer and more concrete than visualisation. It involves the idea that something actually comes out of the body, hands or eyes to trace the path we will then follow. Hence it eliminates the absolute separation between what is inside and what is outside.
Truth to tell, isn’t such a separation a fictitious idea invented for intellectual convenience? A human being cannot live for even a moment completely separated from the outside.
It also establishes the extension of the voluntary system outside of the conventional framework of the voluntary muscles. If there were no flow of ki, Aikido would simply be a kind of exercise or a dance.
The difficulty in this matter is that the flow of ki is unseen, whereas you can feel and verify the existence of muscles, for example.’ 5
‘Given that the flow of ki implies movement in space and also in time, it can take a premonitory appearance. Mr Ueshiba used to say that he saw the image of his opponents falling before it happened. It would be at once prescient and controlled. This remark leads us to the revolutionary idea that one can act upon the future with certainty, and it comes at the very moment when science, abdicating its absolutism, admits uncertainty as a rigorous truth. With the flow of ki, the future may become as concrete as the present.
Neither the flow of ki nor the ability to anticipate the future are the exclusive preserve of Aikido. On a more general level, they can exist in everyone. If I take a pencil from the table, there is flow of ki to the pencil. Let’s say that the flow of ki in this action is not very intense. It does not engage my whole person. In times where occupations were more traditional and less cluttered with innovations, this natural ability was more intense. All the same, there was more concentration in the accomplishment of an act. There was joy and disappointment because there was a real sense of anticipation. Today, with advances in technology and the more highly developed economic environment, we do not know where we stand. Perhaps the occupation you learn now will no longer be valid in years to come. Youth is flooded with possibilities to choose from, but none of these are stable. Young people are on the lookout for all sorts of things, without being able to fully engage in anything.’ 6
Tsuda sensei was above all an intellectual in the best sense of the word, a philosopher of the older generation who, thanks to his clear view of the society around him, was not content to criticise or praise it, but knew how to find the substance of the questions and make connections, both between ancient civilisations, their cultures and customs, and with examples of what he observed in his own time, following the thread that he himself had found thanks to his masters, both Eastern and Western.
Curious about everything he sensed would be useful to his teaching, he found examples that used to speak to us and that still do when we reread his books, such as his interest in the work of Constantin Stanislavsky7 whose teaching, based on the emotional relationship and the actors’ own experience, influenced the famous New York Actor Studio course run by Lee Strasberg and Elia Kazan, and which Tsuda sensei found significant in terms of his conception and understanding of the message he was trying to convey. This allowed him to be exhaustive, and even lapidary in this sentence about visualisation as seen by the director:
‘[He] put to good use the effects for the actor of recreating a psychological situation.
If the situation created is perfectly accepted and carried out, there is flow of ki. Whether the gesture is performed with an intense visualisation of the situation or a head full of abstract ideas, hypotheses or theories, the gesture is the same but the result is not the same. This is what makes the difference between the actor and the ham.’ 8
“Non-fighting” is not the same as refusing to fight, in the same way that “non-doing” is never the same as “doing-nothing”. Understanding life in its most unusual, most upsetting, most incongruous and sometimes apparently most incomprehensible manifestations is perhaps the real fight to be carried.
Practising Aikido and returning to the origins of being
This article is difficult for me, because I was originally a fighter who, thanks to the practice of Aikido and Katsugen undo, now aspires only to “non-fighting”. Revolted since my early teens by the conditions and solutions proposed by society, my path could have been very different had I not crossed that of my master: Tsuda Itsuo. It took me seven years to have defused within me what would only have brought me to my doom. After that, a few decades were enough to respond to my inner demand and strengthen the direction I had begun to take. I then found a personal antithetical response through the work of emancipation and release of the people who come to practise in our School. Allowing everyone to rediscover their inner strength, as opposed to reinforcing all their acquired tendencies, which are merely the result of an underlying education orchestrated by a world that makes us believe in our weakness, that accustoms us to fear and thereby pushes us into submission.
If our art were some mere “self-defence”, I would not have practised it for so long, I would not have got up at the crack of dawn every morning, for nearly fifty years, to go to the dojo. I have not sacrificed anything for this, but I have not let anything divert me from this direction. Aikido is a ‘total social fact’ in the sense that Marcel Mauss understood it. It has led me to deepen my own understanding in many ways. It has driven me to fight against the injustice suffered by individuals of all genders, through the normalisation of bodies that have become rigid and blocked, and through a return to the truth of inner strength which is only waiting to emerge once more. Stepping outside the box to show its falseness. Proposing self-management of groups in dojos, the independence of individuals, the power of the encounter between beings rather than incomprehension or manipulation: these are both the conditions and the answers to be provided.
Any fight can be legitimised on the basis of a theory or ideology, but its effects and consequences must be measured in each situation. The end does not justify the means. Too many fights have been lost by those who had won them, this even if they did so rightly, because the means were unjustifiable in the face of life. The violence done to human beings in an unjust society provokes a fight, and the response is very often a rightful conflict, a struggle against adversity. However, the struggle is not meant to be a violent fight, but a fight without a struggle is doomed to failure. The revolt against injustice of all kinds, whether individual or collective, must pass through our sensitivity and empathy, and be nourished by them. If it leads us to fight, how can we refuse it? It is rather to the form that we are due to pay attention. Thus shall we be able to practise “non-fighting” and act in Non-Doing.
A solution: co-evolution and possible symbiosis
On an individual level, we need to put an end to the reasoning that legitimises everything by relying excessively and exclusively on Darwin’s all-too-famous ‘struggle for life’. In the 19th century already, when scientific knowledge of how the body works was still in its infancy, libertarian theorist Prince Kropotkin, without denying the theory of evolution in its entirety, pointed out that the best-adapted species are not necessarily the most aggressive, but can be the most social and the most supportive. This theory, incidentally, will get a confirmation in this beginning of the 21st century in researcher Marc-André Selosse’s writings about biodiversity, microbiota and symbiosis. Darwinism has been the justification used since the 19th century to stifle social revolt, legitimise the exploitation of human beings, establish patriarchy on pseudo-scientific grounds and ultimately destroy the planet in the name of immediate profit. Dutch-American primatologist Frans de Wall, who has studied the feeling of empathy in animals, concludes that social Darwinism ‘is an abusive interpretation: yes, competition is important in nature but, as we have seen, that’s not all.’ ‘We are also programmed to be empathetic, to resonate with the emotions of others.’1 For me, promoting life at both individual and collective levels and using an art like Aikido to spread the possible enrichment of humanity along the path towards which our masters guided us is more than just a task – it is rather a conviction.
The push of the bokken
Legitimate defence
Before addressing the issue of legitimate defence, it is important to reflect on our humanity, our ancestral animality, our primitive reactions which are often antithetical, and above all on our instinct for life which overrides our reflex for death. Sometimes, very simply, the instinct to survive is enough to wake us up from the numbness caused by our fear of what surrounds us. To carry out this reflection, we cannot be satisfied with an overview of general thinking, nor can we look around us for either answers or examples. If our reflection, our thought is meant to be intelligent, it must delve into the very depths of our being in order to find answers that will always be relative, never definitive, and in motion so to say, because the elements at our disposal are both numerous and contradictory, theoretical, legislative and even religious. They have their purpose in different societies, different times, and we cannot disregard them with a stroke of the pen or adopt one on superficial grounds. That is what makes the art of Aikido so precious: an art which leads us both physically and spiritually.
Encouraging life at both individual and collective levels
An adequate response
The nature within us needs answers, and these answers must be right and clear. They must be unambiguous and no more problematic than the question itself, nor engender further misunderstandings in an outburst of resentment. The situation that leads to the fight already favours, if we understand it, our giving it a right answer. It is our attitude in life that is our starting point, and this is why practising Aikido is so important. It is not just about training to fight, but rather about finding the sensation of the living down in all aspects of everyday life. Life is not a long, tranquil river, nor is the world an amusement park. Injustice and violence are present, and no one can ignore them. Even if the result of conditioning or fear of the future, closing our eyes to what surrounds us would only be childish self-centredness or cynical egotism. I cannot see fighting only as an individual or collective solution, but much more as a sane demand for health, for intelligence of the world and as a search for unification, pacification, return to unity.
Constant vigilance is not permanent tension (work by Shunsō H.)
Is relaxation a necessity in fight?
Relaxation is not an option, nor is it a tactic or a subterfuge for victory, but more simply the result of a state of being. It cannot be acquired but can rather be discovered by following a path of simplicity and sincerity. It is a way of life when body and spirit are “finally” in harmony. It is this return to the deepest nature of ourselves that must occur when we have rid ourselves of what encumbers us, of what shackles us, of what obstructs the clear vision we could have if we were freer. Aikido is the royal path to achieving this, Tsuda sensei called it ‘The path of less’,2 as opposed to the path of acquisition, which creates tension and conflict. It is a new basis that takes us back to our early childhood while not being childish,3 with, on the other hand, the strength of age, experience and perhaps a little of that wisdom brought by our art.
A poem like the one I found in Utomag magazine is sometimes better than a long argument:
“Fighting”
Being always ready
Observing in a diffuse way
Not acting unnecessarily
Acting at the right moment
In a relaxed body ready to pounce
This is very clear with cats:
Constant vigilance is not permanent tension
On the contrary, they are capable of great relaxation
Their bodies are supple, ready to tense up for action,
and then, to relax again
Their aggressiveness, deployed when necessary, is matched only by their voluptuousness, used without moderation
Should we condemn them for one or the other?
Should they give up one or the other?
No
Because they act in total harmony with their function as animals: to be
There is nothing constructed or thought out about this
They are, they live, they protect their integrity, their territory.
They won’t be aggressive for the sake of being aggressive, just as they won’t not be aggressive on principle
Fighting is a means of self-preservation, not an end in itself.
If it is, it may be that the instinct for self-preservation has been touched.
Sometimes, preserving oneself means not fighting
But not fighting must never mean renouncing oneself, one’s ability to preserve oneself.
Article by Régis Soavi published in January 2025 in Self & Dragon Spécial Aikido n° 20.
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Notes :
interview of Frans de Waal by Natalie Levisalles (in French) published online on 11 March 2010 on French journal Libération website
[see also Tsuda Itsuo, The Path of Less, Chap. XX, 2014, Yume Editions (Paris) (Translator’s note)]
[see also: ‘Aikido for me is an art of becoming a child again. The difference between being a child and doing Aikido is that a bit of order is introduced therein. In children, there is not much separation between thought and action. It is not the same with adults. It takes art to become a child without being childish.’ (The Path of Less, op. cit., Chap. XVIII, p. 175) or yet ‘[Tsuda Sensei] often said that through breathing “Aikido is an art of becoming children again… without being childish”.’ (Tsuda Itsuo, Heart of Pure Sky, ‘Excerpt from Bushido’, Yume Editions, 2025, p. 179) (Translator’s note)]
Estelle Soavi, Utomag N° 23 (in French, available online), February 2024, « Le combat » [‘The Fight’], p. 14
Imagine for a few seconds a world in which articles were written about “male Aikido”! With a single article talking about Tohei sensei, Shioda sensei, Noro sense and Tamura sensei. Articles that would find it relevant to put these people together for the sake of having in common… a Y chromosome. It is strange, even ridiculous, isn’t it? How can you put together men with rich, different personal histories, each of whom had a special relationship with O sensei, each of whom followed a different personal path in Aikido? Each of them has his own personality, his own story and his own specific teaching. Each of them deserves, at least, a separate article.
Yet this is what happens to women. One finds it appropriate to talk about “female” Aikido… Of course this is not something specific to Aikido, it is a society phenomenon. Did you know that the United States were world champions in soccer? Oh yes, “women’s” football, so that does not count. But why? Because there is Football and then there is “women’s football”.
It is also the phenomenon that allows each Smurf to have a distinctive feature, however small, whereas Smurfette’s distinctive feature is that she is a girl, that is all. She has no character, other than the characteristics of a silly, flirtatious girl. Of course, this is just a comic strip, but if you think about it for a few minutes, you can find hundreds of examples of the same phenomenon. Men are people, characters with distinctive features and stories. Women are, mostly, just “women”. Like the female aikidokas who are lumped together in the “women’s aikido” basket, and thus being denied their specificities, their differences and their histories. Fortunately, some people are trying to retrace their steps, although the information is “coincidentally” much less available, if not completely non-existent!
Tenshin dojo of Miyako Fujitani in Osaka
The Matilda effect
‘The Matilda effect is the recurrent and systemic denial, spoliation, or minimisation of women’s contributions to scientific research, whose work is often attributed to their male colleagues.’ 1 This is a phenomenon observed by historian of science Margaret W. Rossiter, who calls this theory the ‘Matilda effect’ in reference to nineteenth-century American feminist activist Matilda Joslyn Gage. She had observed that men took credit for the intellectual thoughts of women close to them, with women’s contributions often relegated to footnote acknowledgments.
This was the case, for example, with Rosalind Franklin, whose work, decisive for the discovery of the structure of DNA, was published under the names of her colleagues. The same is true of Jocelyn Bell’s discoveries in astronomy, for which her director won a Nobel Prize in 1974. Him, not her.
Fujitani Miyako’s story is somewhat similar to that of Mileva Einstein, physicist, fellow student and first wife of Albert Einstein. Mileva and Albert Einstein met on university benches and the theory of relativity was to be their joint research. However, she became pregnant while they were still unmarried, which speeded up their marriage but slowed down Mileva’s studies considerably. In the end, the couple’s three children, the last of whom was disabled for life, were entirely in the care of Mileva after Albert Einstein left to pursue his career in the United States. Of course, the point here is not to question Albert Einstein’s genius, but to question the possibilities of Mileva to continue her career with three dependent children, one of whom was disabled. Albert Einstein was able to pursue his career only because she stayed. At the end of the day, when you think about it, there is nothing romantic or touching about the saying “behind every great man stands a woman” once rephrased more exactly into “behind every great man there stands a woman who sacrificed herself because she had no other choice”. Careers, honours, awards, positions, peer recognition, are all based on the more or less “accepted” crushing of women. When we think that we measure a woman’s competence by her career and the recognition of her peers, we forget that the game is rigged, because for every aikido master who has made a career, there is at least one woman behind him who has taken care of their children, often of the dojo, the registrations, the book-keeping and the social relations. Not to mention taking care of the husband himself, giving him the attention he needs. With these foundations provided by the master’s wife, extraordinary martial skill can flourish and shine. Mind you, I am not questioning the competence of these masters, I am contextualising the female presence that allowed them to flourish. A presence they often took for granted, a state of affairs. Because it is systemic. On the contrary, very often no one helped women to practise their arts. Nobody looks after their children, prepares their meals or does the dojo’s book-keeping for them. Not to mention those who try to stand in their way. So when we compare their careers, supposedly on an objective basis, with those of certain men, it is obvious that, structurally, they have not been able to achieve the same level of fame. However this is not a matter of skills, this is a matter of society.
Miyako Fujitani senseï
The story of Fujitani Miyako
Born in Japan in the 1950s, Fujitani sensei is now one of the few female seventh dan in Aikido, who has been teaching in her own dojo in Osaka for forty years. A student of Tohei Koichi, she took her first and second dan in front of Ueshiba O sensei. However, unlike the story of some of Ueshiba O sensei’s students, her career as an aikidoka does not tell the story of how she set out to confront the world and make a career for herself, but it tells the story that is so often the fate of women: to stay behind and endure. In this sense, it is a symbolic journey.
Fujitani Miyako was confronted with male violence from an early age. Her father abused and beat his three children. He died when she was six, having “only” had time to abuse her and dislocate her shoulder. She continued to experience this violence at high school, where she was assaulted by boys on a daily basis. At the time, she was practising classical dance and Chado (the art of tea), but she decided to do something about the violence and considered taking up Judo like her brother. In the end, she chose Aikido. Her first teacher in Kobe refused to allow women in his class, but she insisted so much that he eventually accepted her. She later became a student of Tohei sensei and took her first dan in front of Ueshiba O sensei in Osaka in 1967. She recounts that ‘[Ueshiba] always referred himself Jii (old man or grandpa). He was always with Ms. Sunadomari, […] helping him in everything. […] Ueshiba sensei would always demonstrate this trick attack with her, a kind of faint to trick the opponent.’ 2
When she started practising in Aikido, she felt inferior as a woman in the practice. With no role models, she had no other horizon but “to become as strong” as men in order to finally be considered “equally competent”. So she tried to match the muscular strength of the men around her. She spent a year building up her muscles. She says that her technique at the time seemed very powerful indeed, but that she abused her body so much that she ended up breaking the bones in her arms and fingers. She also damaged the joints in her elbows and knees. She even had to stop practising for a year to recover.
Miyako Fujitani senseï
This situation where women suffer disproportionately from work-related injuries can also be found, for example, among women pianists, where ‘[s]everal studies have found that female pianists run an approximately 50% higher risk of pain and injury than male pianists; in one study, 78% of women compared to 47% of men had developed RSI.’ 1 We are facing a societal issue here again: by only valuing a certain way of doing things, moving, playing music etc., women are systematically disadvantaged and, while desirous of doing their jobs and fulfilling their passions, they damage their bodies excessively. They also pay the price of interrupting their careers or even giving up.
Fujitani Miyako was twenty-one when she met Steven Seagal in Los Angeles, where she was accompanying Tohei sensei to an Aikido seminar. She attended his first dan in the United States and met Seagal again shortly after her return to Japan. He had just won a lot of money at a karate show in Los Angeles, during which he broke his knee, but with the money he had won he bought a ticket to Japan, arriving with his ripped jeans and a silver fork as only possession.
Fujitani Miyako was then a second dan and she opened her own dojo, which she called Tenshin dojo, on land owned by her mother, using her mother’s money. She married Steven Seagal a few months after they met in 1976 and, in a reflex very typical of female conditioning, she herself made him the main teacher in her own dojo, even though she was his senpai, i. e. his hierarchical superior. This is a very strong conditioning of women, who are brought up with the idea that they must ensure the peace of the household and the well-being of their husband by promoting what he imagines to be his superiority. Above all, they must not earn more money, be more famous, or be more successful than him, at the risk of seeing their family destroyed. Every woman knows this, and stories of men leaving their partners because they are jealous of their success are not uncommon. Mona Chollet makes this perfectly clear in her chapter on “‘Making Yourself Small’ to Be Loved?”, with examples that speak for themselves, and with this critical conclusion: ‘Our culture has normalised the inferiority of women so well that many men cannot accept a partner who does not diminish or censor herself in some way.’ 4 Of course, for Fujitani, the rapid arrival of two babies makes things even worse.
Descent into hell
While she was in her own dojo, Seagal quickly began to belittle her, relegating her to the role of ‘the Japanese girl who brings the tea while he plays the little shogun’ 5. The trap closed in on her, all the more so as newspapers and television echoed the “gaijin’s dojo”, highlighting the idea that Steven Seagal was “the first Westerner to open a dojo in Japan”, when in fact he had phagocytized Fujitani Miyako’s dojo.
Meanwhile, Steven Seagal had numerous affairs with other women, including his students, and finally told Fujitani that he was moving back to the States to pursue an acting career. She waited for him with the promise that she would be able to join him and their children. Another promise – money to look after the children – was never honoured either.
Eventually, lawyers contacted her to file for divorce and allow Seagal to remarry in the United States.
Miyako Fujitani and her daughter
Every cloud has a silver lining
Fujitani Miyako was obviously desperate to be abandoned with her two children. To make matters worse, almost all the dojo students at the dojo were more influenced by Seagal’s charisma than interested in Aikido. The ground he had laid by systematically belittling her in front of the students had a lasting effect because, not only did they leave, but they also came back to make fun of her and her deserted dojo. She related in an interview: ‘[At that time] I wanted to crawl into a hole. I had not done anything wrong. Some students would come from other dojos very arrogantly as if they owned the place. And once I started to get a few students someone would bad-mouth me to them: “she is weak so go somewhere else.” So, I really hated that time and this dojo. Some people even rumored that Steven left me because I was bad (laugh). So, old time students truly believed that. Even when he was here Steven would bad-mouth me among the students. That’s why when he left everybody followed him. However, as I lied in bed at night, I would imagine what I have now[…]. I would use my imagination watching my children grow up and me having grandchildren and I would wonder whether the day would came when I would feel happy for having aikido. That was what helped me to reach here. I love teaching youngsters with joy and today I can truly and happily say “I am glad I have aikido”.’ 6
In the end, she hung on, persevered and also discovered the Yagyu Shinkage-ryu sword school, which became her passion and nourished her understanding of Aikido. She held steady, fulfilling both her role as a mother and her passion for Aikido. ‘Nowadays, many women work, even in jobs that were previously only held by men. It’s not unusual for a woman to work and bring up children at the same time. But it was different for me, because I had to support my family by teaching Aikido. […] [Aikido] was, initially, a martial art that was mainly practised by men and I had to miss out on training for a long time because of the children. […] I was embarrassed as an Aikido teacher by the following: one day during training I made a mistake and injured both knees’ 7
Miyako Fujitani senseï
Aikido: being a woman is an advantage
Today, in her teaching, she insists on a practice that respects the integrity of the body as a cardinal value. As a result of the accidents she had when she first started, she insists on the importance of the uke following correctly rather than resisting until the body suffers. ‘Ukemi is not a demonstration movement, the original purpose is to protect the body from injury. Doing ukemi does not mean you are a loser. If Uke understands what technique is being used, they can escape it, gain an advantage and prepare their counterattack. When executing a technique, Uke’s role is not only to execute ukemi correctly without resisting the throw, but also to observe the timing of the technique in order to develop the ability to “read” the technique. After all, it is an exercise for both the person executing the waza and the person receiving it.’ 8 That is why she stresses the need for a relaxed body: ‘In Japanese, there is the word “datsuryoku” [脱力], which could be translated as “relax the body as in sleep”. When we sleep, we normally cannot overstress our bodies.’ 9
‘In karate, for instance, you would block and counterattack but in aikido we don’t block. We don’t clash at the same level as the opponent that’s why it’s so difficult. Timing is very important which I emphasize a lot. I teach something totally different from what they do at the Tokyo branch [the Aikikai] which I am sorry to say is wrong. I teach a smoother way with the precise timing so the techniques can be executed more smoothly.’ 10
Convinced that Aikido is the right martial art for women, she works to develop it on a daily basis and through events such as the seminar she conducted in 2003 in the United States – Grace & Power: Women & the Martial Arts in Japan. The importance of having female role models on the tatami has not escaped her. Certainly ‘[t]here was a time in this dojo when there was quite a number of female students but during a period many students were using force and got injured so many women thought they couldn’t do it and there was a blank of women aikidoka for a while.’ 11
‘[I myself] taught Aikido for over 10 years in an atmosphere of discrimination against women. [Yet] by perfecting my practice over and over again, I have developed my own style of Aikido, an Aikido that can be practised by women with no physical ability.
I believe that men who practise my style have a great advantage. If you use your muscles right from the start, you get used to using strength all the time. However, you will not achieve or develop much. But if you rediscover the bases without using strength, relying only on technique, then once you reach a certain level, muscles, size, etc. are an advantage that should not be underestimated.
The founder of Aikido said:12 “Aikido based on physical strength is simple. Aikido without unnecessary strength is much more difficult.” I know that if I tried to teach Aikido based on physical strength, I wouldn’t be able to do a single technique and I wouldn’t have a single student. Perhaps it can be said that aikido techniques developed by women are the key to the last secrets of aikido – an aikido that does not rely on strength.’ 13
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Article by Manon Soavi published in Self et Dragon (Spécial Aikido n° 17) in April 2024.
Notes:
translated for the French Wikipedia entry ‘Effet Matilda’, preferred to the English entry (bold emphasis added by the author)
Tsuda Itsuo, The Path of Less, Chap. III, Yume Editions (Paris), 2014, pp. 33–34 (1st ed. in French, 1975, pub. Le Courrier du Livre (Paris), p. 31–32)
Mystification is the result obtained by someone who uses mystery to deceive others.
Mystique or mysticism has to do with mysteries, hidden or secret things. The term is mainly used in the spiritual domain, to describe inner experiences of contact or communication with a transcendent reality that cannot be discerned by the common sense.
O-sensei, a mystic!
No one can deny that O-sensei was a mystic; even so, was he a mystifier? His life, his fame during his lifetime, his now historic fights – notably against a Sumotori or against martial arts masters –, his teaching, the testimony of his students, all tend to prove the opposite. Many uchi deshi recounted how O-sensei managed to squeeze through the crowds in the middle of Japan’s overcrowded train stations, such as in Tokyo during rush hours. What was his secret, despite his advanced age? Practising an art like ours does not just give you strength and endurance, that is what you get after a few years of effort, and I would even say that it only lasts for a while, because as you get older it becomes difficult to rely on that alone. However, there is one area that I think is important to understand and to experiment with, and that is working through what is directly experienced and felt, from the very beginning.
The space, the Ma, must become something tangible, because it is a reality that is not theoretical, technical or mental. Rather it is like a protective sphere that adapts to all circumstances, far from being a cloak of invisibility or an indestructible armour, it moves with us, it is both fluid and very resistant, it contracts, expands or retracts as needed and independently of our conscious or voluntary capacity. It is not an infallible safety, but in many cases it can save our lives or at least prevent the worst. Too often, it has been turned into a mystical value, when it is only the result of a passionate and enthusiastic captivating work. It is a reality that we must never give up on, right from the start, no matter how unattainable it may seem. If there is one essential guideline that Aikido teaches us, it is not to oppose others head-on, to avoid direct confrontation whenever possible, and to use it only as a last resort.
The work that needs to be done is up to each of us, whether physical or philosophical.
Is Yin and Yang a trickery?
The Tao is not just an Eastern understanding of the world, but much rather an ancestral intuitive intelligence. It is intimately known to many people, and artists, poets, painters and others have sometimes been able to communicate to us in their own way the essence of the forces that animate it. Painter Kandinsky, although a modern European artist, was able to find the words that, even though referring to a work of art, speak to us as practitioners and allow us to visualise Yin and Yang:
‘As everything external also contains an inner meaning (more or less noticeable), every form also has its inner substance[…].
Form, therefore, is the outward expression of its inner meaning. […]
Therefore, it is evident that forms of harmony reflect in a corresponding vibration on the human soul.’ 1
It is through understanding Yin and Yang that we can see certain functions of the body and its movement more clearly, to put it simply, understand how it all works. Here is an approach that might help to clarify what I am talking about: the outer envelope of our body as a whole is Yang, and therefore the inside is Yin, as a whole as well. The physical aspect, the luminous side of people, their social aspect as well as the way they present themselves, communicate and relate to others, all tend to be Yang if there are no distortions. The inside, understood not only from an organic point of view but also from a psychic and energetic point of view, is Yin. There is, of course, no real separation between the two, but the complementary aspect leads to observe that it is Yin that feeds Yang, just as it is breathing in that allows breathing out and therefore action. Yin supports Yang, giving it its fullness; the strength of the body comes from the strength of Yin and is manifested through Yang.
All the strength of Yin needs an envelope, however malleable it may be from within, this envelope must also be able to harden in order to contain this force and at the same time prepare it to react, to act. If the power of the Yin is not contained, if it has no way of centering itself – because it would then be boundless and therefore without reference points – it runs the risk of dispersing without bearing any fruit. If the Yang is undernourished because of the poverty of the Yin, which is struggling to regenerate itself, or because of a separation between Yin and Yang caused by the internal hardening of the “wall” which both separates and unites them, then action becomes impossible.
As always, it is the balance between the two that makes them a single force. An imbalance in favour of one or the other creates the conditions for a general imbalance, which is the origin of numerous pathologies of varying degrees of severity, and of the inability to provide correct and rapid responses to all physical, psychological or simply energetic and therefore functional problems.
‘Every form also has its inner substance[…]. Form, therefore, is the outward expression of its inner meaning.’ (Kandinsky)
A healthy mind in a healthy body
An organism that reacts with flexibility and efficiency in all circumstances, whether in the face of human or microbial aggression, is an ideal to which we can adhere, or at any rate which deserves to be pursued. Aikido in our School, through the quality of its preparation at the beginning of the session based on breathing, as well as the way in which things happen during the session, helps to awaken the body as a whole.
To start with, the simple fact of breathing more deeply, concentrating our breath in the lower abdomen, and allowing this natural ability to develop at its own pace, increases the oxygenation of the brain and therefore improves the functioning of the cells and the communication between them. From there to saying that we become more intelligent is a step I do not want to take, because intelligence depends on many factors and is difficult to measure, even with today’s scientific methods. I would prefer to classify intelligence as a quality of the human brain, the use of which is sometimes surprising. But if each of us simply notices that they move better, think better and faster, that it becomes more difficult to deceive or trick them with tempting proposals or arguments based on fallacious reasoning due to lack of reflection, that is already a big step. It can also be in part a way out, even a relative one, from the world of stupidity and falsehood that rules our planet.
Discovering for ourselves; experience rather than belief
When it comes to strength, we tend to talk and see things in terms of quantity, rather than quality. As a martial arts enthusiast, I remember that at the very beginning of the craze in the late 1960s and in the 1970s, we eagerly consulted articles explaining how to achieve maximum effectiveness with minimum muscular strength. How, thanks to speed, positioning, posture, technicality, and also muscular strength, which was not the most important thing, but had to be present and, above all, well directed, we could achieve results that could be astonishing. In Karate, Kung-fu, Jiu-jitsu or any other martial art, there were plenty of examples.
These magazines mentioned all sorts of oriental meditations that could give incredible abilities to those who practised them. Although very often grossly exaggerated, the core truth of techniques, postures or meditations is now being recognised, analysed and theorised by researchers in mathematics, the humanities and cognitive sciences. This recognition, even if in the interest of doing justice to these practices, remains purely intellectual. Instead of leading to concrete physical research and allowing everyone to benefit from it, it provokes weariness or a mental over-heating, which risks rendering useless the efforts made by some practitioners to follow a slightly different path with the help of able and wise teachers.
It is through experience in practice that we discover what no text could have given us. Ancient texts, and sometimes even more recent ones, have an undeniable value, and often serve as a guide or reveal our discoveries afterwards. Their ability to put into words, to explain what we have felt, to reveal an experience that “speaks” to us, can be a precious help. What would I have done had I not been guided by the books and calligraphies, kinds of koans, of my master Tsuda Itsuo?
Making “ONE” with the utmost simplicity.
Promoting quality rather than quantity
We live in a world where the accumulation of goods, commodities, knowledge and security is the rule. Thanks to artificial intelligence (A. I.), we are presented with an “augmented human”, as in the transhumanist project. Is it because today’s human beings can no longer find their way, because values have changed? Or because, disillusioned with their immediate and global environment, they no longer have a taste for anything but the superficial and have lost both the sense of and interest in the slow and the profound? Already at the end of the last century, in the 1980s, conductor Sergiu Celibidache, during a conducting course in Paris that I was fortunate enough to attend, complained that there were no longer any great symphonic movements written in a “largo” tempo: ‘everything has become faster’, he said.
Aikido has preserved from the past the values of humanity, respect for others and sensitivity, making it a quality tool for rediscovering what makes human beings sensitive and not robots. However perfected it may be, this “augmented human” will at best be a pale imitation, a substitute for what each of us can be and above all of what we can become.
Rebellion is not denial
Rebellion is an act of health both for our physical body and for our mind. Its salutary importance should not be overlooked. If we practise an art like ours, it is not by chance. If the intelligence of this “discipline” has appeared to us, it is because something in us was ready, even if we did not know it – by which I mean: even if we were not aware of it. If we trust the reactions of our physical body instead of being afraid of them, we can start again to understand the logic of its reactions. Again, this is not about old wives’ beliefs, about going backwards, about obscurantism. It is a question of another kind of knowledge, one that is known to everyone, but not recognised in its fullness because it is disturbing.
When there is an infection, an illness, or any other dysfunction that obviously bothers us, our body spontaneously rebels, trying in every way to solve the problem, to regain the lost balance. It raises its temperature, calls on its reserve weapons such as antibodies of all kinds, as well as on its friends with whom it is in symbiosis – antibiotic-producing bacteria, macrophage viruses, and so on. This healthy revolt can sometimes turn out to be violent and rapid, but in reality most of the time it starts very gently, slowly, we may not even notice it at first. Other times it is resolved before we are aware of the reaction, and here again it all depends on the state of the body, and despite everything it may be necessary to support the nature that is working within us. Here, everyone takes responsibility. If you have been capable of taking care of your body, letting it work on all the little problems without forcing it, leaving it free to express itself as it wishes, not much will be needed to give it a helping hand; sometimes all you need is a bit of rest, or the occasional help of competent people. It is upstream that we need to consider what is going on in our bodies; a healthy reflection on life, its movements and its nature can only do good.
What is fascinating about Aikido is to rediscover the traces left by our old masters, to see how each of them made this art their own, to create their own life. There is no point in copying them, it is better to learn from their postures and their writings. Find companions who can help you practise in a healthy way, where your intuition is awakened, where your body becomes as supple, agile and fearless as it was in childhood, and where you regain what you should never have lost: a certain valour.
Aikido is not a trampoline on which one exhausts oneself jumping, constantly perfecting one’s technique, but always falling back to the same spot due to gravity. It is a formidable path where the difficulties are proportioned by the very nature of the path, by our abilities at the time, by our perseverance and our sincerity. Doors open which lead us to a finer awareness and sometimes even to a jubilant state when the sensations that run through us become “ONE”2 with our physical performance devoid of all pretension but close to the maximum simplicity. As I saw the joy and ease with which certain teachers practised, and the results of the research and simplicity of many of the masters I knew, my desire to reach their level, or at least to come close to it in this life, grew.
The old masters, each with their own method, guided us towards what we are deep within ourselves. But the work that needs to be done is up to each of us, be it physical or philosophical. Everything always depends on us, even if we have been deceived by false prophets or boastful charlatans who are ready to do anything for the crumbs of power they can get from their deceptions. If we look at the achievements left by our predecessors on this path, if we know how to use their teachings, if we know how to recognise them without making idols or saints of them, we will see that the path, however arduous and obscure, is not so difficult. A lifetime is not enough to discover it, but life is enough by itself if you live it to the full.
Régis Soavi
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Article by Régis Soavi published in July 2022 in Self & Dragon Spécial Aikido n° 10.
I started Judo-jujitsu, as it was called at the time, in 1962 and our teacher presented it to us as “the way of suppleness”, the use of the opponent’s strength. I was nearly twelve years old and I loved the techniques, the imbalance, the falls, which could also be a way of overcoming the technique we had undergone. Our instructor used to talk to us about hara, posture, and we knew that he himself was learning Aikido and that he had the rank of “black skirt”, which was very impressive for us. The events of 1968 turned me towards street fighting techniques, kobudō, and different tactics. However, in 1972 I wanted to take up judo again, and I signed up with Plée sensei on rue de la Montagne-Sainte-Geneviève. You could practise judo, karate or aikido for the price of a single membership fee, which was ideal for training. But judo had changed: weight categories, working on a special to win a fight – I was very disappointed. One evening after the session I stayed to watch Aikido, Maroteaux sensei was leading the session and I was immediately won over.
In Aikido I have found much more than an art, I have found a very rich “Path” which, like any other path, only needs to be explored further. Each day’s session allows me to discover a new aspect, to feel that I can go much further, that I am just on the edge of something much broader, as if an ocean were opening up before me. Beyond the pleasure I get from it, I think it is important to bear witness to its existence.
Which aspect speaks to you most: martial, mystical, health, spirituality?
There is no separation for me between all these things, they are interdependent.
Why are you creating dojos rather than practising in gymnasiums?
I understand your question, it would be so much easier to use existing facilities – nothing to do, not even cleaning, everything would be taken care of by the management. We would be entitled to complain if it is not clean enough, to grumble if something is not right, and in any case we would just be temporary passers-by. For me, on the other hand, the dojo is of crucial importance. Firstly, because it is a dedicated place and therefore provides a different atmosphere, free from the constraints of the authorities, a place where you feel at home, where you have the freedom to organise yourself as you wish, where you are responsible for everything that happens. Being put into this situation is what makes us understand what a dojo is, it changes the game, it allows a practice that goes beyond training and leads individuals towards autonomy and responsibility. But the main reason is that from the perspective of KI the place becomes charged, in the same way as an old house, an ancient theatre or certain temples. This charge allows us to feel that another world is possible, even within the one we live in.
You set up several dojos and other venues as soon as the 80s. The Floreal Garden1 – a place for children –, then several painting workshops, as well as a music school – Music in the bushes2. Why all these places? What do they have in common?
My desire has always been to encourage the freedom of bodies and minds, with the aim of bringing them together. To be successful, this work requires a very broad vision, free of ideology, free of mind-numbing systems, free of competition, always in search of sensitivity – which seems to have become a disease or a defect in our society – and spontaneity – among other things. To create a kindergarten to provide the basis for an education in freedom, thereby encouraging non-schooling; to create “painting-expression workshops”3 in the spirit of Arno Stern’s work, which are like bubbles and liberate human beings from the neurotic sclerosis that surrounds them; to give adults and children the chance to develop a passion for music – particularly classical music – thanks to a notation known as “plain music”4, which allows them to play immediately and to discover the pleasure of playing without having to endure the rigidification of the mind and body organised by the specialists of music theory and music teaching in general. All in the service of the human being and the possibility of harmonious development of body and mind.
Régis Soavi has been teaching every morning for over forty years. Tenshin Dojo, Paris
You cultivate a position of non-master, do you not? By being both the sensei, the one who shows the way, the one who takes responsibility for teaching, and at the same time an ordinary member of the association, who takes part in the day-to-day tasks and worries as much about the heating as about a leak or DIY.
I can see that you understand my position very well. This attitude is a necessity for me, there is no question of me losing myself, abused by a false power that I would have acquired by taking advantage of subterfuges and pretence but which would flatter my ego. My search in this direction stems from Non-Doing and concerns all aspects of my life. It is and has been a long and hazardous process, ‘without fixed reference’ as Tsuda sensei wrote5. This orientation is an instrument, an essential tool to enable the members of the associations to move towards their own freedom, their own autonomy through the activity in the dojo. To sum up my thoughts, I would like to quote a 19th century philosopher whom I have appreciated for a very long time and whose importance has always seemed to me to be undervalued in our society:
‘No man can recognize his own human worth, nor in consequence realize his full development, if he does not recognize the worth of his fellow men, and in co-operation with them, realize his own development through them. No man can emancipate himself, unless at the same time he emancipates those around him. My freedom is the freedom of all; for I am not really free – free not only in thought, but in deed – if my freedom and my right do not find their confirmation and sanction in the liberty and right of all men my equals.’ 6
What was Tsuda Itsuo like and what struck you about him?
He was a man of great simplicity and at the same time great finesse. The fact that he also spoke and wrote French perfectly allowed us to communicate in a way that I could not find anywhere else with a Japanese master. He was also an intellectual in the best sense of the word; his knowledge of the East and the West enabled him to get across a certain type of message about the body and freedom of thought, particularly in his books, which is still unequalled today. He met Ueshiba Morihei in 1955 as Nocquet sensei’s translator and began practising in 1959, when he was already forty-five. He was his student for ten years, but as he was already a Seitai practitioner and translated O sensei’s words for French and American foreigners, he was able to grasp the depth of what he said as well as the importance of posture, mind and above all breath (Ki) in the first part of Aikido, which seems to have been forgotten today – to my great sadness.
How can one find the balance between teaching and personal practice?
Quite simply, I have been practising Aikido for fifty years, every morning at 6.45am for an hour and a half, 365 days a year. Of course, I also practise Katsugen Undo (which Tsuda sensei translated as Regenerative Movement) there too – I could say – every day, if only, at the very least, through the Seitai hot bath7. As far as teaching goes, I have workshops about once a month, whether in Paris, Toulouse, Milan or Rome.
Have there been any changes in your practice or teaching?
Of course! How could it be otherwise? If we practise sincerely, the practice extends to all aspects of our lives. I find it hard to understand people who have given up or go in search of other arts because they find Aikido repetitive. Is life, when fully lived, repetitive? Every moment of my practice provokes changes, evolutions and even upheavals that have led me to question myself and go deeper. This is what gives me joy in my Aikido practice. Even the most difficult moments, and perhaps those more than others, have been vectors of transformation and enrichment.
Your master, Tsuda Itsuo, once gave you a koan, did he not?
Yes, but I find it difficult to tell the exact circumstances. First of all, I must explain that Tsuda sensei knew how to talk to people’s subconscious. Whenever he did this, it was a way of giving them a helping hand, but he hardly ever spoke about it. He said that Noguchi sensei did it routinely because it was part of the Seitai techniques. One day, following a discussion, he said to me ‘Bon courage’, a fairly banal phrase, but the tone he used, obviously relying on the ‘breathing intermission’, overwhelmed me and made me react, giving me an inner strength I had not suspected.
Another time it was more important because it was then that he gave me the koan. As I was telling him about my difficulties with work (how to earn a living for my family and myself, etc.) and how to find a way to continue practising, or even to set up a dojo since I was going to leave Paris for a few years and be 800 kms away, he began by explaining to me that in the Rinzai Zen school (I had just read The Zen Teachings of Master Lin-chi8 and he knew it) the master gives his disciples koans they have to solve. Suddenly he said to me ‘Impossible’, ‘here you go’! Then he left quickly, leaving me stunned and completely dumbfounded. I have to say that at first I thought it was absurd and ridiculous. He had already given me a direction for my practice some time before, when he specifically chose the calligraphy entitled MU9 as a gift from my Parisian students. But this time I was shocked, I did not understand. Mu seemed to me a real koan, already known, listed, acceptable, but ‘impossible’ did not make sense. Why say that to me? It was over the years that the ‘answer’ became obvious.
What role does Katsugen Undo play in your practice?
Oh, it is of prime importance, but to answer your question, here is an anecdote. We were at a restaurant with Tsuda sensei, when Noguchi Hirochika – Noguchi sensei’s first son – who was sitting next to me suddenly asked me: ‘Katsugen Undo, what does it mean to you?’ My answer was as immediate as it was spontaneous: ‘It is the minimum’, I replied, and I have not changed my opinion since. Tsuda sensei really liked this answer and he used it in some of his lectures during workshops. The ‘minimum’ to maintain balance, to allow our involuntary system to function correctly so that we no longer need to worry about our health, no longer need to be afraid of illness.
Does Aikido without Katsugen Undo make sense to you?
Yes, of course, although it all depends on how you practise. It is just a shame not to take advantage of what can make us independent, of what can awaken our intuition, our attention, our ability to concentrate and free our mind.
You have been contributing to Dragon Magazine for many years now. What do you get out of it?
It allows me to get a message across and at the same time forces me to be as clear as possible about the teaching of my master Tsuda sensei, and therefore about our school. It is also a way of stepping out of the shadows while keeping things simple, without advertising or making a fuss. The fact that I regularly read articles by my contemporaries as well as young teachers brings me a lot and allows me to see and understand the different directions in which Aikido is heading and their reasons for being, even when I do not agree with them.
Is writing important in Budō?
Writing is always important because it is one of the bases of communication – ‘words fly away, but the written letter remains’. However, without real practice there is a risk that it will remain in the realm of ideas and only satisfy the intellect, in which case the target is missed.
Have other masters also left their mark on you?
I am lucky enough to belong to an era when it was possible to meet a large number of first-generation sensei. The 70s were very rich in this respect, and we went from training course to training course, listening attentively to their words and postures to get the best out of what each of them had to offer. I would therefore like to express my gratitude to all those who taught me, my master Tsuda Itsuo sensei, Noro Masamichi sensei, Tamura Nobuyoshi sensei, André Nocquet sensei, as well as those I had the opportunity to meet. I prefer to mention them in alphabetical order so as not to suggest anything about the importance they have had on my practice: Hikitsuchi Michio sensei, Kobayashi Hirokazu sensei, Shirata Rinjiro sensei, Sugano Seiichi sensei, Ueshiba Kisshomaru sensei, as well as – although I have never practised Karate – Kase Taiji sensei, or Mochizuki Hiroo sensei whom I met thanks to Tsuda sensei and who left an indelible mark on me. I cannot forget Rolland Maroteaux sensei, who was my first Aikido teacher and who introduced me to my main mentor: Tsuda Itsuo sensei.
Régis Soavi
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Interwiew with Régis Soavi published in April 2023 in Self & Dragon Spécial Aikido n° 13.
Notes :
[French: Le Jardin Floréal. The premisses of this Toulousian association, which was closed, were brought to life again in 2018 by Association The Edge of the Forest (Fr: La Lisière)].
[French: La Musique Buissonnière. “The bushes” refer to the off-road (buissonnier) places where children who used to play truant preferred to go for their learning – probably a preference for the shade and berries over the chairs and chalks. L’école buissonnière (lit. “off-road school”) translates as “truancy from school”.]
[Many English versions of the Rinzai-roku are available on the above link (French 1st ed.: Les Entretiens de Lin-tsi, Paul Demiéville, 1972, pub. Fayard (Paris))]
“nothing” or “non-existence”, a term used in Taoism to express emptiness
All aikidoka have heard of Ma ai, because it is one of the foundations of our practice. Unfortunately, talking about it and living it are two very different things. As it is known in all martial arts, it is easy to find numerous references to it.You can conceive this idea intellectually, you can write about it and develop a whole discourse about it, but “nothing beats experience”, as my master Tsuda Itsuo used to tell us.1
I will try, therefore, to explain the inexplicable through concrete examples or situations.Read more →
‘“Whether they are one or many does not matter, I put them all in my belly,” said O sensei’. With these words1Tsuda Itsuo sensei once answered2 one of my many questions about the practice, especially how to defend oneself against several partners.
Magic or simplicity
As a young aikidoka, I tried to drink from all available sources, and my references were Nocquet sensei, Tamura sensei and Noro sensei. But of course I also found them in the one I felt closest to: Tsuda sensei. In the early seventies, we were very fond of anecdotes about the martial arts, the great historical masters, and especially O-sensei Ueshiba Morihei. We would also go to buy the “super 8” films that were available in that temple that was the martial arts shop on the Montagne Sainte-Geneviève (in Paris), fascinated as we were by the prowess of this great master. Although profoundly materialistic, I was not far from believing in something magical, in extraordinary powers granted to some beings more than to others. Tsuda Itsuo brought me back down to earth, because what he was showing us was very simple, but even so, it was still completely incomprehensible. I was already familiar with the techniques he showed us, but he did them with such simplicity and ease that it disturbed me, and only strengthened my desire to continue practising in order to discover the “secrets” that enabled him to do what he did.
His leitmotiv: breathing
The aim of group training is to lead us in the direction of Non-Doing.
When he spoke of breathing he meant the word KI, that was the translation he chose to express this “non-concept” that is so common, and so immediately understandable in Japan, but so difficult to grasp in the West. He explained that, when uniting your breathing with your partner or partners, you can achieve primordial unity. The breath becomes the physical support, the concrete act, that makes it possible to unite with others. It acts physically as a kind of gentle constraint on the partners’ bodies. We all know what I am talking about, it is absolutely no mystery. There are people who are able to make others feel uncomfortable, others who know how to impose themselves, impose their breathing, sometimes leaving the person they are talking to unable to utter a word. In martial arts – and this is particularly evident in the art of swordsmanship –, it is a matter of desynchronising breathing in order to surprise and destabilise the opponent. In many cases, the crucial moment is when the beginning of the opponent’s inhalation coincides with the end of the other’s inhalation, in other words the beginning of the exhalation. It is during this interval between inhalation and exhalation that you strike. This moment, known as “the breathing intermission”, is the ideal time to use your physical strength in a fight and defeat your opponent. In Aikido, however, the same moment is used to enter into the partner’s breath, into this path which is the path of harmony, where the aim is to unify the breaths and reach a common breath.
Practise with one partner as if there were several
Inner calm begins with knowing the techniques well.
In the beginning it is easier to practise with only one partner, but it is important not to become fixated on him or her, to remain available for other interventions. This availability is achieved through inner calm, which begins with knowing the techniques well and not panicking. Even so, it will take a few years to become calm in such circumstances, which is why you should not wait to start working in this direction. I would say that, for me, practising with several partners, more than a performance to be executed, represents a pedagogical orientation. Aikido is a whole, you cannot cut it into slices. It is a global approach to teaching, not a school type of teaching validated by grades and exams. Whenever there is an odd number of people in the group, we can take advantage of this to work in threes, but this will not be enough to acquire the right reflexes and the right attitude to adopt. Whenever the group allows it, i. e. when there are not too many differences in level, you can get everyone to practise in groups of three or even four partners.When both partners seize Tori together, and with both hands, it is Tori’s technique and ability to concentrate the power in the hara through breathing that will be decisive; the suppleness of the arms and shoulders will allow the energy, the ki, to circulate to the fingertips, and to spurt out beyond them, causing the partners to fall to the tatami. However, when working with alternating attacks, the greatest difficulty lies not in the execution of the techniques, but rather in Uke’s role.
Too often Uke does not know how to behave and waits for their turn to attack. My teaching also consists of showing how to position oneself, how to find the angle of attack; in this case I play Uke’s role, exactly as in the old koryū. I show how to turn around Tori, how to feel the flaws in their breathing, in their posture, and how Tori can use one partner against the other, I do this slowly so that Tori does not really feel attacked, but rather disturbed in their habits, in their mobility or in their inability to move in harmony. The forms of the attack must be very clear; the aim is not to demonstrate the other person’s weakness but to allow them to feel what is happening around them without having to look or fidget, but rather to develop their sensory capacity. They must not become attached to the constraints imposed by each seizure but, on the contrary, realise that these constraints can be an opportunity to go beyond the situation, even a godsend.
The value of moving
Movement takes on a very special value when there are several people around us. If you watch the traffic on a motorway at rush hour from the top of a bridge overlooking it, you will be amazed at how vehicles brush pass each other, overtake each other, slow down, speed up and even change lanes in a kind of ballet that is not controlled by any higher authority but, in truth, by each individual driver. You might expect to see a lot of accidents, or at least sheet metal crumpling in the space of a few minutes, yet that is not the case – everything goes smoothly. Of course there are accidents, but very few compared to what we can imagine or see from our observatory.
If you practise with several partners with the same level of concentration, attention and respect for each other as you would when driving a vehicle of any kind, because it is our body – and not an extension of our body’s consciousness, as can be the case with a car – it becomes much easier. I will say it again: it is necessary to have a good technique, not to be afraid of what is happening, but to be calm and confident, while being alert and aware of what is happening around us. The difference with the example I have just given is that the partners are trying to touch us, hit us or stop us, unlike the cars, which are avoiding each other. Just like the car, for example – which through anthropotechnics becomes like an extension of our body, whose dimensions we are aware of to the centimetre, even to the millimetre – it is now a question of seizing the opportunity to feel our sphere, no longer as a dream, an idea, a fantasy, an imagination or an esoteric delirium invented out of the blue by some magician or charlatan, but rather as a concrete reality accessible to everyone, since we are already capable of doing this in the car if we pay enough attention.
Then it is a matter of playing with this sensation, this expansion: as soon as the spheres brush against each other, they expand, retract, move constantly, responding to needs without having to resort to the voluntary system. It is the work of the involuntary, the spontaneous, as if the movements were done by themselves, precisely and with ease. It is then that one enters the practice of Non-Doing, the famous non-action, the Chinese Wu-Wei, it is then that what seemed mythical becomes reality. The aim of training with several partners is to lead us towards Non-Doing. This practice can take place in the middle of a crowd, in a department store on sale day, or on a more everyday basis in the metro for city dwellers. The game is to feel how to move, how to get around, how to manage to pass through the empty spaces between people.
O-sensei was a master also in the art of moving through crowds. His uchi deshi used to complain that they could not keep up with him in the middle of the crowd, when they had to take the metro to accompany him to a demonstration or when they had to take the train with him. Although they were young and vigorous, they had enormous difficulty moving through the crowds at the station, whereas he, who was very old and rather frail at the end of his life, was able to weave his way through the crowd with surprising speed.
The aim is to unify the breaths and reach a common breath.
Recreating a space around you
The art of blending into the crowd, of going unnoticed, can be a natural disposition, or a deformation – sometimes due to trauma – that leads to suffering: to be the person who is unseen, the one who is unnoticed, who becomes invisible. But it can also be an art, and it seems that O-sensei Ueshiba Morihei has excelled here as well. Sometimes it is necessary to melt away, to blend into a crowd for example, to fade into the background to go unnoticed. In this case, our sphere becomes transparent, but at the same time it remains very present, coherent, stable and powerful. It creates an empty space around the person that is difficult to cross, making it difficult to attack or even approach.
I had the opportunity to experience this during demonstrations with my master Tsuda sensei, but I think this was even more striking after the sessions, when we would have coffee or tea together in the dojo just outside the changing rooms where we could manage to clear a small area. There was a big low table and we would all sit around it, more or less huddled together, except for sensei. There was always a space on either side that seemed impassable, and it was not just respect that prevented us from sitting there. There was a very concrete, very real emptiness, solid as a rock. Tsuda sensei never seemed to pay any attention to it; he drank his coffee, chatted, told stories and then, after some half an hour or more, got up and left. But the emptiness remained: even if we sometimes stayed a little longer, no one occupied the empty seat, something remained there. This is what I call the art of creating an impassable space around oneself, an art that can hardly be practised, rather it is a skill that emerges naturally, that emerges when one becomes independent, autonomous, when one has passed the first stage of apprenticeship, or when the need arises.
The one and the multiple
The problem is not the number of attacks, but our ability to remain calm in all circumstances. Who can claim this, and is it not a myth? If the attacks are conventional or planned in advance, like a kind of ballet, one steps outside the pedagogical role of Aikido. It will be nothing more than the repetition of gestures that can admittedly be refined or made more aesthetic, but without depth. It will be a performance that, however professional, however admirable, will no longer be about Aikido, which, in my opinion, will have lost its value of profoundly changing the human being.
Article by Régis Soavi published in January 2021 in Self et Dragon Spécial Aikido n° 4.
(Translator’s) Notes: see also, by Tsuda Itsuo (Yume Editions):
‘Ueshiba. “I do not look others in the eyes; I do not look at their technique, their manner. I put them all in my belly. Since they are in my belly, I do not need to fight with them.’ (The Dialogue of Silence, Chap. XI, 2018, p. 94)
‘this is what Master Ueshiba said: “when there are a lot of people it doesn’t matter, I put them all in my belly”.’ (Heart of Pure Sky, ‘La Matinée des autres’, 2025, p. ???) ]
Tension and relaxation are the two most visible aspects of the human inner movement; like yin and yang they may follow one another, intertwine or overlap, but they are never totally separate despite the intensity of the reactions they provoke.
Our world offers us reasons for tension every day, which in itself is not to be condemned, as it is more often an involuntary function, even a defence reflex in the face of adversity. Human beings have a thousand reasons to tense up, but the tension that seeks to relieve itself very often provokes aggressive attitudes that lead to a snowball effect. It is then difficult to bring a little relaxation to resolve the situation. We try to get relaxation from voluntary processes, but very often it is even worse and the situation escalates. The more you try to relax, the more you reason, the more the tension increases – an escalation that seems to never end.
Exhaling at the solar plexus during a Katsugen undo session at Tsuda sensei’s dojo
Involuntary
Tension is merely a response to a given situation. If the response is appropriate, everything is fine. But very often it carries us to something we do not want and causes us to exceed the limits acceptable to others. At other times it causes blockages that make it impossible – or at least difficult – to resolve a fear or an internal conflict. In these cases, obtaining relaxation often results from a voluntary effort, rigorous training, a conscious overcoming of the situation.
In contrast to the search for control through willpower, Seitai has a relatively simple yet common-sense view of body movement, and I have often heard Tsuda sensei expound it during his conferences. In his book The Dialogue of Silence, he sums up Noguchi sensei’s thoughts on health in one sentence:
‘“A healthy body is elastic.”
This can result in considerable muscle amplitude, in other words, a considerable difference in muscles between the state of contraction and the state of relaxation. A healthy body is comparable to a new elastic band that lengthens and shortens easily.
This elasticity decreases with age. When muscular amplitude diminishes to zero, one ceases to live.
So death does not happen abruptly. We approach death through a gradual loss of elasticity.’ 1
‘When a movement is performed normally, the muscular contraction should stop after use of the muscle to make way for relaxation. If the stiffening persists in the parts in question, it is because the movement is poorly executed. This remark applies to all movements performed by the body. The ideal of Seitai is to maintain muscle amplitude to the maximum, that is, the gap between contraction and relaxation.’ 2
Encouraging relaxation during immobilisation
Is tensionless something inhuman?
There are adages that give food for thought, like this one: ‘Only the wise man, like a living Buddha, remains even-tempered at all times and assumes a tranquil posture that reflects the most perfect relaxation’. Is this true or is it, as usual, a misunderstood idea, a message that loses all its value because of its simplistic reduction? And who can make such a claim?
Martial arts practitioners are often looking for ways to remain calm, not to be overcome by fear, whatever the circumstances. Meditation as well as exercises designed for this purpose can lead us to some kind of serenity but, when you find yourself unexpectedly in a difficult situation, most often everything flies out of control, “one goes to pieces”.
Staying Cool
How do you stay calm and peaceful when a situation becomes perilous? The answer depends of course on the situation itself, but above all on the person’s Taiheki (postural tendencies) and therefore on their posture and their body’s capacity for movement. What is called Taiheki is the visible expression of the polarisation of vital energy at a particular location in the body, most usually an area including the Koshi and one or more vertebrae. This obviously has an influence on bodily habits and therefore can cause blockages as well as greater ease of movement, and affect the speed with which you take action.
Faced with a given situation, a certain type of practitioner will only be able to find relaxation through action: a blockage of energy in the third lumbar vertebra forces them to twist and act in order to spend it, whatever the consequences. Once the problem has been solved, even if they realise they have acted foolishly, they will relax.
Another one needs to think before she acts, she knows techniques to protect herself in the event of danger, but when she is actually in the situation she moves away from the scene – if she can – to remain a spectator. This detachment enables her to think critically and make objective judgements. Her energy is blocked at the first lumbar and third cervical vertebrae; it tends to rise to the brain but cannot easily flow back down. She relaxes because she is satisfied when she finds the theoretical solution.
Yet another one will be an excellent practitioner, a sportsman in great shape, but for him relaxation comes when he has calculated his shot well. He is ready and knows how to react, his techniques are sure and he dominates the situation. His energy is concentrated in the fifth lumbar vertebra, which pushes him forward.
“Solfège”, relaxation exercise before practice
Balance
Whatever our posture, our agility, our difficulties or our blockages, what we seek in our daily lives to maintain our fitness – and therefore our health – is balance, the ability to tense up when we need to and to remain relaxed when it is no longer necessary. The capacity for tension is favoured by relaxation, which acts as a regulator of human health. It is the alternation of tension and relaxation, fullness and emptiness that governs everyone’s life. It is our involuntary system – when in good working order and therefore capable of reacting – that will give the right answers to all the circumstances that may arise, because intuition – as philosopher Henri Bergson declared3 – is ‘a consciousness more and more wide awake and luminous’ and, when properly awakened, is the indisputable judge of the situation.
If we are interested in the inner development of the individual, the practice of Aikido leads us – and I dare say even forces us – to have a non-dualistic vision and understanding of the world in which we live. It allows us to rediscover the profound meaning of Tao as unity, to experience yin and yang as non-separate forces that run through the body. Whether we are contracting or relaxing, we can feel these forces as currents, biological flows carried by the muscular networks and animated by what we find difficult to define, but which each of us knows and recognises. All that remains then is to guide them so that they harmonise us and our partners in every movement and every technique.
‘Humanity probably began with such an intensity of life, as well as a large gap between tension and relaxation, between the concentration of energy and its dispersion, to be able to make its way with nothing but intuition. With the development of intelligence, intuition withdrew, giving way to logical, rational explanation and the imperative of order. The use of crutches multiplied.’ 4
“Back to back”, relaxation exercise at the end of the session
Exhaling
All Aikido sessions in our School begin with a breathing practice and, even more precisely, with a deep breathing exercise that was taught to Tsuda sensei by Seitai master Noguchi Haruchika sensei and integrated into this first part one performs alone albeit at the same rhythm as the others; a part that was very important to O sensei, that he practised every morning and that, despite the transmission by Tsuda sensei, Tamura sensei and many others, has disappeared from most dojos; a part that was forgotten for lack of knowledge or understanding, because it was very often mistakenly equated with a religious rite or a sports warm-up, when in fact it was a Misogi – in other words, a ritual of purification, of union with nature and at the same time of realising oneself as being part of a whole, of being both the whole and the part, without distinction.
The Seitai exercise works like this: seated in seiza, on your heels, you place your hands at the level of your solar plexus and, pressing lightly, you bend forward until you touch the tatamis, exhaling with your mouth wide open but relaxed, somehow a little like a child being ‘speechless’ in front of an unexpected gift. You then straighten up with the inhalation. This is in fact a kind of artificially induced yawn – because, as we all know, you cannot yawn voluntarily or even on command. Even if it is not spontaneous, this yawn has a profound effect on the parasympathetic system and causes a relaxation that can last for a long time or, at least for a beginner, for the duration of the session. You do this exercise three times in a row, quite leisurely, before continuing with the breathing practice, which will be punctuated by the alternation between inhaling and exhaling.
It is the amplitude of the breathing, and the fact of remaining concentrated on this act, that allows relaxation to follow tension, creates that possibility of not remaining in one or other of these states that block our actions and reactions, because of too much unspent energy or a lack of reactivity due to flaccidity.
Aikido loses its identity without relaxation
No need to look backward far away: if Aikido has had its moment of glory as a martial art, it is due more to the relaxed way in which our masters taught, the beauty of their gestures and the simplicity of their behaviour, from which the effectiveness that fascinated us when we were beginning flowed obviously. It was this attitude that touched us, much more than the tension, the abrupt or even violent gestures, or the aggression that manifests itself in many aspects of our social world or in war practices.
I believe it vital not to forget our roots, nor to deny what has always been part of the teaching of our art, but on the contrary to understand its importance, its power and its finesse. To guide new people, the generation of millennials, like the elders of the previous century, by modestly offering them what we have been able to discover and experience: the result of a practice that is as gentle and supple as it is intensive at times, but always in search of an understanding of the other, of a fusion of sensibilities, of relaxation, in order to always foster life.
This is the path I follow, this is the path of our School, this is the path taught to me by my master Tsuda Itsuo. This is the path that allows us to be in this world while living in another. This is how I can make my own the aphorism of philosopher Raoul Vaneigem:
‘In the irrepressible desire to live, the laws of a world that is not mine are dissolved and abolished.’ 5
From September 2023, in the Itsuo Tsuda School dojos in Paris, Toulouse and Milan, in addition to the daily sessions, a weekly Aikido session will be reserved exclusively for women.
A session for women, run by women, led by women
Perhaps it is important to make it clear from the beginning that this is not a new version of Aikido, or even a softer Aikido, and certainly not “women’s Aikido”, but “chosen non-mixed Aikido”, conceived as an act of “empowerment”.
In principle, it is not aimed at female practitioners who already know our School and who already come to the other sessions, although they are welcome to be Senpai or to help newcomers discover the practice. The aim is to allow new participants to practise Aikido in a way that respects their diversity, and thus to have a different vision from those spread by the various media, which all too often seek sensationalism, exaggeration and even vulgarity. We have all heard the words of a companion or friend who, after hearing us talk about Aikido, has said “no, no, it is not for me, it is too violent” or “it is a man’s thing”. Today, we need to present Aikido as a realistic way to allow women to rediscover “a self-confidence” that is often altered by the dominant atmosphere in the martial arts, and to assert themselves not as a separate community, but rather as a group that emancipates itself – a group that leaves behind a certain type of social relationship in order to try to find, find again or continue the path, “the way” – that is endlessly to be rediscovered – towards a simpler, more peaceful and thus more real humanity.
Proposing a separate session for women in a martial art as specifically recognised as Aikido is nothing revolutionary or new to us, as women have always been numerous and very often the majority in the Itsuo Tsuda School. But there is the danger that creating an additional session of this type will be so misunderstood by a large proportion of both male and female practitioners, whatever school they come from, that this innovation will be seen as awkward, disruptive, pointless and therefore counterproductive. I am afraid that this misunderstanding will not be limited to those involved in our art, because I am already hearing a lot of criticism, both in form and in content, which would have its own raison d’être if today’s world were really what it claims to be and not what it really is. In my opinion, this approach has become even more necessary in the twenty-first century than in previous centuries, simply because of the ideological modernisation of the mind, which would have us believe in a new, more equal normality when it is, in fact, nothing more than the reification of the old world.
When Barbara Glowczewski writes about the Australian Aborigines, she gives us the reasons for this need for “entre-soi” 1, which, in my opinion, has always existed, even if it has been hindered or disguised so as to persist despite societal disapproval: ‘If this demand for an “entre-soi” exists, it is because historically there has been a disappropriation, a dispossession of what belonged to them, or rather of what signalled their belonging, both in terms of knowledge and in terms of the land, they have developed over centuries, even millennia.’ 2
That says it all.
Why have I kindled and determinedly supported this project?
Perhaps because, since I have been practising martial arts for 60 years and Aikido in particular for 50 years, I have always been interested in the Yin side, which is so important in our art as an intrinsic part of the whole and which is so often belittled – just as the Ura side has often been devalued in favour of the Omote, seemingly so much brighter and therefore wrongly considered stronger, more “valid” in a scale of values that has been distorted for centuries.
Perhaps these aspects represent what I lacked or, rather, what I had difficulty developing naturally in me within this very Yang society, and which the teachings of my master Tsuda Itsuo urged me to seek out, to rediscover within myself. Surely it is also what I imagined I had to suppress or at least moderate in order to survive and try to live as I thought I wanted to, as society suggested. It is also thanks to my personal family life, with all its richness and above all its radicalism in relation to the social world, that I have been able to find my way into this universe, too often ignored by half of humanity, which is the world of the feminine – a world that is neither totally Yin, as some would have us believe at first sight, nor devoid of Yang, quite the contrary.
As for Tsuda sensei’s Aikido, it allowed me to grasp another dimension that went far beyond what I had been able to perceive in my initial approach to the martial arts. Already in 1982, for that matter, Tsuda Itsuo presciently wrote: ‘Aikido, conceived as a sacred movement by Mr Ueshiba, is disappearing to make way for athletic Aikido, a combat sport, more in accordance with the demands of civilised people.’ 3 He had this way of touching our sensitive points often with just a few words, of opening doors in our minds to make us (his students) reflect on the concrete, on everyday life.
An art that emancipates
Getting off the well-trodden beaten track, ploughed by the ploughshare of conventions and the heavy wagons ballasted with prefabricated ideas is, to be sure, a difficult job but this job is more than necessary.
The time has now come to step out of line, to take advantage of a state of consciousness that has emerged in the West thanks to the feminist movement, thus echoing the demands of previous generations, before new ideologues in the service of power – or rather the powers – confuse everything that is true in this emergence with a supposedly innovative discourse, recycling old worn-out refrains, mixing them when necessary with the ideas in vogue, at best thinking they are doing the right thing, at worst acting as lackeys of the dominant ideologies.
If Aikido is an art that emancipates the individual – and this is its main raison d’être in our School –, then it is necessary, indeed imperative, to open our eyes to the world around us. This emancipation, however, must not be limited. Even if it is sometimes painful to look things in the face, it is always very healthy to do so.
Observing our art being without any heirs and the consequent lack of interest it seems to arouse among teenagers and young adults – and very notoriously in half of humanity (the female world) – has become a matter of fact for a great number of male and female martial arts teachers. The most common response to recruiting new practitioners is to offer demonstrations of effectiveness and comparative trails between different trends, schools or different arts, or even to mix techniques from all over the world in order to create a melting pot that will – so we think – appeal to as many people as possible! What if the problem was not there? What if it was not at all where we are vainly digging and striving for a solution?
An emancipated person is an autonomous, independent, free person: this is the direction of our research. By creating spaces of freedom, places that are different by their very nature, we can make it possible for conditions that allow for the fulfilment of being to be put in place in a truly autonomous way. Dojos are such places. But who knows that?! The fear of finding the same conditions as in everything that surrounds them and “discreetly” oppresses them does not encourage women to enter one of our dojos to see what really happens there, disillusioned as they are by the unsuccessful attempts they have already experienced or by the falsehood of the often soothing, albeit socially acceptable, discourses. It seems to me that we need to create situations along the lines of American affirmative action, which I believe is wrongly translated [in French] as “positive discrimination”, and which was made possible by J. F. Kennedy’s initiative at the beginning of the 1960s. A new situation, a positioning of the dojos that allows women who, although attracted to the martial arts, do not want to face sexism once again (even if it is unintentional and kind). Allowing them to try – because they have their own relationship with their bodies, different from that of men, which for once will not be reproached or accepted in a condescending way – to find pleasure as well as efficiency through physical development in the movements, stability and balance in the harmonisation of breathing without ambiguity or complacency. As there is no competition, they can discover the full potential of their “being”, of the totality of their body and mind in an environment made safe by the non-mixed aspect. The martial side, which is not forgotten either, will allow them to rediscover their abilities and confidence in the face of adversity in a world dominated by masculine power.
Kunigoshi Takako (国越 孝子)
An art which emancipates itself
Since Louise Michel and her fellow sisters during the Paris Commune, and even before them, since Olympe de Gouge at the dawn of the French Revolution, women have been calling for Liberty, Equality and Fraternity (or Sorority) for all without ever finding it, except for a few rare historical moments, and even then in a very relative way.
Now, what if Aikido were this driving lever that could change our society, the instrument that, by freeing itself from habits, preconceived ideas and the accoutrements that have been added to it, could once again become – or at least come closer to – the ideals of its founder Ueshiba Morihei, who saw the world as one big family?
O sensei insisted on the importance of the balance between Yin and Yang, on their alternation within Unity. Tsuda sensei always talked about Ka Mi breathing, which also alternates between breathing in and breathing out within Life. In both examples, they were actually talking about Tao, One. To return to this search for unity rather than separation, it is sometimes necessary to take a step back – as any good sociologist would do – to analyse what has brought Aikido to the impasse it is in today, when in the 1960s and 1970s it was considered to be one of the most important martial arts, both from a philosophical point of view and in terms of its physical aspects, accessible to all and everyone, regardless of age or physical form.
Tsuda sensei, like all of O sensei’s students, had his own – very special somewhat – way of communicating what he had seen and understood in his master’s teaching. From the beginning, his research was directed towards Non-Doing. Not a young man – he was forty-five when he began practising Aikido with Master Ueshiba –, he discovered something that young Uchi-Deshi could not see or understand, as Tamura sensei explains so well4. In fact, Tsuda sensei did not teach, he passed on to us what he had discovered with the masters he knew, including Ueshiba sensei, Noguchi sensei and Marcel Granet and Marcel Mauss. This transmission made a deep impression on me and has been the guiding principle of my teaching over the years. It has enabled me to speak to both men and women, regardless of gender, age, level, physical ability, difficulty or even disability. It has also been an opportunity for me to improve my teaching and to insist on certain aspects in order to move towards the freedom and autonomy of the individual.
Aikido is about overcoming conflict: ai-nuke, it is about understanding how to deal with problems in society. Tsuda sensei writes: ‘Master Ueshiba’s Aikido, from what I sensed, was completely filled with that spirit of ai-nuke, which he called “non-resistance”. After his death, this spirit disappeared, only the technique remained. Aikido originally meant the path of coordination for ki. Understood in this sense, it is not an art of combat. When coordination is established, the opponent ceases to be the opponent.’ 5. It is up to each and every one of us to take control of this instrument, because it is in our hands that it can become truly effective, not through speeches but by serving as an example of the possibilities within our reach. By opening our bodies, we open our eyes to reality. Now or never, it is up to us teachers to allow our art, meant to be more clear-sighted, to be the art that surpasses the ancient arts, drawing on its origins, which are not to be denied but understood as the – certainly archaic – a bygone era.
By creating the necessary conditions to enable women to reclaim, at least in our School, what has eluded them and been missing for so many centuries, we are creating a context, an environment, an indispensable atmosphere, an essential framework, so that this work of reconquest can be accomplished. In a way, these dedicated sessions are merely a way of creating a situation of rebalancing that should extend to all areas, in the martial arts as well as outside in society, and primarily to every aspect of daily life. Kunigoshi Takako sensei, one of the few female students at the Kobukan Dojo, recalled these words from O sensei: ‘Whether you practice the tea ceremony or the flower arrangement, there are points in common with Aikido, since the whole world (Tenchi) is made up of movement and calm, light and shadow. If everything moved and changed then everything would be complete chaos, right?’ 6
‘Aikido: an art which emancipates people, an art which emancipates itself’, an article by Régis Soavi published in April 2023 in Self et Dragon Spécial Aikido n° 15.
Notes:
[Editor’s note: The entre-soi (trans. lit.: between oneself) is the situation in which one is alone with one’s fellow human beings.]
interview of Kᴜɴɪɢᴏsʜɪ Takako by Stanley Pʀᴀɴɪɴ made on 26 Aug. 1981, ‘The Dainty Lady Who Lit Up Morihei Ueshiba’s Kobukan Dojo’, Aiki News n° 47, April 1982 (excerpt available online – at the very end)
Shisei is the reflection of the soul as well as the health of the body, both physical and psychological. It is the indisputable detector of a state, permanent or temporary, for those who know how to read the posture in the expression of its manifestation of life. ‘[P]osture is the product of unconscious movement.’ 1
Posture and involuntary
Modern scientific research has shown that, apart from problems of body or mental structure, illness or age, posture is most often the result of education and the efforts we make to adapt to our cultural and social environment. It is therefore through a mixture of the voluntary and the involuntary that we achieve the posture we desire. We must realise that, unless we become rigid, the involuntary, whatever we call it (unconscious, subconscious or autonomous nervous system), always takes precedence over the voluntary. However, it is often difficult for us to accept this, to be fully aware of it. The proof of our lack of understanding is our desire to correct our posture using the voluntary system, in the hope of compensating for a lack, an indisposition, personal suffering or for all sorts of other reasons, each of which has its own value in our eyes.
Our involuntary system is at the service of the life that works within each of us. It is there, among other things, to correct our postural difficulties and to help us maintain as natural a balance as possible so that life can continue within us. And this, sometimes, even at the cost of pain or deformity, if we resist its regulatory impulses and persist in refusing to let go, thus stiffening ourselves by fighting against it. It is therefore important to stimulate this involuntary system through exercises that, instead of endangering it or trying to dominate it, give it the freedom to do its job and bring us back into balance whenever necessary.
Katsugen Undo, introduced in France under the name of Regenerating Movement by Tsuda Itsuo sensei in the early 1970s, was exactly the answer that many of us martial arts practitioners were already looking for at that time to improve our posture. Of course, this was not the only method that existed, and some found in various disciplines or therapies means that allowed them to move forward without harm. But it was obviously not within everyone’s reach, either financially or in terms of the commitment it required in continuity, endurance or time.
Tsuda Itsuo introduced Katsugen Undo to France in the early 1970s.
This method of activating the involuntary, Katsugen Undo, discovered by Noguchi Haruchika sensei, has been practised by thousands of Japanese people for over half a century. Because of its simplicity, its philosophy and the very low cost of initiation and membership, not only it is an activity that is not only accessible to everyone but, above all, it is of great help to everyone thanks to its ability to solve numerous postural problems by activating the involuntary system. It is an opportunity for anyone who wishes to find their own independent path to health. A large number of researchers, doctors and shiatsuka who had focused their research on the benefits of a flexible, strong and healthy posture, leading individuals towards autonomy and independence in the management of their own health, visited Noguchi sensei to make contact and exchange their points of view and even their techniques, such as Moshe Feldenkrais, whose method is well known in France, or Kishi sensei, who developed his own technique under the name of Sei-ki.
Breath
Not so long ago, a mirror was placed in front of the mouth of a dying person in order to determine whether there was still a little life left or whether death had already come. This method, although primitive, gave an indication, albeit a relative one, but it clearly showed the importance attached to breath, to respiration, and thus to this manifestation of the life of the person in front of whom it was placed. Today, the mirror is no longer enough, we test brain activity in the hope of not being mistaken about the person’s ability to return to a normal life, in any case we have applied the imposed protocol, we have put the machines into operation, so we are legally protected. Breath, however, is something very different from lung breathing, because it carries a much greater energy, although few people are aware of this or recognise it.
Breath is the food of the posture, simply because of its internal composition, the visible and invisible elements it carries. Who can believe in a strong posture, in the real power of a person, when you can see that their breathing is blocked? You will not expand your breath with exercises, these will – perhaps – simply free the psyche, calm the spirit, so that the Ki can circulate freely again in this finally tension-free body.
Posture: personal well-being
The search for a posture at all costs entails risks for the body, especially when the proposed techniques include exercises designed to stiffen it in order to conform to an idea of the body publicised today by social networks. Images and representations play an increasingly important role in everyday life, to the detriment of a simple reality that is considered unattractive. The postures that emerge from the presence of the Old Masters are less and less attractive, because they are too often misunderstood and seem to be hidden from most people. It is only after many years of practice that the inner eyes open to reveal to us what we might have seen, had we not been blinded by the spectacle of the world.
When Tsuda sensei writes to give us a better understanding of O sensei Ueshiba, he always does so in a special way, and it seems important to me to find the testimonies of masters who, like him, knew the founder of Aikido:
‘Through my contact with him, which lasted for over ten years, I acquired an image of him that differed completely from the commonly accepted image of an athlete.
[…]
I never saw him do the slightest muscle-strengthening type of exercise in all the time that I knew him. However, I often saw him do the norito, a ritual incantation, which put him in communication with the gods. It was a religious practice unrelated to sports or athletics.
One day when I was visiting him in Iwama, at his country retreat, he said: “Between fifty and sixty, I had extraordinary strength. Now I don’t have much strength any more, and it is already difficult even to carry a bucket of water. On the other hand, I understand Aikido much better than I did then.”
Who in the West would accept the idea of an athlete who no longer has physical strength, who spends his day in religious practice and who, nevertheless, is capable of extraordinary feats? In any case, I saw no inconsistency, and accepted him as he was. I was fascinated by his posture, his gait. With him, everything was natural, simple, without the slightest unnecessary gesture, without ostentation or pride. All around him I sensed an entire (albeit invisible) landscape of serenity and fulfilment. I, an uncouth clown, could not resist the pleasure of seeing him every morning, and I rose at four o’clock for ten years, until his death.
He swept away all my petty cares about social life.’ 2
Régis Soavi, reciting the norito at the start of the session.
The Center
A good balance, a good Shisei, requires a good, well-positioned centre, but how do you find it, maintain it and keep it? Tsuda sensei recounts3 that during the meditation that O sensei called “Ka-Mi” (meditation practised standing at the beginning of the session), he would say to his students: Ame-tsuchi no hajime “put yourself at the beginning of the Universe”. Today, it has become very difficult to propose such an image, which runs the risk of not being understood, or of being understood only literally, which amounts to a purely mental understanding when this is something completely different. Only experience can lead us to the realisation of this centre. We must go to the heart of our sensibility, be without thought, be truly present “here and now”. Science has broken this simple relationship with our environment, with what we can feel, we no longer even know who we are or where we are.
It seems to me that there was a time when the human being did not ask themselves any more questions about their position in the universe than were necessary for them to live their daily life. Space, planets and constellations were of little importance, except for what directly affected their daily life, agriculture, the weather, the movement of animals and their reproductive cycles. The knowledge of astrology was aimed at the human being and what was around them. Where they were became the centre of their life and therefore of their universe. It was thanks to this that they felt part of a world, “their world, their cosmos”. Science has expanded our concept and perception of the universe, which is all well and good, but the result is a destabilisation of our reality.
The living being felt themselves at the centre of the planet, “their earth’, wherever they were, wherever they lived. Then came the onset of mental disorganisation. Although it was necessary for them to escape the religious oppression of the Middle Ages, it came as a shock, followed by upheavals that were to become increasingly disturbing. First they were taught that the Earth was round like a ball, then that it revolved around an axis, then that it revolved around the Sun and finally that the Sun was at the centre of the solar system. The human being then found themselves off-centre, no longer the centre of a universe but cast outwards. As if that was not enough, they learnt that the solar system was part of a gigantic galaxy, the Milky Way, a white trail that they could see in their sky, that the solar system itself was in competition with other solar systems, black holes and so on. But here again they found that they were not the centre of this galaxy, but rather on one of its outer edges, a sort of horn of stars in a distant periphery. Even more recently, it was discovered that this galaxy is almost nothing compared to the billions of billions of billions of galaxies that are known, or simply guessed at, or conceptualised through the art of mathematics. The human thing has found itself very small, insignificant even in the face of all that surrounds it.
The question remains: how to find, to retrieve your centre in these conditions?
Ameno-minaka-nushi
At the beginning of the Aikido session, right after the funakogi undo, the “rowing movement” as O sensei’s young students called it, comes a kind of meditation in movement, but very slow at first, tama-no-hireburi “the vibration of the soul”. It is practised with the hands clasped, in front of the Hara, the left hand on top of the right. The hands are made to vibrate, not excessively, but regularly. One of the peculiarities of this meditation is that it should be done during a single inhalation, which should be very, very slow. This exercise should be repeated three times, each time slightly accelerating the rhythm of the vibration. It was just before this practice that O sensei would make evocations, invoking aloud the names of the Kami that Tsuda sensei passed on to us in the last years of his life. For me, it is like a crack, a small space, a small opening, and at the same time it is a direction, a door and a key that allows me to re-centre myself. Every morning during pratice, it allows me to sneak into what, despite everything, I am aware can be “a risk”. The risk of falling into a parallel mental universe, a kind of schizophrenia or mystical vortex from which it is difficult to escape. However, one need only keep a cool head, physical and mental lucidity, in order to remain present to oneself.
O Sensei used Shinto rituals as a kind of transposition of his sensations – in the same way as a writer, musician or painter transposes their sensations when composing a work, or introduces us to a world of their own. In Shinto, Ameno-minaka-nushi is considered to be the Kami Centre of the Universe, and is the first evocation. Then it is the turn of Kuni-toko-tachi, Eternal Earth, the materialisation of the world – as a human being, as a practitioner, we take shape, we realise matter, what we are so to speak, almost flesh and blood. Last, Amaterasu-o-mi-kami presents herself to our consciousness, and there is no alternative but to accept her. A feminine principle, Amaterasu is the4Kami Sun, both life and the stimulus of life, creation. Between each moment of vibration, the vibration continues, nothing stops, the rhythm of the oar movements, funakogi undo, accelerates from slow to medium-fast to very fast. Tsuda Itsuo sensei explained that this rhythm reminded him of the recitation of the Noh which he had studied for almost twenty-five years, and in which there are three different rhythms that follow each other: Jo, Ha and Kyu5. For us Europeans, we can, for example, evoke the musical rhythms of largo, andante, then presto, prestissimo. Tsuda sensei gives us some indications of his own understanding of O Sensei’s invocations:
‘1) Wake-mitama (emanation): All beings are emanations of a Whole, of Ame-no-minaka-nushi, of the central God. We are all God himself in our essence. Basically, we identify with the central God.
In religions of revelation like Christianity or Islam, the divine essence belongs exclusively to one being. All the others are a flock of sheep who need a pastor or spiritual guide.
2) Kotodama (vibrations): The whole Universe is conceived as filled with sensations of vibrations.’ 6
Ueshiba: a simple posture, without the slightest unnecessary gesture.
The reflection of the soul
Our mental state can only be reflected in our posture, no matter what theory, perhaps, we made our own. Everyone’s posture is influenced by the moment one is experiencing, by the people around us, our immediate or distant surroundings – in fact, by all internal and external circumstances. Our ability to maintain a correct posture, capable of reacting, is nevertheless something that can be worked on and give good results if we do not go against what is good for the body and what we are deep inside ourselves.
‘O humble flower standing in the corner of a wall,
‘Mirror’, an article by Régis Soavi published in April 2024 in Self et Dragon Spécial Aikido n° 17.
Tsuda Itsuo, Heart of Pure Sky (posthumous work), ‘Interviews with Master Tsuda […] on France Culture Radio’, ‘Broadcast no. 2’, 2025???, Yume Editions
Tsuda Itsuo, The Dialogue of Silence, Chap. XI, Yume Editions, 2018, p. 90 (1st ed. in French: 1979, Le Courrier du Livre (Paris), pp. 75–76)
See for instance Tsuda Itsuo, The Science of the Particular, Chap. XVIII, 2015, Yume Editions, p. 148, or (same author & publisher) The Way of the Gods, chap. XIII, 2021, p. 101 (1st ed. in French: 1976, p. 132; 1982, p. 96)
[Translator’s note: In French, ‘Sun’ is a masculine word but the author uses here the feminine determinant ‘la’ and emphasises the gender contrast (using a capital letter, bold font and quotation marks). We chose to render this emphasis slightly earlier on ‘herself’.]
[Translator’s note: We chose to stick to the French quoted by the author so as to keep the resonance with what he wrote just above. As for the original Chinese poem, it might possibly be n° 33 in the collection 清水 Spring Water (available online): 墙角的花！ 你孤芳自赏时，天地便小了. The English translation given in the same collection reads: ‘O flower in the corner of the wall, / Your fragrance is for yourself. / You are too much alone. / But in gazing upon you / Heaven and earth become small.’]
There are several ways of considering at Jiyūwaza work and each school has its own way of seeing and practising it. As far as the Itsuo Tsuda School is concerned, it has undoubtedly made it one of the basis of its teaching and pedagogy.
Jiyūwaza: “Free movement”
Although Tsuda sensei was Japanese, he rarely used technical terms from his mother tongue. An intellectual of great subtlety, writer and philosopher, lecturer and Seitai technician, he attached great importance to being understood, if possible, at all times. Therefore, as he had a perfect command of the French language, during Aikido sessions he spoke only French. For me, who followed all the sensei who came to France at the time, it was quite strange to hear him explain or show a technique without even saying its name in Japanese. On the other hand, some students who only knew his Aikido were used to it and were not at all shocked. Personally, I have maintained the practice of using Japanese names as a means of communication in my teaching, only when it is indispensable, and this has become a tradition in our dojos. That is why in our school, what we call “free movement” at the end of each session, just before doing the kokyu ho, is an exercise that could be called “Jiyūwaza”. It is a kind of light randori, and it is a very important moment, because the spaces between people are reduced by the fact that everyone is moving in all directions at the same time, and everyone acts as they please following their inspiration, depending on their partner, or the angle at which they are in relation to the other. Sometimes, without transition, while continuing the exercise and without anyone going to sit down, I make people change partners. Then, after a few minutes, I say “change” again, and finally, I announce with a smile “general brawl!” and there is a joyful scrum, in which everyone is both Uke and Tori, in turn and at the same time, it is a bit of a mess but in a light way, so that no one gets hurt, and yet it is important that everyone gives their best according to their level. This is an important exercise that I often use in workshops where there are a lot of people, because it shows what we are capable of doing in a chaotic situation. It is essential that the attacks made are not violent, that they do not cause fear, but that they are firm enough to feel the continuity of ki in the gesture. If they are superficial or hesitant, you are wasting your time or deluding yourself about your abilities. It is a difficult learning process that takes years, but it is of great pedagogical importance, which is why we practise “free movement” in pairs every day at the end of each session.
Once again the sphere
Mormyridae: by transforming electrical impulses into sound and then into lines, we have an image of the sphere of these fish
While watching a documentary on evolution that one of my students had sent me during the lockdown, I was astonished, like him, to discover the visual representation of the sphere surrounding a very special fish belonging to the Mormyridae group. Although they have been known since ancient times – curiously, they were often depicted in the frescoes and bas-reliefs that adorned the tombs of the pharaohs – we have just discovered some remarkable qualities about them. They are fish with a bony skeleton, which is already quite rare, and furthermore have unique abilities. They hunt and communicate by means of electrical impulses, emitting small electrical discharges (between 5 and 20 V), extremely short, less than a millisecond, which are repeated at a variable rate without interruption for more than a second. A special organ produces this electric field that surrounds the fish. By converting the electrical impulses into sound and then into lines, we get an image like the one in this article, and we can thus visualise the sphere of these fish, which they can also use as a defence system. Thanks to this field, they can distinguish a predator from a prey or from one of their own kind. When a predator enters this field, it distorts it, and this information is immediately transmitted to the cerebellum. Their cerebellum is considerably larger than the rest of their brain. This ability to generate and analyse a weak electric current is useful for orientation in space, and enables them to locate obstacles and detect prey, even in murky water or in the absence of light.
A mental representation or a function of the cerebellum
The human sphere may be no more than a mental representation of people’s unconscious capacities – we will perhaps know in several years or centuries – but that in no way diminishes its reality, as felt by the practitioner of martial arts, or its effectiveness. Ki, that mysterious feeling of our own energy, our observation, the atmosphere, which all peoples have known and passed on in their cultures without being able to give it a precise definition, could well be the answer, although considered unscientific, it has an empirical reality which is attested by the experience of many masters, shamans or mystics. If we look to cognitive sciences for answers, we can find elements that, taken together, give substance to this research.
The cerebellum plays an important role in all vertebrates. In humans, its role is absolutely essential for motor control, which is the ability to make dynamic postural adjustments and direct the body and limbs to perform a precise movement. It is also a determining factor in certain cognitive functions and is moreover involved in attention and the regulation of fear and pleasure responses. It contributes to the coordination and synchronisation of gestures, and to the precision of movements. In case of a simultaneous attack by several people, martial arts – and Aikido in particular – must have prepared the individual, through repetition and scenography in kata or free movements, to provide the necessary responses to get out of such a situation. When it comes to survival, the “organs” that are the cerebellum, the thalamus and the extra-pyramidal motor system must be ready. The learning must have been of a high quality, including surprise, attention and even a kind of anxiety, so that the involuntary system can draw on these experiences to make the right gestures.
Like a fish in water
Jiyūwaza is like a dance where the involuntary is king. It is not about being the all-powerful leader over subordinates or minions, but rather about entering a subtle world where perception and sensation lead us. Like the fish mentioned above, it is about feeling the movement of the other the moment it unfolds and touches our sphere. Above all, we must not start in advance, with the risk of the attack changing as we go, but rather be in a position, a posture, that elicits a certain type of gesture and therefore response. The technique must not be predictable or foreseeable, but adaptable and adapted to the form that is trying to reach us. A rereading of Sun Tzu offers us some choice quotations, such as: ‘If you know the enemy and know yourself, your victory will not stand in doubt; if you know Heaven and know Earth, you may make your victory complete.’ 1. Knowing, while not knowing what is going to happen: how is this possible? It is through the fusion of sensitivity with our partner that we can discover how to behave, how to act, how to react without prior thinking, without hesitation. Little by little, this kind of exercise creates a kind of trust in which all answers are possible. This is the time to go further, to ask our partner to be more subtle, and also more persistent. Whenever possible, he should reverse roles and present himself as if he were Tori instead of Uke.
It is a matter of feeling the movement of the other the moment it unfolds and touches our sphere
Fudōshin
When practising with different partners, or when it comes to stepping out of the comfort of everyday practice with people we know, in order to express what some call our potential, various reactions of tension occur, the body, fearing this different encounter, stiffens and becomes rigid. Tsuda Itsuo sensei provides us with an answer, or rather deciphers the situation through a text by Takuan which he quotes, while developing two or three concepts for us Westerners that shed light on the behaviour and resources that we need to find deep within ourselves.
‘How to get out of this state of numbness is the major problem of those who practise the professions of arms.
On this subject, a text, Fudōchi Shimmyō roku, The Twelve Rules of the Sword, written by Takuan (1573-1645), a Zen monk who is giving advice to one of the descendants of the Yagyū family, in charge of the teaching of the sword to the Tokugawa shogunate, remains famous to this day.
“Fudō means immobile,” he said, “but this immobility is not the kind which consists of being insensitive, like stone or wood. It has to do with not letting the mind become fixed, while moving forward, left and right, moving freely, as desired, in all directions.”
Therefore immobility, according to Takuan, is to be unruffled in one’s mind; it is not at all about lifeless immobility. It is a matter of not remaining in a state of stagnation, of being able to act freely, like flowing water.
When we remain frozen because of fixation on an object, our mind, our kokoro is disturbed, under the influence of this object. Rigid stillness is a breeding ground for distraction.
“Even if ten enemies attack you, each striking out with a sword,” he says, “let them pass without blocking your attention each time. This is how you can do your job without the pressure of one against ten.”
[…]
Takuan’s formula is to live the present to the fullest, without being hindered by the fleeting past.’ 2
For each of us, mastery, however relative it may be, is always the result of a lifetime of work and practice, regardless of our abilities, difficulties, or sometimes even our ease. Frédéric Chopin, having just played fourteen preludes and fugues by Johann Sebastian Bach by heart, said to one of his pupils during a private lesson: ‘The final triumph is simplicity. When you have exhausted all the difficulties, and have played an immense quantity of notes, simplicity emerges in all its charm, as the final seal of art. Anyone who expects to achieve it at the outset will never succeed in so doing; you cannot begin at the end.’ 3
Whether you are a musician, a craftsman, a Zen monk or a martial arts sensei, it is the sincerity of your work and the joy of sharing that lead us to simplicity, to Fudōshin, the immutable mind.
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‘Fudōshin: the immutable mind’, an article by Régis Soavi published in October 2020 in Self et Dragon Spécial n° 3.
Notes:
Sun Tzu, The Art of War, 2002, Dover Publications, p. 81
Tsuda Itsuo, The Way of the Gods, 2021, Yume Editions, Chap. 10, pp. 76–77 (1st ed. in French, 1982, pub. Le Courrier du Livre (Paris), pp. 72–73)
Guy de Pourtalès, Frederick Chopin: a man of solitude, 1927, pub. Thornton Butterworth Limited (London), p. 156 (original quote in French, reproduced in the 1946 Gallimard edition (Paris), p. 150)
Photos credits: Bas van Buuren, Quinn Berentson (image extracted from La fabuleuse histoire de l’évolution: le Rift Albertin [The fabulous story of evolution: the Albertine Rift], available online)
When we try to unbalance a person we know instinctively where we must touch, be it physically or psychologically. In most cases, we must reach the person’s centre in order to weaken them or make them vulnerable.
The vision of Seitai
It is hard to reach the centre of the partner’s sphere when the rim is powerful because all actions seem to bounce off the surface or slip as if on a smooth layer, elastic and capable of deforming itself without losing its density, therefore without being penetrated nor reached in any way. Everything depends on the way each of the partners will know how to use their central energy, their ki, and will succeed in doing so, be it in the role of Tori as well as in that of Uke.
Needless to say that other factors just as important, like determination, the urge to win, form an integral part of this sphere and can change the outcome, because ki is not an energy, that is to say, a kind of electricity or magnetism, as Western people are used to consider it nowadays. Ki is the result of multifactorial components which, having taken a certain form, becomes tangible even if it is hardly analysable and nearly unmeasurable except through its effects.
In all cases, one of the core elements of the action carried out will be the posture; not only the physical posture, but its energy balance, its tensions, coagulations, the areas where they are stuck, imprisoned, along with its relations – as well positive as negative – with the rest of the body and the resulting consequences. A science of human behaviour based on physical observation, sensitivity to the flows that go through the body and anatomical knowledge is of prime importance when needed in the practice of quite a lot of occupations. All the same, even for a dilettante or an amateur, such a science can help us understand those around us or get out of trouble when necessary.
One of the goals of that science – Seitai – is to gain a better understanding of human beings in their movement in general and unconscious movement in particular. It is a high-quality instrument which has already provided evidence of its value in Japan as well as in Europe and can be hardly neglected when we practice a martial art. Though it had been taught in France for over a decade by Tsuda sensei through the practice of Katsugen Undo, his conferences and the publication of his books, the ignorance of Seitai originator Noguchi sensei’s work in Western countries was a hindrance to its diffusion.
Today, Seitai calls for more recognition, in order to enable anyone taking interest in it to find elements that will bring them a better understanding, at least theoretical. It is thus important that Seitai becomes known to be better understood and accepted. That is why, from time to time, I modestly give to interested people a few indications, especially on Taihekis, which present – even if in a somewhat caricatural manner – a kind of charting of the human territory as regards ki, its circulation as well as its passageways, bridges, entry and exit points, etc.
One can better understand Taihekis and Seitai by practising Katsugen Undo, which is at the basis of the return to the physical balance and sensitivity that are required to approach this field of knowledge in a practical way. One can also, at least intellectually, go straight to the information source, by reading or rereading the books Tsuda sensei wrote in French – the basic principle being summarised in this “definition” he himself used to give:
‘The aim of Seitai is to regulate the circuit of vital energy, which is polarised in each individual, and thus to normalize the person’s sensitivity.
The philosophy underlying Seitai is based on the principle that a human being is an indivisible Whole, which distinguishes it clearly from the Western science of the human, founded on an analytical principle.’ 1
Letting the right action emerge
An athletic body
Some people have a body with harmonious proportions, large and square shoulders, long legs, they look extremely steady, for many people they represent an example of the ideal human being – woman or man. But if we observe their behaviour just as they move, they tend to lean forward (this is one of the characteristics of type 5 people, who belong to the “pulmonary” or “forwards-backwards” group).
As a consequence, when they have to bend, they propel their behind backward and sometimes press their hands on their knees to compensate. We can easily recognise them because, even motionless, they often cross hands in their back in order to remain balanced; this is not a habit, it is a need for rebalancing. This is clearly the sign of a pelvis which lacks balance and solidity, the centre, the Hara remains vulnerable despite all the efforts. During an encounter or a training, it is yet enough, if we have taken the time to observe properly, to take advantage of the moment when the partner is moving – and thus leaning forward – to enter under the third point of the belly, about two fingers under the navel, and suck them or let them slide above us, regardless of the chosen technique.
This sounds simple when we read it but, though this is only one aspect of things, discovering and understanding postures are probably among the elements that have the greatest importance. At the beginning, during the learning phase of martial arts, some knowledge is needed to be able to perform the techniques on a concrete level; nevertheless it is through a training based on sensation and breathing that we acquire the ability to seize the right moment and be “in it”. Moreover, the work of observing partners, if we know about postures, can only be good for us; it can be a decisive plus in the case of a competition or if we have to determine whether there is real danger or merely intimidation.
Feeling the lines of equilibrium
Sumotoris
Sumotoris, with their corpulence, their very low posture, the way they move, seem to be ideal examples of stability and balance, at least physically. Though their training emphasises certain tendencies they already have and reinforces their abilities in the direction of solidity, it might deform others for the sake of prospective success.
Anyway, from the point of view of Taihekis, they cannot escape their basic tendency. Of course there are Sumotoris of all types, but some tendencies, some Taihekis are more represented than others. In the case of Sumotoris belonging to the vertical2 groups, there are few of type 1 because this kind of deformation quickly causes their elimination. The reason is that from their very early age they turn out to be quite incompetent, even when they are strong physically they are very easily destabilised. The main cause of this lies in the way they approach action. They always follow an idea of a preconceived fight or they follow their perception of the fight as it progresses, and thus they are always late and surprised by the action of their opponent.
On the other hand, type 2 sumotoris, when they have observed their opponents’ most recent fights properly, when they are well guided, can define a strategy which, if not disturbed by imponderables, can lead them to victory. They have an excellent knowledge of physiology and body anatomy as well motionless as in motion, which enables them when they want to unbalance their opponent to do it with best chance of success, because the ground has been well prepared at least theoretically. They also rely on the logic and thinking stemming from the previous fights because this is what guides them – rarely sensation or intuition. Once they have become Yokozunas, they retire and dedicate themselves to writing books, articles about their life, their training, or else use their reputation in order to support righteous deeds, etc.
Sumo. Photo by Yann Allegret, passage from Dohyô.
Twisting for winning
For some people, unbalancing means winning, by charging and then taking advantage thanks to a direct frontal attack. It seems to be the best solution if not the only possibility occurring to their mind, and in no case can they resist it. These persons always ready to fight, to react, are generally very physical in their reactions. When they react with attacks or psychological replies, for instance little insidious sentences, one can easily see that they twist, their pelvis no longer being in the same direction than the central line of their face. One can also notice that, in order to prepare for immediate action, their body shows a torsion that strengthens their fulcrums. This torsion, when permanent, is an obstacle to free movement for the person who has it and must bear it. If one fails to normalise it, a way out could be managing to use it, say, in a work or an activity that requires a good sense of competition. The people with this type of deformation suffer the consequences in spite of themselves. They show an almost permanent tension and therefore a lot of difficulties to relax and take their time. This leads to difficult relationships with others because they eternally feel in competition.
Having a knowledge of Seitai and more precisely of Taihekis enables us to understand this type of behavioural tendencies better. It makes it possible to know when and how to take action without falling into the trap of rivalry that these people try to set up around themselves in order to prepare for defence and consequently to attack. Individuals of this kind belong to the “twisted” group and everything is based on their having unconsciously a sensation of great weakness that they will never admit. Basically they feel in danger permanently, that is why they consider the best defence to be immediate attack, because it surprises the opponent and is meant to leave no occasion for reply.
Ueshiba Morihei Osensei, destabilising through the gaze
An archetype of the human being
Sometimes, a little sentence or a few well-placed words can change a situation – for better or for worse. If one can breathe deeply and concentrate ki in the lower abdomen, by taking action at the right moment one can bring down a whole building and transform what seemed to be an impregnable fortress into a funfair cardboard-paste decor. Abdominal respiration is part of the secrets available to all practitioners provided they direct their attention to it and keep training in that direction. According to Seitai, people whose energy naturally concentrates in the lower part of the body, at the risk of coagulating in absence of normalisation, are classified either in so-called “twisted” group (mainly3 type 7) or in the “pelvic” group.
I would like to elaborate on those within this group (type 9 people4) who have a tendency to close the pelvis – namely the area at the level of the iliac bones – because they represent a tendency which, for Tsuda sensei, stands at the origin of humanity. In these historically very distant times, survival from a physical perspective was paramount but sensitivity as well as intuition were also indispensable qualities. These qualities, precisely, enable type 9 people to be one step ahead of others in case of danger because their intuition makes them feel whether they should answer an act of threat or if it is merely a provocation, moreover they know whether this provocation will be followed by an action or if it will deflate at the slightest breeze.
‘Intuition cannot be replaced by either knowledge or intelligence. Intuition does not generalize. In many cases, it is knowledge and intelligence which distort intuition.’ 5
A person of this type being present in a human group never leaves anyone indifferent, even if one is unable to know or perceive easily why that is so. These persons behave in a way that sometimes surprises most people, either because of their rigidity – for they can very easily become dig in their heels – or because of their concentration power which is most unusual in our world where dispersion and superficiality are the norm.
‘When they concentrate, they do not concentrate just a part of their physical or mental functions. They concentrate their whole being.’ 6
Their concentration can be perceived through the intensity of their gaze, which is already extremely destabilising in itself; we need only see again the few movies that we know about O sensei – who belonged himself to type 9 – to be persuaded.
The posture of Sumotoris when about to fight is highly suitable for a type 9 person since ‘[t]here is a big difference whether the pelvis is open or closed with the persons of this type. They can squat right down without raising their heels off the ground, and can stay in this position for a long time: it is their position of relaxation. When they stand up, the weight shifts from the outer edges of the feet to the root of the big toes. This is their position of tension.’ 7
Sensitivity and intuition
Aikido leads us to stability and balance. Although by means of different exercises, Seitai also appears as a way following the same direction. The combination of both – Aikido as a martial art and Seitai through Katsugen Undo as proposed by Tsuda sensei – has allowed our School to continue in this direction, back to simple yet essential sensitivity, in a world being more about insensitivity and stiffening for sake of protectiveness. Only by recovering our intuition and getting our receptivity active again can we be actors of our life.
Understanding Riai means going beyond technical correspondences and leaving behind the world of separation. It means accepting to rediscover the unity of being so as to feel life manifesting throughout our bodies.
Yes, Riai exists, I’ve met it
To really understand it and feel it in our being, we need to take steps further. We have to go beyond technicality, and not simply reduce ourselves to imitation, while of course respecting those who guided us and brought us the fruits of their own research. When Noro Masamichi sensei created Kinomichi, he revealed more than forty years ago already what he had discovered. He was able to pass it on to his students, this without needing to speak about Riai, because much before already he used to demonstrate its capacities, vigour and finesse in his extraordinary demonstrations that I was lucky enough to see. Tamura Nobuyoshi sensei’s abilities in this field also need no further demonstration. So many others have demonstrated it to us.
Régis Soavi: Making visible the axes of the body that carry the action
Behind the scenes
Whatever our technique, however precise it may be, it depends on a great many elements. First, our mental state before and during the action, as well as our partner’s or opponent’s reactions, our physical condition on the day and, finally, the specific moment – always indefinable. Behind the scenes in our innermost being, so to speak, something is at work of which we are unaware, and even of which we cannot and must not become aware – except in the very moment when it is happening – because there is a great risk of preventing it from manifesting. Solely the people who have accepted to empty their minds of the disruptive noises that clutter it can achieve the unity that is necessary for right action.
When we are empty of all parasitic thought, of all superficial questioning, we are in the natural state of the human being where what can and must arise will be able to use both our potential – which itself will be able to rely on our training – and our everyday life behaviour.
Creating a comparison is dangerous
Seeing the axes of the body that carry the action seems to me the most important “act” for a practitioner, because the lines that define these axes depend on each person, each bodily tendency, and each has its own specificities. The danger of comparison is the risk of focusing on details to the detriment of the overall observation. On the other hand, knowing how to appreciate the true value of a movement, a gesture, whatever the art, enables us to broaden our field of knowledge and, at the same time, our abilities.
Yoseikan Budo is perhaps the art where the reality of Riai was most obvious to me from the start. Created in the late 1960s by Mochizuki Minoru, who was undoubtedly one of the highest-ranking practitioners of several of Japan’s martial arts (Aikido, Jujitsu, Iaido, Judo, Kendo, Karate), Yoseikan Budo is now led by his son Mochizuki Hiroo, who is its Soke. I was lucky enough to meet him in the 1970s, at a demonstration which Tsuda sensei, who had been invited himself, had brought us to. Having practised Judo for over six years, Hakko-ryu Ju-jitsu with Maroteaux sensei and Ju-jitsu from the Jigo ryu school with Tatsuzawa sensei, I immediately appreciated the performance that was given for me to see. The Iaido katas that closed the presentation clearly revealed an understanding of the reality of Riai and highlighted it.
Similarly, I remember seeing a documentary1 in the early 1990s on Tai Chi Chuan, which presented the work of Master Gu Meisheng, and being extremely impressed by his body movements and the way he moved during his demonstrations. I could see very precisely the same body movements as my master Tsuda Itsuo, the techniques were fundamentally different, but both the spirit and that something which inhabited him gave an incredible result: I could see my master alive and yet it was not him. I purchased the video cassette and we watch it in the dojo whenever appropriate, like during our summer workshop.
Comparing the effectiveness of the technique without seeing what is essential in the movement would be a serious mistake. Sometimes, regardless of potential technical skill, it is the mere presence or the determination of the person – in other words, the concentration of Ki (Chi in the Chinese arts) – that will suffice to solve a problem.
KA MI breathing
What lies behind all movement, and what we often do not perceive well enough, is “breathing”. Just as blood circulates through every part of our body, even the smallest, breathing – particularly as oxygenation – also circulates without interruption through every cell. It is the vector of our ability to move, therefore to change your position, and so to react when needed. The visualisation of breathing is the emerging awareness of the reality of Ki. It is very difficult to conceive of Ki, which is in the realm of feeling, and that is why martial arts masters use different methods in their teaching to enable their students to approach this perception. It is especially through the pronunciation of the names Ka and Mi that Tsuda sensei taught us that we can understand the common identity existing between all the techniques and between all the arts. This does not take anything away from the specificity of each technique or art, but opens up a window of understanding.
Tsuda Itsuo: Ka-Mi breathing exercise during breathing practice
Each time you breathe in, you say the word Ka (the Japanese radical for “fire”) mentally, or in a low voice to aid visualisation, and each time you breathe out the word Mi (the Japanese radical for “water”); little by little, you integrate this way of doing things and then visualisation becomes easier and easier. So much that you no longer have to worry about it, except for certain exercises that require greater concentration. It is important to know that visualisation has nothing to do with imagination, because it is an act produced by the concrete action of the koshi, which is in direct contact with reality. Imagination, on the other hand, is a product of the higher areas of the brain, whose aim is to take us into an abstract and therefore fundamentally unreal world.
Thanks to this teaching, it is possible to realise that our perception of time is dilated in this reality that is our everyday life. This is something everyone has experienced at least once, if not many times, in their lives. For example, when you are waiting for a bus that is two minutes late, time seems very long, while an evening with friends has passed before you realise it. But this visualisation technique, which is based on breathing, can reveal much more than these simple observations; it can reveal to us a universe we were previously unaware of. Tsuda sensei described some aspects of this when he wrote in his second book:
‘Time dilatation is the very foundation of Seitai technique. Between exhalation and inhalation, there is a ceasing of respiration, a pause during which a person cannot react in any way. This space, as we may realize, is almost imperceptible ; it seems that the inhale and exhale follow each other with no disruption. But for Noguchi,2 it is like a wide open door.
[…]
Moreover, the break in respiration is the place where any technique really works, be it Judo, Kendo, or Sumo. Inhalation helps muscles to contract, exhalation helps them relax. But during retention, one can neither contract nor relax. If it is after the inhale and before the exhale, try as we might, we remain stiff. We get ourselves carried away over someone’s shoulder, for example.’ 3
It is up to each of us to use this discovery for the well-being of all.
Non-Doing
Why talk about Non-Doing in an article on Riai? Because I think it is one of the most important keys to martial arts practice, and one that is too little known or neglected today, because it escapes the current state of commonly accepted so-called scientific experimentation. This key is considered to be part of the mystical domain, whereas it used to be the basis of ancient teachings and, by the same token, of the knowledge of our masters in many martial arts. All techniques have grown on the basis of the involuntary and often unconscious experience of the human body, regardless of gender, latitude or age. All techniques have been developed and linked together in order to be more effective in the face of adversity. They are all born out of a response to an action, whether it has already begun or is just beginning. Precision comes later, and stems from the axes, the atmosphere, and the will that arises from the encounter, from the danger that is revealed or not, and therefore from necessity.
Aikido is an art of the Non-Doing (so renowned wu-wei in ancient China) and this is what O sensei passed on during the last ten years of his life – advocating peace and promoting what we today call symbiosis, rather than parasitism and so-called “Struggle for Life” so misunderstood even in Darwin‘s time.
Tsuda sensei, by insisting on people’s capacity for fusion and coordinated breathing, gave us an orientation and made possible this research which some of us are continuing. O sensei, who no longer had a technique that was really detectable or comprehensible, as the masters who knew him directly in their youth explained to us, guides us in the foreground to move in this direction. If we move away from the idea of efficiency and, by the same token, performance – so dear to our so-called modern or yet civilised society – we will have the possibility to encounter life, and to be able to deploy our capacities, which will then be able to draw on this ancestral knowledge that is all too often devalued.
[Noguchi Haruchika: creator of the Seitai technique and Katsugen undo (Translator’s note)]
Tsuda Itsuo,The Path of Less, Chap. XII, Yume Editions (Paris), 2014, pp. 124–6 (1st ed. in French, 1975, pub. Le Courrier du Livre (Paris), pp. 117–8)
‘That is all the master asks, for his teaching to be stolen; for him, it is extremely simple, but for others, it seems mysterious, incomprehensible, implausible.’ 1
Seeing, feeling
Even if we start Aikido with superficial ideas coming from the world around us, it is important that, little by little, they come closer to reality and become a tool for reclaiming the body – our authentic body.
At each session I conduct, after the first part – which each person does alone but in harmony with the others, and which is essentially based on exercises of Ki circulation –, I begin by demonstrating a technique that, a priori, a large number of practitioners already know. The whole point of the demonstration is to convey a message through the executed movement. A dialogue is being initiated, it is not just a technique, nor even a way of doing things, because each practitioner, depending on their level, attention span and ability at the time, should be able to find what they need to deepen their practice. It is more about transmission than anything else.
I insist on an element – precision, distance, or any other particularity – so that something I want to make concrete is clearly visible and becomes a form that is obvious by its simplicity and so that, through the work and training that follow, the body as a whole no longer has to think but acts naturally, rediscovering its spontaneity.
Calligraphy by Tsuda Itsuo: Chiselling an insect, engraving a flower
Chiselling an insect, engraving a flower
In China there is a common expression, a proverb, which means “easy work” and whose first two ideograms are the same as Tsuda sensei’s calligraphy in small seal style (sigillary): 雕蟲小技 chiselling insect small technique.
This calligraphy (see photo) can therefore express: “Engraving a flower is very easy, as is carving an insect.”
The proverb means anyone can carve or draw a small flower because it is a simple and easy work to carry out, but that consequently points out only great masters can produce a remarkable work. It all depends on the kokyu. Tsuda sensei comments on the meaning of this word in his second book, The Path of Less. It is rare to have so simple and precise a definition that allows us Westerners – at first sight presumably unprepared – to grasp its content:
‘In learning a Japanese art, the question of “kokyu” always arises, strictly speaking, the equivalent of actual respiration. But the word also means to have a knack for doing something, to know the trick. When there is no “kokyu”, we cannot do a thing properly. A cook needs “kokyu” to use his knife well, and a worker his tools. “Kokyu” cannot be explained; it is acquired.
[…]
When we acquire “kokyu” it seems that tools, machines, materials, until then “indomitable”, suddenly become docile and obey our commands with no resistance.
Ki, kokyu, respiration, intuition are themes that are pivotal to the arts and crafts of Japan. It constitutes a professional secret, not because people want to keep it like a patent, or a recipe for earning their living, but because it cannot be passed on intellectually. Respiration is the final word, the ultimate secret of learning. Only the best disciples gain access to it, after years of sustained effort.’ 2
The role of the teacher
One of the roles of the teacher – by no means the only one – is to act, among other things, as some kind of conductor. They set the tempo, suggest different ways of interpreting a technique, taking it in a particular direction to bring out its full potential, in the same way that the maestro gives instructions on “how to interpret” a piece of music, by emphasising a note, a series of notes or a particular feature. The teacher, like the conductor, has a very important role to play, and the way they conduct an Aikido session can make it boring or captivating; too fast and without precision, for example, it can miss its objective, even though the intention was good; just as a conductor can derail a very sensitive piece of music if they conduct too harshly. Neither too rigid nor too soft, flexible while convincing, both conductor and teacher give their interpretation of what they have felt, what they have understood of their art, of the music as well as the session being conducted. Another conductor or another teacher will see different things, different accents to bring out, and each will insist on different aspects.
Relationships with musicians and students alike are also decisive. If the conductor is dictatorial, they will not win the support of the people who are supposed to follow them; at best they will obtain a submission that can only render the musical work commonplace or the Aikido class spiritless and joyless. Like the conductor, who should never forget that they are not the composer and that they must respect the work for what it is – or what they think or feel it to be –, the martial arts teacher is not the creator of the art they wish to develop and make known; they are its interpreter, however inspired they may be. Composer Beethoven himself, I believe, used to say that he was simply transcribing the music he heard, which already existed in the universe around him. We are, similarly, only interpreting what O sensei did, what we know about him, what we were able to perceive from the videos of the time, what various masters were able to pass on to us – and, more specifically, what I personally was able to discover thanks to direct contact with Tsuda sensei over all these years. But O sensei himself considered his art was given, transmitted to him by something greater than himself, something that he perceived and tried to communicate through his movements, person, words, posture, or quite simply his presence.
The fact remains that each session is a challenge and depends on the atmosphere one has been able to create. The great conductor Sergiu Celibidache believed no matter how many rehearsals, how committed each musician was, how attentive the audience, everything could be put into question at the last moment. The concert, as an ultimate moment of truth, depends on elements that are sometimes unpredictable and which, whether favourable or not, change the course of the event, of the demonstration. The role of the teacher is to enable each student to develop their abilities even beyond what they can conceive or perceive thereof.
Working on the body
It is through sincere work on the body that we can open up our mental structure, alienated by deeply dualistic habits of reasoning and reacting. Demonstrations exist only to show that something is possible and can enable us to change what binds us if we move in a direction with sincerity. The body needs recover its natural base, what it really is deep down, and not be modelled to follow the desires of an era, a fashion, or a self-image pre-printed on a brain that is weakened by its environment. The demonstration of a technique depends on multiple factors that require an ad hoc response and not an unconditional riposte provided for in the nomenclature. It should make it possible for everyone to feel concerned with what is happening in front of them so that they know how to react accordingly, regardless of their environment, but rather by integrating what surrounds them to create a situation that will provide a calm – and, if possible, peaceful – solution to any act that might become unpleasant or even dangerous.
With a beginner, you have to be particularly available
Which partner to use
I have often seen teachers regularly use their best student as their uke. When this choice seems wise for public demonstrations or “open days”, because they are about showing the beauty of the art or its effectiveness – without risk for the partner, who knows how to fall in all circumstances –, it loses its meaning in daily practice where the aim is, I think, quite different. Working with experienced students is often rewarding because of their availability, the quality of their movements or the responsiveness they provide, but the drawback is that they often try to show off their teacher. With a beginner, especially a very beginner for that matter, this is completely different, there is no room for error, you have to be particularly available to this body which is not used to moving, reacting in this situation and which risks hurting itself for nothing. You really need understand, feel the other person, and be able despite it all to pass on the message you want to convey, if you want to enable the learning process and development of the people who come to learn. I have always found it interesting to do my demonstrations with people who are far less advanced, or even complete beginners, for that allows me to show and even demonstrate that adapting to the other person’s body is one of the secrets of the Non-Doing.
The secret of the living
Demonstrations during a session should always be adapted to the type of people present so that they can perceive the circulation of Ki through impregnation, which is way more difficult to achieve when these demonstrations are mediatised. Books containing drawings or photos can only be used as a technical aid or complement that is sometimes essential, but they can be no substitute for in vivo demonstrations. Videos can also be useful to get to know the different schools or the “historical masters”, but also – and perhaps even more so – to give an image of our art and thereby arouse the desire to discover its beauty as well as its effectiveness. Yet, whether in music or in martial arts, the secret lies beyond form or training; in my opinion, it lies rather in the manifestation of the living, which we can only discover through what we have felt in contact with it. An amateur musician can animate a folk ball and enable a whole village to find unity in the pleasure of being together because she or he partakes in the atmosphere. In a dojo, the living – and therefore ki – manifests through what innerly animates the person conducting the session. It is their inner quality that expresses itself in demonstrations, whether fast or slow, powerful or subtle and penetrating. It is the Ki they give off that leads us to start practising Aikido, drives us to continue or sometimes flee the place. Nothing can replace living experience, neither speeches nor smiles nor false pretences. Demonstrations during sessions are for me the ultimate reference, “a moment of truth”.
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Article by Régis Soavi published in Self et Dragon (Spécial Aikido n° 15) in October 2023.
Notes:
Tsuda Itsuo, The Unstable Triangle, Chap. XVIII, Yume Editions (Paris), 2019, p. 136 (1st ed. in French, 1980, pub. Le Courrier du Livre (Paris), p. 132)
Tsuda Itsuo, The Path of Less, Chap. III, Yume Editions (Paris), 2014, pp. 33–34 (1st ed. in French, 1975, pub. Le Courrier du Livre (Paris), p. 31–32)
