Category Archives: Aïkido

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Aikidô is “Zen in motion”

26 May 2026 name

This was a definition of our art once given by someone close to O-sensei Ueshiba Morihei¹. The words have stuck, but what of the reality of the practice? Aikidō may have lost its prestige by becoming a “fighting sport”.

Sengai, cercle, triangle, carré — Sengai

Zen, Yin and Yang

It is difficult to practise, or even to understand our practice in the slightest, without ever addressing Yin and Yang, for we are not engaged in a real street fight or a struggle in which our life or physical integrity is threatened. However, since this is not a dance where aesthetics might take precedence nor an elaborate stage production for a show – and consequently devoid of any reality –, it is only natural to ask many questions about Aikidō sessions and their significance. We practise in a Dōjō and therefore in a protected space, a place designed to enable us to discover – or rediscover – both our instinct and our ability to react in adversity without becoming either aggressive or incapable of responding correctly. A place, lastly, where we can rediscover our ability to use ki. However, on the tatami mats, we must not dwell in the virtual or the imaginary, but in something real which, even if merely visualised, must enable us to refine our sensations and intuition. It is through the movements of the body and their extension into, at the very least, the space around us and, beyond that, through the perception of ki, of the energy we develop, that we can access our partner’s consciousness, their otherness and, by that very means, their Kokoro.

During the practice of Aikidō, ki condenses and becomes material, in a way that depends on the action taking place. When “our partner” – Uke – advances towards us, makes or visualises a threatening gesture, this is most often a hostile Yang form. As an immediate reaction, the “Yin ki” within our sphere absorbs the negative ki and transforms it or causes it to bounce back like a sort of airbag towards its source, creating a sort of barrier that makes any penetration of our vital field of action impossible. The “Yang ki”, on the other hand, repels or directs the excessive – or even dangerous – negative ki in a more favourable direction. Two aspects of the same thing, of the same movement. Two visions of the same object, two understandings of the same subject, but one single dynamic. The Tao is the movement of Yin and Yang; it is their manifestation; it is the result and the beginning of their interpenetration – both physical and spiritual, temporal and timeless, material and immaterial, measurable and immeasurable, finite and infinite.

It was through the practice of Aikidō, and thanks to it, that the doors to the Tao have, de facto, truly opened up to me, enabling me to go beyond its purely philosophical understanding, fascinating though it may be. It was through the body in motion that I began to understand these words and this aspect of Aikidō that O-sensei himself had passed on to his direct students whenever he spoke to them of Yin and Yang. No epiphany, just a small opening, like a faint ray of light in the mist of everyday life; nothing changes and yet everything is different. Without anything, to all appearances, having really changed, it is the whole that has changed.

Tsuda Itsuo, Régis Soavi: pushing of the bokken, 1980

O-sensei Tsuda Itsuo

Without the guidance he provided, which I found so difficult to see and take on board – even though it should have been clear to me from reading his writings –, I would have faced such difficulties that I would surely still be lost in the fog that is the martial arts. Had he not spurred me on in this quest for “Non-Doing”, pushed me into this bottomless ravine, I would still be standing on the edge, clinging to my certainties, searching for a vessel, a system, any means to live – or rather, to survive – in this world where unreality is more real than reality itself. Tsuda sensei rarely spoke of Yin, Yang, or the Tao. He had found a way to carry us, to lead us towards the concrete sensation of Ki. He wrote about what he called “Respiration” or “Breathing”, a transposition of the term Ki that anyone could, and still can, make their own regardless of their culture, knowledge, or age. He emphasised visualising respiration, the importance of mentally uttering the words: Ka on the inhale, and Mi on the exhale, following the same rhythm as the movements one is performing – and that is all.

Zen, like Taoism and so many other philosophical traditions, has also found or rediscovered in breathing a practical approach and, above all, a basis for their various practices. Recent therapies themselves have drawn on these ancient practices, and this is also why they have attracted so many people across every continent, sometimes taking on a religious or sectarian character, for better or for worse. On the other hand, they have also occasionally made it possible to preserve or rediscover basics or teachings that had been lost or forgotten, which can be used in today’s world should one act with caution and scepticism if need be.

Pushing oneself or finding oneself

One of the trends in society is to encourage people to push themselves. All too often, from the earliest childhood, we are advised to “push ourselves”. But push past whom or what, when we often have not even found ourselves yet? Most of the time, this involves suggesting that one acquire power through strengthening exercises in one area or another, as dictated by those promoting it. Many people make a conscious effort to meet this theoretical need that is suggested to them. Quite often, they lose their way, lose their free will, and become followers instead of discovering themselves.

Aikidō is not a sport, but through this practice, this search, we move towards something much deeper within; we find ourselves. We rediscover the ‘inner self’, freed from what is unnecessary and what weighs us down, whilst enabling us to become a strong and social being in the best sense of the word. It is not a matter of acting through mental introspection, but rather through a wise return to the physical expression of our body that this occurs; a state of concentration in simplicity, and an openness towards one’s partner without losing one’s centre, are obviously necessary.

‘Aikidō is the art of purifying ki’

When you first hear these words of O-sensei Ueshiba, having only just started practising: “you understand them…” A few years later, you come across them again in a text and then: ‘We understand!’ Time passes, we practise regularly, and from that moment on we begin to “understand”. Time passes again, many years no doubt, and one day, everything changes: ‘We feel’.

Norito

Although Tsuda sensei passed on to us this Japanese text that O-sensei recited every morning, it is perhaps the most special and astonishing part of our practice: the recitation of the Norito before each session.

What is it? Is it a chant, a religious practice, an esoteric ritual – perhaps even a magical one? How can we explain, how can we speak of what the resonance of this recitation represents, so as to make ourselves understood, to be understood? To speak of Misogi, of concentration, of the intensity that emanates from the very start of the session thanks to this vibration, casts us into the ranks of mystics, of “eccentrics” who have their heads in the clouds and believe everything they are told. And yet, an opera aria, just like a song or a tale, can move us to the very depths of our being; even, and perhaps especially, if this emotion lasts only a brief moment, its power and impact can transform so many aspects of our daily lives. The Norito often allows for a different approach, a different rhythm; it creates a whole new dimension in our environment, a return, at times, to something essential that we have left behind.

Writing

These were the last words my master, Tsuda Itsuo, left me during our final meeting a few months before his passing. It was not much – just a tiny sentence that left me feeling both uncomfortable and utterly perplexed. I had gone to visit him whilst he had stopped practising, as he had been bedridden for several months. Naturally, that final meeting has remained etched in my memory as something indelible. After several minutes during which I was respectfully doing Yuki without touching him so as not to disturb him, as he seemed to be sleeping, he opened his eyes, smiled at me, exchanged a glance with me and said very simply, as only he could: ‘Régis, you must write about your work!’ Then he fell back asleep. He had known me for ten years; he knew full well that what he was asking of me was ‘impossible’. I left feeling deeply shaken; for him, the writer and philosopher, to say such a thing to me – I truly believed I was utterly incapable of doing anything in that direction. Me, the ’68-era anarchist who had left school at seventeen with no formal training in literature. It took me exactly thirty years to follow his advice and embark on this venture I had never believed in. Yet I had already experienced the wisdom he could impart through seemingly innocent little phrases.

Koan

Four years earlier, during one of those get-togethers over a cup of coffee after an Aikidō session, we were talking to him about Koans – a subject that was completely baffling to us at the time – but, as always, he knew how to guide us gently towards the topic so that we could explore it for ourselves. That morning, I was the one who drove him back to his flat. I was trying to find out more; I asked him questions, even though he was far from being a talkative sort. I wanted to know how to use a koan, how to meditate with a koan, what to do? Which koan to use? I wanted to understand! After a rather long silence, he said to me, ‘You, you can take “Impossible”.’ We had arrived; I stopped in front of his flat, he got out of the car and said, ‘See you tomorrow.’ Once again, he had left me in suspense… At the time, I did not understand a thing – absolutely nothing. It was not a “Koan” like ‘the sound of one hand clapping’ or ‘MU’, the void. Yet the work began, and it continues to this day..

Tsuda Itsuo sensei. Photo by Eva Rotgold© all rights reserved.

Evolving

Among practitioners of the various schools of Aikidō, there are many who believe that Aikidō must evolve, become more in tune with the times, more of our era, whilst others believe it must return to its “more martial” or more religious roots – perhaps more sacred ones. I prefer to ignore those who regard it as a sport in the Western sense of the term, as I believe this is irrelevant to an art of this nature.

Is it not rather we ourselves who must evolve!? Our art is an work instrument, a instrument of evolution, for everyone, without any restrictions. It is we ourselves who evolve, it is we ourselves who change, who deepen, so does our Aikidō change as a result? Of course, and O-sensei himself explained that the art of Aikidō followed, in a way, the three states of matter: starting as “solid”, it then became “liquid” and later “gaseous”. But it is not Aikidō that changes; it is we ourselves, our way of practising, that transforms, becoming more generous, more capable of sensing and understanding the other – not in a superficial way, but through a sensitive approach to our partner’s Kokoro. It is our ability to merge with them that evolves. This capacity for merging is the result of our “breathing”; it has the same origin as Yuki in Seitai – it is the tangible sensation of the flow of Ki.

An open school

Our school is free from prejudice, which is why we are able to reflect without preconceptions on the past and the present, on the writings of ‘modern’ philosophers and theorists, as well as on new discoveries and different teaching methods. These lines of thought are sometimes the same as those Tsuda sensei followed in his day; we must not forget that it was thanks to this that he was able to build a bridge between East and West. A number of other, more recent or lesser-known avenues may also enable us to go further, particularly those relating to education.

So many philosophers and educators have written about education and individual freedom, about understanding human beings and their place within society, that it is difficult to name them all. From Zhuang-zi to David Graeber, via Jean-Jacques Rousseau and Étienne de La Boétie, Olympe de Gouges and Hannah Arendt, each and every one of them, in their own way, has accompanied us, guided our research, given us the opportunity to explore deeper, and, in particular, shaped my own thinking. So many talented authors, so many challenges to our way of life, so many discoveries and possibilities have sparked questions and had repercussions—sometimes immediate, but more often in the long term.

Our school is a school open to the world; it allows us to see what is happening around us without preconceived judgement but with acuity and discernment. It certainly does not open the ‘third eye’, but rather opens our eyes to our surroundings with sensitivity and discernment, just as when we discovered the work of Tsuda sensei – that is to say, with the clarity of our common sense. The teaching of Aikidō, the practice of Katsugen Undō, and the way of life that stems from these practices are entirely in keeping with the spirit of the most astute educators and philosophers.

A little-known yet significant example, given the approach it embodies, is the work of Joseph Jacotot (1770–1840): this educationalist, forgotten for over a century and brought back into the spotlight thanks to the book The Ignorant Schoolmaster², was a pioneer in his time of the educational experiments carried out, amongst others, during the 20^th century by A. S. Neill, J. C. Holt, and many others. He sets out a few statements on this subject that still throw many teachers off balance, but which I believe would have been applauded by Tsuda Itsuo. I therefore offer you a few of them here; once again, this is a starting point for reflection, but it is also, and already, what happens day in, day out in our school.

The main idea being that every man, every child, is capable of educating themselves alone and without a teacher; the teacher’s role must be limited to guiding or sustaining the pupil’s attention.

‘All intelligence are equal’, ‘everyone is of equal intelligence.’³

No teacher to explain; anyone can teach; ‘one can teach what one doesn’t know.’⁴

Régis Soavi

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Notes

1
Ōsawa Kisaburō (1911–1991)
2
Jacques Rancière, The Ignorant Schoolmaster: Five Lessons in Intellectual Emancipation, Stanford University Press, 1991 (original in French: 1987, pub. librairie Arthème Fayard (Paris))
3
[op. cit., Chap. III, p. 49 & Chap. V, p. 101]
4
[op. cit., Chap. I, p. 15 & Chap. V, p. 101)]

Aïkido, Articles_Blog, EN, FR, IT

Ambience

7 May 2026 name

by Régis Soavi

Ambience is both a starting point and an outcome. It is literally an atmosphere that is both tangible and intangible, concrete and yet sometimes almost invisible, but it is always real and far from superfluous.

A source of results

The ambience of a dōjō is not something fixed or defined forever, for it is in its subtlety that its suitability to the situation will be revealed. If it becomes rigid, instead of simply firm, or aggressive instead of strong, it will certainly be more suited to violent martial arts, or those that attempt to be violent, than to an art such as ours, an art where “non-competition” must guide us towards respect for others and a certain wisdom. The location is almost always a major factor in practising Aikidō, especially with beginners; it contributes to the creation of the special atmosphere encountered in the dōjōs of our School. Everything has been designed, arranged and sometimes adapted according to the location, the composition of the group and its possibilities, so that we feel both comfortable and focused. Everything has been planned to enable practice, and in this place we feel that so much has already changed and will continue to change. Nothing is set in stone; everything depends on the circumstances and the favourable ambience that develops or disappears, sometimes only to be reborn elsewhere in another space.

Despite all the difficulties, it is possible to create a suitable Dōjō in other places, but it will require a great deal of continuity and resilience, and the work achieved will be constantly challenged by a societal environment that is difficult to influence, which may lead to exhaustion. When a place is suitable, it is charged, not in itself, although this is possible, but rather by the attentive and often invisible presence of old and new practitioners cordially mingling, because it is a dōjō, a place where the Way is practised. As soon as one crosses the threshold, and sometimes even before, depending on one’s sensitivity, one begins to feel the physical and psychological effects, not to mention the psychic or spiritual ones. In our dōjōs, simplicity must reign: no “ring” or “fighting area”, no photos of shirtless athletes, just a few portraits of old masters who have already passed away, a Tokonoma with a Kakemono highlighting a calligraphy and, whenever possible, an Ikebana, that is all. A simple bow when stepping onto the tatami mats is enough to understand and feel what is important.

A focused attention

A single presence can create a favourable environment, but equally, another can disrupt all the efforts made by the many people involved in the session. This is why there is real work to be done by each individual to deepen their understanding. In stillness as in action, there must be understanding and flexibility; if not of the body, then at least of the mind. The first part of an Aikidō session, in our School, is there to allow us to feel the creation of a different “space-time”, like the one Tsuda sensei demonstrated every morning, like he told me about sometimes in private discussions. Through his gestures, his rhythm, his very presence, he knew how to bring out something different in me, a deeper, more peaceful self, the beginning of an awareness that took so many years to grow. His deep breathing alone created the atmosphere necessary for practice. I felt that he was connecting with the spirit of O-sensei Morihei Ueshiba’s Aikidō, that he was getting closer to it every day, whether it was when he wrote one of his calligraphies such as The Country where Nothing Happens¹ or when he guided us by saying ‘during Tama-no-hireburi², I position myself at the centre of the universe’³.

Ambience is not a decor

Although the atmosphere is not the result of a fixed decor, it does require a suitable environment that is as undisturbing as possible, as it is sensitive to its surroundings and can easily be disrupted by people or unwanted noises. Sometimes these are details that would not be a problem elsewhere, but here, because of their rhythms or a certain je ne sais quoi that everyone perceives, they destroy what is so difficult to achieve. On the other hand, it is not enough to place Japanese or Chinese objects in a room to make it “Orienta” in order to find peace and serenity. It is what inhabits the Kakemono or Ikebana that changes the atmosphere. It is the gestures that created the object, transcended it, gave it resonance, allowed the creation of a climate, made it possible to perceive Ki, and, by extension, also promote the harmonisation of the body, making it freer. The maintenance of the dōjō, the ten thousand small improvements and tidying up contribute significantly to maintaining an environment that is essential for simple and balanced practice.

The atmosphere obviously also depends on what is going on in the minds of the practitioners, or rather, in their heads. If there is concern because of the small number of people attending the sessions, and it is therefore always the same people practising together, a sense of weariness sets in which spreads throughout the dōjō. If the members of the association are no longer able to balance the budget, these concerns take over their minds and, as a result, make it difficult to welcome new people, because they are not free from financial needs due to their immediate realities, and the importance of the membership fee unconsciously takes precedence over the individual who has just arrived. All newcomers sense this without realising it and back away without even knowing why, missing out on the opportunity to discover what they may have been seeking for a long time. Jealousy, unfulfilled desires, ambitions, resentment and misunderstandings, always attributed to others, also have an obvious influence and create an environment that is unlikely to allow the practice of Aikidō or Katsugen Undō⁴ in a way that is both simple and profound.

Regeneration

Every morning, the first part (respiratory practice) allows us to move forward, to dig a little deeper each time, to get rid of what weighs us down. This is what we mean by purification. Katsugen Undō works in the same way, if we allow it to be triggered, by activating our involuntary system, giving it back its rightful place, i.e. the foremost place in terms of fundamental life, the essence of human life, which we have not allowed to work since we left early childhood. These two practices act on the body and mind to enable us to rediscover both the vitality and tranquillity we need. If the ambience is not conducive, if it is harmful, we risk missing the mark, going astray and making things worse, thus losing yet another opportunity. If we do not take care of the setting and conditions for practice, both for ourselves and for others, we are going in the wrong direction, and we lose our objectivity, our sense of universality, our search for unity, in favour of bias and partiality.

Itsuo Tsuda wrote about the group that came to his dōjō in the early 1970s:

‘When one comes to the dojo, one certainly does so in order to enjoy the sense of communion which fills the place. One comes to integrate with the group. But this integration can be done in many different ways. In extreme cases one separates from the others to do the Movement on one’s own. This when one doesn’t want to be touched by anybody. In other cases, one has a regular partner without whom one cannot do the movement. Still in other cases, one practices with anyone, but one feels at ease with this or that person, and ill at ease with another one. Some sensibilities are more or less open, some sensibilities attract each other and others repel.

Many people come regularly, some irregularly. Several are torn between a desire to join in and a desire to be alone. So the group is not homogeneous at all. Yet there is an undeniable sense of community, of communion, a family feeling.’⁵

‘This famous atmosphere I have been talking about doesn’t suit everybody. Many people have reacted with rejections of all kinds: surprise, embarrassment, puzzlement, confusion, indignation, scorn, disdain, and so on.’⁶.

Creating a temporary ambience

For the summer seminar organised for nearly forty years in the village of Mas-d’Azil⁷, everything has to be created from scratch. As it is impossible to bring together all the practitioners of our School in a dōjō in town simply for reasons of space and logistics, we have to create a suitable ambience in an old gymnasium from the early 1960s that is more or less disused. While the seminar lasts 15 days for those who participate, it lasts almost a month for those who organise it. It is with ever-renewed enthusiasm that around twenty practitioners set up the site. Every year, almost everything has to be rearranged, sometimes with pleasant or unpleasant new features. It is impressive to see this old gymnasium become a little more “dōjō” every day. It is repainted, curtains are hung, changing rooms are created, there is a flurry of activity, every detail is studied and problems are solved through collaboration between the oldest and newest members.

By the end of the week, the Dōjō is ready, the Tokonoma has been installed, almost everything is in place. We leave the space to rest for an entire afternoon, as required by Ma⁸, and in the evening we add the finishing touches: hanging the Kakemono with the calligraphy. The Kakemono has been designed and created over several months specifically for this occasion. It alone completes the atmosphere that will reign throughout the seminar. In harmony with the Kakemono, an Ikebana completes the Tokonoma.

On the morning of the first day, during what could be called a solemn opening ceremony, I wear a ceremonial hakama and perform the first salute and all the respiratory practice not with my bokken but with a fan. The atmosphere thus created leads us towards harmony, Non-Doing, rather than combat.

An ambience that respects everyone’s independence and Freedom

In our school, although we all practise the same arts, each dōjō has its own atmosphere. There are several dōjōs in France, and one might think that they are all more or less alike, but in fact they are not at all. How can one compare Paris with Toulouse or Blois? Each has its own specificities, customs and habits. It is the same in Italy: Milan is not Rome, but neither is it Ancona or Pescara. What can be said about Amsterdam or Bogota? The same practice but different individuals, different backgrounds, and sometimes even slight variations and nuances may arise depending on needs, the times, or local requirements, without changing the essence, as Romanian conductor Sergiu Celibidache so aptly put it when talking about the interpretation of a piece of music, which will be played differently depending on the venue or the audience, without betraying its nature or the composer. The atmosphere is one of the tools at our disposal, just like practice. It is recreated and maintained every day to promote the independence and freedom of each individual, as Tsuda sensei expresses it:

‘The independence and freedom of which I speak is something that arises within us of its own accord, a sensation of profound tranquility in all circumstances. It is not something that comes to us from outside of ourselves. It is already there inside us. We discover it when we get rid of everything that is weighing us down.’⁹

‘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.’¹⁰

That is why I have encouraged and contributed to the establishment of autonomous and independent dōjōs. This work is far from complete; it is only a beginning that must be sustained, but it was the desire of my master, Itsuo Tsuda, who initiated it more than fifty years ago.

Régis Soavi

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Notes

1
[Itsuo Tsuda also wrote: ‘I sail in the Total Liberty that Chuang Tseu called the “land of the Nothingness and Infinity”.’ (The Dialogue of Silence, Chap. XII, pub. Yume Editions (Paris), p. 100)]
2
“the vibration of the Soul” [a photo of Ueshiba O-sensei performing it can be found in The Path of Less, Chap. X (very end), pub. Yume Editions]
3
[Itsuo Tsuda also wrote: ‘Master Ueshiba said at that point: // “Put yourself at the beginning of the Universe (Kokoro o Ame Tsuchi no hajime ni oite kudasai)”. Literally: place your mind at the beginning of Heaven and Earth.’ (The Science of the Particular, Chap. XVIII, 2015, Yume Editions, p. 148) and: ‘Ame-tsuchi no hajime (the beginning of Heaven and Earth, of the Universe): During tama-no-hireburi, the vibration of the soul, he said, “put yourself at the beginning of the Universe”.’ (The Way of the Gods, Chap. XIII, 2021, Yume Editions, p. 101)]
4
Regenerating Movement
5
Itsuo Tsuda, The Non-Doing, Chap. XI, 2023, Yume Editions, p. 115
6
ibid., p. 117
7
Le Mas-d’Azil, Ariège, southern France
8
Ma 間, “space-time”, “empty interval”
9
Itsuo Tsuda, The Unstable Triangle, Chap. XI, Yume Editions, p. 90
10
The Dialogue of Silence (op. cit.), Chap. X, pp. 85–6

Aïkido, Articles_Blog, EN, FR, IT, Non classé

The “Respiratory Practice”

16 April 2026 name

by Régis Soavi

In almost all dōjōs, it is customary to refer to the few exercises that precede a class as “preparation” or “warm-up”. But what if it were not gymnastics, nor physical education, but something else entirely! Tsuda sensei wrote that his master, Ueshiba Morihei, was furious when, even back then, and although he had never given it a name, his young pupils referred to this part as preparatory exercises or a warm-up.¹

A first part!

For O-sensei, this first part of the session was an essential and inseparable part of his practice as a whole. This is why, for want of a better term, Tsuda sensei called it the ‘Respiratory Practice’ when he had to discuss or describe it with his students. In the first chapter of his first book, The Non-Doing, he explains his choice of the word ‘respiration’ – which, for him, would be a key term for conveying a message to westerners – writing:

‘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.

The East still retains these aspects under the name of prana or ki.

The West too seems to have known them, as reflected in the words psyche, soul-breath, or anima and their derivatives âme², animate, animosity, animal, or spiro which gives us spirit, inspiration, aspiration, and respiration.’³

These breathing exercises and the circulation of our “vital energy” or ki are still of paramount importance to me today.

Norito - la pratique respiratoire — Norito

Repetition

I cannot really describe what sets our School apart from other places, nor can I advocate for it. Ultimately, it is up to each individual to form their own opinion about what they receive and how they feel. Every teacher in every school or group, based on their training, background and studies, will have their own method and their own teaching style that suits them and their students. Some use new techniques, draw on other cultures, seek out different teaching methods, or take a more modern approach to learning psychology. Nothing should be disparaged; everything is possible and everything is justified in principle to enable us to live out our practice to the fullest and to convey the essential: “the universality of O-sensei’s message of peace”.

One criticism that could be levelled at “the Itsuo Tsuda School” is that it is rather repetitive and conservative. Indeed, the first part of the practice that we do every morning has not changed since my master began teaching it in the early 1970s. Having never grown tired of it myself, I have never felt the need to change anything about it in over fifty years of daily practice, either for myself or for my students. It is precisely this repetition that enables us to improve our breathing and, consequently, to understand the principles that underpin all the movements in our practice.

Funakogi undo - la pratique respiratoire — Funakogi undō

The foundations of this work

This first part follows its own logical sequence, and I do not think it necessary to describe every movement in detail. However, a few points need to be clarified, particularly what makes it different from what most aikidokas are generally familiar with.

After the salute to the kamiza, there is a few minutes of meditation in seiza, followed by the person leading the session reciting the Norito Misogi no harae. We then begin with an exercise aimed at releasing all accumulated tension from the solar plexus region. This movement is derived from Katsugen Undō and was introduced by Tsuda sensei, stemming from the teachings of his Seitai master, Noguchi Haruchika sensei. As for the rest, all the exercises that follow were taught for many years by O-sensei.

I am not claiming a return to the origins or a unique authenticity that has been hidden until now in the face of alleged distortions caused by poor teaching. It is well known that O-sensei varied the exercises in this first part. However, as far as we know, there were a few that never varied. The Salute to the Eight Directions, or Funakogi undō⁴ and Tama-no-hireburi⁵, are among these. These last two have specific rhythms and precise breathing patterns, as well as a particular set of rules regarding which direction to face and how many times they should be performed. It would be tedious, and perhaps even risky, to describe these exercises in an article, as they must be taught directly from teacher to pupil on the tatami mats.

The most important thing about all other movements is not the number of times they are performed, the speed or the strength, but rather the intensity of the vibration felt throughout the body at that moment. The same applies to the kiai let out by the person leading the session at the end of the First part. Again, it is not the power of the shout, of the sound or its intensity that is important, but rather the nature of the act, the depth of the breath, the precision of the timing and the concentration required, all which, when executed accurately, transform the action into an appropriate response and a process of normalising the body. Each exercise during this part must be performed in a specific state of consciousness. They must be performed with as much concentration as if our life, or at least our health, depended on it. And at the same time, relaxation is essential for them to proceed smoothly. The best possible attitude is to be both focused and free of thought, which requires a few years of practice, but, above all, perseverance.

The need for a suitable setting

I cannot stress enough the importance of the atmosphere when considering practising the respiratory practice in a style similar to that of our School. The atmosphere in a dedicated dōjō is of a completely different nature compared to that found in a club or a gym. If, moreover, a tokonoma⁶ has been created in this dedicated space, featuring a kakejiku⁷ and an ikebana⁸, it will be easier to maintain concentration and observe silence. Thus, it will be easier to absorb and immerse oneself in an environment that fosters this pursuit. This environment enables one to discover how to perform these movements and sequences, which, much like a never-superficial choreography, cause the body to move in a way that makes it more receptive to the perception of internal flows, rendering it more supple as well as more responsive. It is simply a matter of retracing the path of the old sensei and understanding why those who guided us – all those I have known or met briefly during courses or gatherings – followed many of these “rites” without question in their youth, yet seeking answers within themselves.

The Discovery of Yin and Yang

It is in The Way of the Gods that Tsuda sensei recounts this warning from Mrs Nakanishi⁹, a grand master in the art of kotodama¹⁰:

‘ “After the disappearance of the initiator, the kata, the forms, begin to break down, because those who come after are unable to understand the initiators’ deep motivations. We inherit forms, we simplify them, the forms degenerate,” says Mrs Nakanishi.

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.’¹¹

These comments from these two great masters, Nakanishi sensei and Tsuda sensei, could easily have discouraged me. Yet it was precisely this sort of remark that spurred me on and drove me forward. It is precisely in this First part that one can discover Yin and Yang, for it is a “solitary” practice. Provided we remain focused on perceiving what we feel, nothing can disturb us; it is like an inner current that gradually translates into terms of Yin and Yang. This is a fundamentally non-mental, empirical approach, and the effects are perceived immediately by the whole body.

Our aikidō then transforms, and we move into another dimension with a broader psychophysical perspective. We actually feel the circulation of Ki as different flows with a specific nature – positive or negative, Yin or Yang – in our own limbs and throughout our entire posture. These currents transform and alternate, sometimes shift from Yin to Yang, circulate from one side to the other, turn or stop unexpectedly and ultimately guide all our movements while we are barely aware of them. This does not happen overnight, but it has given meaning to my practice of aikidō; it has enabled me to persevere and to overcome moments of discouragement, difficult phases, those times when one feels stuck, without any spring in one’s step. It is also thanks to these daily routines, to all these actions, that our bodies regenerate and come to perceive others not merely through their physical or social appearance, but rather through what they radiate from within – something that is not merely psychological, but of an entirely different order, of a different nature.

From solitary practice to osmosis

This represents a significant qualitative transformation that is not meant to be a pipe dream, for it is out of the ordinary, and because this transformation opens up possibilities for understanding our universe and our humanity in all their complexity. Unlike the virtual worlds presented to us through technology and societal interactions in our daily lives, we begin to perceive the real world and its true nature. In some ways, it is not so different from our everyday lives; yet it is also completely different.

Each exercise in this First part is linked to our breathing; each movement is connected to inhaling or exhaling. Tsuda sensei would say “Ka” as he inhaled and “Mi” as he exhaled. He explained that when we unite our breathing, we realise “Ka” and “Mi”, which together form “Kami”, which can be translated as God. This is not a god in the religious or even mystical sense, but rather, life in all its manifestations. The martial aspect does not disappear, but is simply transcended. This helps us to better understand why Tsuda sensei wrote:

‘Aikido, the way of coordination of ki, is an art of “fusing ki”, so it’s a martial form of osmosis’.¹²

Tama-no-hireburi - la pratique respiratoire — Tama-no-hireburi

Aikidō: religion or philosophy ?

The moment one ritualises any part of the practice of a martial art, accusations of religiosity or mysticism arise. Reishiki, salutes, concentration, various meditations – all become suspect, as does everything that makes that art one peaceful and respectful of humanity. In the light of scientific materialism and today’s knowledge, it is difficult to explain why a ritualised practice is of such interest, as it defies the notion of progress.

Nevertheless, the world of research is pressing ahead with current studies to gain a more detailed understanding of how our environment works. However, such work must be tinged with scientism to be accepted. For example, we may end up attaching sensors, made from lie detectors, to plants to understand their language, while still being unable to explain why some people have “green fingers”. We try to replicate nature in every way for the benefits it brings to humankind, without understanding how nature produces these results itself. We analyse, divide and dissect in order to identify the active ingredient in a substance, failing to realise that it is the whole that creates that component. If even one part or element is missing, or if the rhythm is interrupted, the result will be entirely different and may even contradict what we had hoped to find or what we had previously discovered. Just as we have no need for religions that shackle us to dogma, so too do we have no need for ideologies that restrict our freedoms or, worse still, enslave us. Even if some of these new beliefs or doctrines, sometimes supposedly validated by science, were designed for our “good”, for our present or future “happiness”, they are worth no more in my eyes than the chimeras of the past. One form of alienation is as bad as another.

For many of us, the quest for unity of being remains the ultimate value, and to find it, the Respiratory Practice remains a valuable tool, readily at our disposal. The ancient gods may be dead as representations and images projected by humanity, but the energy attributed to them, which animates us, is still there. We can feel it, rediscover it, and use it within ourselves.

Maintaining health

‘Health is a state of complete physical, mental and social well-being and not merely the absence of disease or infirmity.’¹³

This is the WHO’s definition, which we in the West accept as self-evident. It is often taken at face value, along with its corollaries and implications: that we must fight disease and eliminate microbes and viruses; that we must correct nature which is so imperfect; that we must support and protect human beings; and so on. This doctrine becomes so absolute that it produces results contrary to those hoped for. Notably, “people are becoming weaker”. Rather than allowing the body to flourish naturally, we force it to protect itself from anything that could potentially be harmful, or we shield it. We do this in the name of conceptual imperatives regarding health that are supposedly scientific or medical. We reinforce theoretical education on how the body functions and on hygiene without grasping their basics, and we standardise the appearance of young boys and girls to the detriment of their actual health. The result falls far short of society’s expectations, but the conditioning remains, and will continue to do so for a long time.

The Respiratory Practice, accessible to everyone regardless of background or physical condition, may be the answer when we discover the weight of oppression on our own body and its influence on our mind and thinking, consequently affecting our actions.

Simple movements

This is a purification process that can begin. Just as with the planet, when we need to clean up the environment, it is important to halt a process, to stop using the same patterns of behaviour, to stop doing ‘more of the same’¹⁴. The simple movements associated with breathing, “the circulation of ki” bring visible results right from the start of this slow process of reconstruction that often astonish those around the practitioners, whatever their age or physical condition. The real difficulty lies in maintaining consistency rather than in the efforts themselves, which are in fact extremely modest. It is even possible to limit oneself to this First part if one wishes or if circumstances require it; the resulting sense of well-being will be no less, as the “body-mind” unity rediscovered is the true gift that our deepest nature has always sought.

Régis Soavi

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Article by Régis Soavi published in October 2021 in Self & Dragon Spécial Aikido n° 7.

Notes

1
[see e. g. Tsuda Itsuo, The Science of the Particular, Chap. XVII, 2016, Yume Editions, p. 141]
2
Âme: French word for soul. (T.N.)
3
Tsuda Itsuo, The Non-Doing, 2023, Yume Editions, Chap. I, p. 16 (1^st ed. in French: 1973, pub. Le Courrier du Livre (Paris), p. 14)]
4
often translated as “rowing motion”
5
Tsuda sensei translated it as “vibration of the soul”
6
a niche used to display a kakejiku
7
a scroll frame for a calligraphic work or a painting
8
a Japanese floral arrangement
9
Mrs. Nakanishi, a Shinto priestess, taught Kotodama to Master Ueshiba
10
kotodama is the understanding of the spiritual power attributed to sounds
11
Tsuda Itsuo, The Way of the Gods, 2021, Yume Editions, Chap. XVII, p. 133 (1^st ed. in French: 1982, pub. Le Courrier du Livre (Paris), p. 128)
12
The Non-Doing (op. cit.), Chap. VI, pp. 66–67 (1^st ed. in French: p. 62)
13
World Health Organization’s health definition (available online)
14
Paul Watzlawick, John H. Weakland, Richard Fisch Change. Principles of Problem Formation and Problem Resolution, W. W. Norton & Company, Chap. 3, 1974

Aïkido, Articles_Blog, EN

Mobility and Body Awareness

9 April 2026 name

by Régis Soavi

One of the great strengths of aikidō lies in its high degree of mobility and its rotational movements. These movements create spirals that generate a combination of centripetal and, their counterpart, centrifugal forces, forming an invisible shape that is constantly unfolding: the sphere.

Techniques that use a rear attack provide the clearest visualisation of this sphere. The rotation of planets, which spin on their own axes while orbiting a star, is also a good example of what it means to move around a centre. As for nearby meteorites, they either bounce off the atmosphere or are sucked into the centre of the planet and crash into it, while most comets move away from it.

Entering the sphere

When rotation occurs around several axes that are sometimes intertwined, it becomes difficult to determine where the centres and peripheries are, and which is the front and back. These can appear in turn and can even be reversed. This is why aikidō offers great advantages when it comes to attacks from behind, whether in the case of Tori or Uke, as they become interchangeable. Regardless of the size or bulk of the centre, it is its density that makes the difference.

Although small in stature, O-sensei Ueshiba Morihei could throw an attacker a great distance thanks to his use of centripetal force, which would transform into centrifugal force and then into a spiral, and even into a sphere that rolled away on the tatami. How can we create this sphere with such a dense centre to make throws of this nature possible?

Grabs from behind provide the opportunity to do so. Technically, they often begin with a shomen uchi or yokomen uchi type attack which transforms into a grab of one or both wrists from behind. It is Tori’s movement that puts Uke in danger, creating this quasi-obligation, or in any case this opportunity, to immobilise Tori. For teaching purposes, it is pedagogically necessary at the beginning to allow the partner to grab Tori’s outstretched hand, but this would become incomprehensible after a few years of practice. In fact, I would even argue that it would be counterproductive if one is truly interested in our art. Direct grabs of both wrists together from behind are difficult for Uke, who will often prefer to grab the sleeves of the keikogi instead. If the body is well centred, it is quite easy to escape this situation simply by focusing on the hara and moving the koshi. Relevant techniques will arise naturally from the posture of the two practitioners, their breathing, their ability to seize the moment and their determination. Often, if Tori follows their instinct rather than assumptions and acts with spontaneity, fluidity and vigilance without seeking a predefined technique or solution, they will easily shake off Uke’s control.

From a pedagogical point of view, grabs from behind are also interesting because they force students to move differently. Many of them tend to work in a straight line, similar to karate. They stretch to resist pressure using tai sabaki and make increasingly shorter movements. Inevitably, their techniques become increasingly harsh, and despite their efforts, often ineffective.

Régis Soavi ushiro waza la sphère — Régis Soavi, the sphere

Imagination or visualisation?

There is a big difference between whether the aim of the hold is “simple” immobilisation or “pure and simple” aggression, with all the risks that this entails. Training is a role-playing game in which everyone has their place. In order to rediscover or acquire the skills needed to deploy our vital force, it is essential to allow spontaneity to take over, based on the technical fundamentals we have practised. However, visualisation plays a key role. Visualisation and imagination are two profoundly different processes. Imagination is a product of the brain and involves only the brain, whereas visualisation originates in the koshi. It is a product of our vital energy, involving both the mind and the whole body without any separation between them. Visualisation is an act of fundamental concentration that connects with a primary type of sensitivity arising from the involuntary. This enables Uke to perform grabs or atemis that are more concrete, which allows Tori to perceive them as dangerous enough to prompt a reaction, even if they are controlled. In contrast, imagination does not lead to immediate action and cannot be perceived by Tori as anything other than an attitude or posture devoid of force or power – an imaginary or dreamlike movement.

To work slowly

For precise work and a proper understanding of the direction and power of the forces set in motion, slowness seems essential to me. This increases the effectiveness of the grab without endangering the partner. Working slowly does not mean being slow; rather, it means working in slow motion. It is important not to rush to grab a wrist or sleeve if doing so leaves you exposed and gives your partner the opportunity to deliver an atemi or simply take the centre, thereby destabilising you. When performing the ushiro katate dori kubi shime grab, it is very important to emphasise that it can turn into a stranglehold and is, in fact, already a stranglehold (to do this this, simply press on the upper sternum without touching the neck). but above all, you must have a careful posture that is both firm and flexible and does not put you in danger. Only then will you understand how dangerous this technique is. If you move too quickly from the outset before mastering these attacks, the technique will be sloppy and could lead to a brawl.

la sphère

If I ain’t seen or felt it, I’m dead¹

One of the most dangerous attacks one can face is that of a skilled opponent armed with a knife, in a confined space, and especially when one has their back turned. During a friendly encounter organised by magazine Karaté Bushido and involving an MMA fighter, Léo Tamaki made the following statement in reference to an attack from behind with a tantō: ‘If I ain’t seen or felt it, I’m dead.’ One could argue that this goes unnoticed because it is stated as an obvious fact and expresses an indisputable reality. It touches on the essential because, even if we cannot see behind us, we can still sense, feel what is happening.

This is precisely why it is necessary to rediscover and develop the concept of yomi in aikidō, as in all martial arts: the ability to perceive intention, which can also be translated as intuition. This ability is undoubtedly an essential element in an individual’s development through practice. There is an anecdote about a samurai who turned around at the last moment to save his life by eliminating an enemy who was attacking him from behind. While we cannot verify the truth of such stories, it is clear that the concepts of yomi and sakki (the will to attack or destructive ki) are still relevant today². This is especially important when it comes to attacks from behind, as it is essential to cultivate and maintain our sensitivity in this direction.

When life is at stake, unexpected strengths can emerge. While it is completely impossible to train to bring out these strengths, training in different types of martial arts can be considered a preparation for the unpredictable. All techniques in aikidō are katas, although they do not bear this name. Their purpose is not to learn how to destroy an opponent or enemy, but to awaken the individual within us and enable us to access all our abilities whenever needed. This does not mean that they lack effectiveness – quite the contrary. If used well, they can be formidable. However, there is little chance that they can be applied in exactly the same way outside the context of the dōjō. This is because they are taught and practised without the tension of real risk, such as that experienced in a street attack. The conditions for their effective application are not always present. Very little can cause everything to falter.

Fear

If we want to get out of a situation safely, fear is a decisive factor that can change everything. If we are overcome by fear or have never faced a critical or genuinely dangerous situation before, it is very hard to predict how we will react if we are attacked. During randori, which we practise at the end of each session in our school regardless of level, there is always a risk of grabs or atemis from behind. Great importance is therefore given to movement, but even more so to the feeling of danger that can arise from one or more Ukes. It is thanks to this that “something” can develop, which could be called intuition. However, since this is a reality that we do not control a priori, it is very difficult, if not impossible, to rely on it without risking losing our abilities when we need them most. Developing our powers of perception through mindfulness is therefore one of the goals of the practice. Above all, however, it should allow intuitive abilities to emerge that can be used in everyday life and, even more importantly, in unexpected situations or serious cases.

Action and perception

Cognitive science has opened up a field of study that allows us to understand many aspects of human beings, both in terms of thought and action. This enables martial arts practitioners, such as ourselves, to clarify and give names to teachings that might otherwise seem obscure. We can restore the prestige of our masters’ teachings when they are disparaged as a mystical view of the world. This is particularly true of our perceptions, which are often considered “extrasensory”, when in fact they are simply the result of daily training and practice in an art such as aikidō.

Today, researchers redefine perception as follows: ‘perceiving is a way of acting. Perception is not something that happens to us, or in us. It is something we do.’³ Our perception is expressed in the language of motor potentialities.⁴

On this subject, philosopher M. B. Crawford wrote: ‘our perception of possibilities for action depends not only on the environmental situation, but also on a person’s skill set. A martial artist faced with a belligerent man at a bar sees the way the man is standing, and his distance, as affording certain strikes and foreclosing others, should it become necessary. Because of long practice and habituation, when he looks at the man’s stance, this is what he sees. He may also perceive the furniture nearby, and the objects lying within reach on the bar, in terms of their affordances⁵ for combat. He sees things that people like you and I don’t.’⁶

Do not overlook anything

In the practice of aikidō, nothing is useless. However, if we neglect perception or sensitivity (which is often confused with mawkishness⁷) in favour of technique, we risk missing out on a large part of the practice. The opposite is also true, of course – both are indispensable. Nevertheless, it is possible for everyone not to limit themselves to what they know and to accept moving towards what they do not know, what is yet to be discovered, what sometimes seems mysterious or even impossible.

Itsuo Tsuda et Régis Soavi 1980 — Tsuda Itsuo (Uke: Régis Soavi)

Tsuda Itsuo sensei

One of the exercises that my master Tsuda sensei set us involved throwing our partner from the seiza position. It seemed extremely simple at first, at least in theory, but when it came to putting it into practice, it proved a little more challenging. Tori sits motionless while Uke grabs their keikogi at shoulder level behind them. The idea is to simply bow as if greeting someone, without force or tension, thus creating a vacuum that pulls the partner in. Despite being firmly anchored to the tatami mats and using all their strength, the partner is unable to resist and falls forward. Logically, as soon as there is resistance, we tense up, contract our whole body, get angry, and accuse our partner of not playing the game. However, I have seen Tsuda sensei demonstrate this technique to us many times with a smile. I tried to test him on this technique, but to no avail; he bowed inexorably with the greatest of simplicity.

His secret: visualisation. When we were struggling, he would often tell us, ‘Stop thinking in terms of adversity,’ and then demonstrate by making a student fall after pointing to a chosen spot and saying the magic phrase, ‘I am already there,’ thus expressing the concrete realisation of his visualisation.

Régis Soavi

Would you like to hear about the next article?

Article by Régis Soavi published in April 2020 in Dragon Magazine Spécial Aikido n° 28.

Photo credits: Paul Bernas, Didier Balick

Notes

1
words reported by Léo Tamaki in the video GregMMA et Aikido (13 Dec. 2019) on Youtube channel Karaté Bushido Officiel
2
cf. magazine Yashima #4, May 2019
3
Alva Noë, Action in Perception, MIT Press, Boston 2004, p. 1 (see also Alva Noë, ‘Précis of Action in Perception’, PSYCHE, Vol. 12, Issue 1 (March 2006), p. 1)
4
[Action in Perception (op. cit.), p. 106. Seems a rather loose adaptation, most probably from just before section 3.10: ‘To experience a property is[…] to grasp its sensorimotor profile. It is to experience the object [of sight] as determining possibilities of and for movement.’]
5
intuitions, possibilities [note by Régis Soavi]
6
Matthew Bunker Crawford, Virtual Reality as a Moral Ideal, The New Atlantis, 2025
7
[In French, the characteristic of being sensitive – i. e. sensitiveness – has two versions, both coming from the adjective sensible (=sensitive, lit. “able to feel”): sensibilité and sensiblerie, the latter being a pejorative – because supposedly exaggerated – version of the former.]

Aïkido, Articles_Blog, EN, FR, IT

A Window Onto Another World

7 March 2026 name

by Régis Soavi

The spirit of discovery that awakens at birth, and perhaps even before, is a manifestation of our vital instinct and, if it is not mutilated by an environment that I would describe as inappropriate, it will enrich our daily lives until the very end of our days.

What guides us

Our encounters, whether positive or negative, rich or mediocre, are indicators that allow us to navigate our surroundings. It is therefore of utmost importance to discern therein what we should follow and what we should reject. In most cases, our education has not prepared us to react correctly; on the contrary, it has often led us to passive conformity or impulsive rebellion, which is not very constructive.

It is quite rare to meet people who have followed a truly different path, who have led a life being guided not by ease or immediate profit but by something deeper. That is why these encounters are precious and can be useful to us, giving us guidance that we can use in our own way in our own lives. When these people are sincere and “real”, it is important to recognise them without being misled, because the world is out there and falsehood is all too often just around the corner, and if we are deceived, the physical and psychological damage can be immeasurable. Even if we think so, we are never truly or completely lost or alone in these moments of encounter, where the risk of losing ourselves is present.

We must never forget that we have extremely precise and sharp tools at our disposal, provided we have maintained them and protected them from the ambient contamination of the world of ideologies. One of these tools is experience, if it has been managed, understood and used appropriately. The other is, of course, our intimate intuition, if it has not been destroyed in the name of “official, materialistic science”, which finds it difficult to recognise anything that cannot be verified by “double-blind” testing. Both are, at that moment, capable of guiding us from within.

Sometimes, we do not know – or no longer know – how to see perspectives that are opening up for us; we do not know how to seize upon them and we reject them on the basis of theories that have been instilled in us by our environment, when perhaps there was an opportunity within our reach to find the path that suits us. Others present themselves that are often easier and more comfortable, but these are sometimes also the ones that have unfortunately brought us to where we are today, to what – already then – we no longer wanted.

One day, weary, we decide to act, ready to do anything, to follow anyone, as long as it changes. This is where danger can arise. If we act out of despair or depression, everything can “fall apart”, and contrary to what we hoped for, we may find ourselves swept away to where we never wanted to go or towards what we did not desire.

Intuition, a deception?

Intuition is no deception – but can it deceive us? Yes, certainly. In this case, it is clearly not intuition in the true sense of the word; it may simply be a dream, a hope, or a burning desire. It can also mislead us if what manifests itself is not intuition, but rather the result of a misinterpretation of something deep that cannot assert or manifest itself. This something is present in the subconscious and sometimes consumes us, even destroying us little by little.

Can we rely on intuition to make a decision? Certainly more than to make a choice, although we must be cautious in this area. Taking precautions while following intuition will never be negative if that intuition is real and deep. If, however, it is nothing but an illusion, the precautions will then take on their full meaning and may be used for good purposes. By then, we will have learned how to land on our feet and distinguish between intuition and its substitutes, such as ambition, fantasy, unfulfilled desires, etc. This experience will enable us to move forward, clarify what led us astray – provided the consequences are not too disastrous – and thereafter discern the difference between imagination and intuition more clearly.

Intuition, a certainty?

Even when it appears to be so, intuition is rarely a certainty. It asserts itself and is verified when the resulting acts, or the consequences stemming from these acts, come together and complement each other in harmony with what was intuited. However, there may still be false leads and certainty will only be achieved at the end of the process. Doubt is necessary; it is even a good sign, helping us to keep a cool head and not get carried away with wild imaginings – for imagination can replace intuition and become fertile ground where, if we are not careful, it is easy to get bogged down. If we move forward in small steps, we will be able to see if things are working out, organising themselves as we had sensed, and if the existing difficulties are being ironed out.

Intuition is independent of visualisation, but the two often work together and in doing so they support the accomplishment and realisation of a project, of a life lived to the full. Together, they will always help us to choose the best path and the most suitable route because they are “the unity of the body finally realised”. While the realisation of intuition is not an end in itself, it is part of a much larger project that is destined to be accomplished.

Another dimension, Ki

As soon soon as we begin to perceive Ki, even at the very beginning of practising Aikidō or Katsugen undō, we can feel a kind of relief, a return to something we knew sometimes already in childhood, an unexplained, inexplicable but deeply felt sensation, whether positive or negative.

Ki is often referred to as a “vital” energy, attributed with virtues and power, or denied because it cannot be reproduced at will, as it depends on too many diverse and sometimes even contradictory elements. It is therefore not considered a scientific fact but rather some mystical data. I can only explain it as a dimension that few people are willing to acknowledge, but whose reality is ultimately indisputable. It is a dimension beyond the four we are accustomed to considering, which all living beings – animals, plants, minerals, and others – perceive in their own way.

There are many exercises in Aikidō that help us perceive it, that allow us to give it a form that makes it more tangible, more concrete. Sometimes even usable or visible.

It does not give any power, much to the disappointment of those seeking special effects, but it does provide information which, if misused, can cause disasters and conflicts. However, it will obviously be of great help to those who know how to use it positively. This is why the utmost caution is required when guiding people in this direction.

Tsuda Itsuo said: ‘The best water from the clearest spring, if drunk by a cow, gives milk; if drunk by a snake, it gives venom.’¹. Ultimately, each human being takes responsibility for the path they choose.

A very ancient path

Before it become conscious, the perception of Ki was simply instinctive, completely unconscious. It was a basic fact of life, enabling people to feed themselves, move around safely, defend themselves against predators, find a place to live and reproduce. It was quite simply part of everyday life, like survival. Human beings had virtually no metaphysical questions to ask themselves, few things were purely mental, the body was unified, the koshi and hara resolved the difficulties or attempted to take care of them.

Thousands of years ago, with their upright posture, there was a slow upward movement of vital energy from the koshi to the brain, which led to a heightened awareness of oneself and one’s “special” nature. Over the centuries, this movement became increasingly important and rapid, and this excessive acceleration became exponential as the reference points that governed the lower body were lost. This new state of consciousness led humans to want to direct and control everything through the power of their minds alone. As a result, as if spellbound by their narrow vision – which had become independent of the rest of their bodies –, they separated themselves from the world around them. Applying this new way of thinking had an immediate effect on their surroundings and on the society in which they lived, profoundly transforming it.

In recent centuries, we can see the evolution and rise of this energy in paintings, sculptures and other works, both religious and secular, from all regions of the world, with a preponderance in the West but excluding neither the Middle East nor the East.

Despite it all, ancient traditions have retained a different relationship, which is often dismissed as magic or fantasy by champions of modernity, even though nuclear physicists and most advanced mathematicians are now reduced to asking profound philosophical and metempirical questions in an attempt to explain phenomena that current knowledge cannot explain, without deviating from the imposed dogma.

Fundamentally, human beings have not changed in essence. There are, therefore, opportunities to rediscover what has never been lost, but has simply become misguided and directed inappropriately because exclusively.

Your work, should you choose to accept it, …

…will be to restore order to the body without damaging or mistreating it. That is to say, allowing the body to take control of operations and giving it the time it needs to do so by trusting it, without being blinded or obsessed by new theories that take little or no account of the state we are in today.

Just as it would be harmful and dangerous to blindly follow something or someone who claims to have all the answers and all the means to remedy every situation, we urgently need to regain common sense. Otherwise, it would be a kind of dictatorship of the voluntary system, secretly directed by mental theorising and accepted “willingly or unwillingly” by the entire body to the detriment of the involuntary system, as a result of the weakening of our ability to think and react – a kind of numbness that leads us to take the easy way out, be irresponsible and consequently rely on powers other than our own.

On the other hand, the involuntary system has many skills that can restore lost or damaged faculties, but above all, it is its ability to enable the whole living environment to achieve balance that makes it an indispensable actor of everyday life. Dependent on nothing and no one but ourselves, it allows us to rediscover the inner freedom we were seeking.

The involuntary

The involuntary acts through “Non-Doing” thanks to and through the manifestations of Ki and its deployment, which is nothing other than one of the expressions of life that may or may not have taken form. The involuntary system’s work is about simplification and purification, filtering out the unnecessary by clearing Ki pathways, unblocking access points and making living tissues more flexible or resistant and putting the organs back in order whenever possible or necessary. The aim is not to exhaustively list all the possibilities in order to sell a new product or an umpteenth method, but rather to restore the body to its former glory and promote once again the independence and autonomy of the individual.

Although the involuntary system exists in all individuals, animals, plants and perhaps even minerals, albeit in very different ways, it is apparently in modern humans that it is most weakened and, as a result, most deficient. It is of paramount importance to reawaken it if dormant and liberate it if imprisoned. The extrapyramidal motor system, or the involuntary system, also plays a complex regulatory role. If its management is impeded or cancelled out entirely, the entire body is affected and considerable, potentially irreparable, damage can result.

A warning to rebuild oneself

If we need to rebuild ourselves, it is not because we are broken, but rather because we have already realised that something is missing, something is not quite as we would like it to be. In reality, it is often because we are in a state of great sensitivity – a sensitivity that is simple from a certain point of view, but in truth it is a state of hypersensitivity. It is as if we sensed that we needed to find ourselves again, but without knowing how. This is a difficult and sometimes even dangerous state because we begin to question many things that are part of our daily lives and our behaviours, be they towards ourselves or others, our surroundings, perhaps too much so, and there is a high risk of “throwing the baby out with the bathwater” and losing ourselves even more.

The philosophy expressed in Tsuda Itsuo’s books enables us to rediscover and rebuild our sensitivity while keeping our feet on the ground. It allows us to be perfectly in touch with reality without being absorbed by the perverse and facile aspects that tend, precisely, to destroy us, to deprive us of our freedom of thought and action. Once the terrain has been normalised, it is healthy, and natural balance will return of its own accord. It is important to let our sensitivity guide us in order to rediscover the intuition of our childhood ‘without being childish’², as Tsuda Itsuo told us.

Régis Soavi

Notes

1
[see also The Dialogue of Silence, Chap. XII, 2018, Yume Editions (Paris), p. 99: ‘To have been a pupil of the Master does not mean much to me, for teaching is not a sort of varnish applied to an object. It is a matter of knowing how it has been absorbed. The water absorbed by a cow produces milk; that absorbed by a snake makes venom.’]
2
[see also The Path of Less, Chap. XVIII (end), 2018, Yume Editions, p. 175 (‘It takes art to become a child without being childish.’) or Heart of Pure Sky (same author & publisher), ‘Excerpt from Bushido’ (beginning), 2025, p. 179 (‘[Master Tsuda] often said that through breathing “Aikido is an art of becoming children again… without being childish”.’)]

Aïkido, Articles_Blog, EN, FR, IT, Manon Soavi

Contemplating The Sound of The World

1 February 2026 name

by Manon Soavi

When we talk about self-mastery, the first image that usually comes to mind is that of an individual rising to mastery, to unalterable calm. Those who are masters of themselves are detached individuals, dominating their passions and emotions much as one dominates nature and subordinate beings. Seen in this light, self-mastery is an idea borrowed from Kantian philosophy: man, detached from the world, freed from the bonds that constrain him, is no longer affected by emotions and, by becoming his own “ideal of freedom”, no longer feels himself or the world around him. In the West, our philosophy, history and religions lead us to view self-mastery in this way. Moreover, we teach children to control themselves through willpower, and those who fail to do so are considered weak. The warrior ideal that deeply permeates our culture sees no other choice than to be dominant or dominated, whatever the subject.

I totally agree that Heijoshin, self-mastery or inner calm, is fundamental, not only in the practice of martial arts but also in life in general. However, I am interested in another way of achieving this state of Heijoshin. Just as courage is not the absence of fear, Heijoshin may not be the absence of emotions and sensations either.

Returning to the root

This other path can be described as reverse path, or returning to the root. This path is a descent into the depths of humanity, towards darkness. A journey that connects us to ourselves and our sensitivity and, because it places us at the centre of the universe, it centres us on ourselves in relation to the surrounding life. Self-mastery is then not a question of control, a “power” over oneself or others, but the rediscovery of ‘the power within’, as theorised by author Starhawk¹. Thus, seeking Heijoshin is not about keeping at a distance what disturbs us, others, etc., but rather accepting the interdependencies of living beings and even “kneading” them through the physical experience of sensation.

Aikidō, beyond the always present martial nature, is a physical practice that brings us to this attention to reality through learning by way of the body. We live and experience directly what passes through us and seek how to remain centred. Ueshiba O-sensei said, ‘I am the centre of the Universe.’² I understand this in a non-dualistic sense, where there is no opposition between me, a small individual, and the immense world. I am the centre because the world is the centre. Tsuda Itsuo sensei often addresses the question of inner calm in his books, as here:

Calligraphie de Itsuo Tsuda “Unis ton souffle dans l’indifférencié”

‘The dualistic solution may be compared to chasing away a black cloud with another black cloud. It is valid insofar as it does not bring in other clouds on either side as reinforcements and finally obscure the whole sky. The non-dualistic solution is to see there is blue sky above the clouds.

To see blue sky where there isn’t any is impossible. It’s mad. It’s crazy.’³

Others have expressed the need to feel what binds us, not as shackles, but on the contrary as the capacity for ‘Perceiving life in all things’, as Noguchi Hiroyuki said, or even Laozi:

‘While all things are simultaneously developing,

I can observe their cycles.

Though everything is flourishing, each will return to its root,

Returning to the root means stillness’⁴

This inner tranquillity is not a New Age idea, or something for eco-friendly hipsters who go to recharge their batteries for half a day in the forest. It is not about always being “cool”. It is something concrete that is discovered through practising and deepening breathing.

Perceiving reality

When confronted with reality, humans tend to struggle, overwhelmed by feelings of injustice, or to submit, overcome by discouragement. Some still want to control everything, but is that really possible? However, facing reality is not as easy as we think, even if we all imagine ourselves doing so. Often, we create our own “drama” by feeding a narrow, emotionally biased view of reality.

The ancient Taoists were not mistaken; they did not take this ability for granted and had a practice for cultivating the perception of the world, which they called mingxin⁵, “darkening the heart”. Mingxin refers to the twilight hours, those magical moments before sunrise and sunset. In these moments, light spreads evenly and offers an equal view of everything around us. Contours fade away and we see things as they are, with no more emotional judgement. Darkening the heart means putting oneself in this state of mind, this emptiness of spirit, in order to feel-see reality and let Non-Doing take effect. Tsuda sensei spoke of this in relation to Katsugen Undō (Regenerative Movement):

‘Now, concentrated exhalation aims specifically at silencing those people whose heads buzz with ideas, often disparate and confusing, to introduce them to the world of sensation. The usual assessment criteria, such as physical beauty, details of clothing, intellectual ability, finances, social class, etc., must give way to something more intrinsic: biological speed through breathing. […]

[…]

How difficult it has become today, this scaling down to less and less! We surround ourselves with thick layers of facades to protect ourselves from others: arrogance, possessiveness, snobbery to set ourselves apart from others, begging familiarity, the need for tenderness, eccentricity to attract attention, aggressiveness, worship, the desire to dominate, etc. It is difficult to list all the features we notice in others and not in ourselves. Life is suffocating.’⁶

Rather than letting our life suffocate within us, we can make way for it, give it priority over everything else. Practising Katsugen undō is one way of doing this. Similarly, the short moments of daily meditation included in the respiratory practice that begins all our Aikidō sessions can be likened to mingxin. Early in the morning, in the calm of the dōjō, the heart calms down and the breathing slows. We are no longer struggling for control; it is a special moment when we can integrate reality with greater calm and feel that we are the centre of the universe.

My father, Régis Soavi, a student of Tsuda sensei, who has been teaching for fifty years, is also my Aikidō sensei. My education with a father who was an Aikidō teacher, a libertarian spirit, a feminist before his time and a great lover of Zhuangzi, consisted more of working on awareness of reality as it is: uncontrollable. He taught me that it is our inner positioning that changes, not “Reality” itself but the point from which we interact with it, which in turn changes the reality around us. This is the action of Non-Doing or Non-Acting, this ‘mode of activity’⁷ as sinologist Jean François Billeter calls it, which is so difficult for Westerners to understand. Letting go of our judgements and preconceptions, and rediscovering inner calm, which lies within us but which we – too agitated and anxious – often forget. Then, curiously, unexpected possibilities for action appear.

Our compass: sensation

If self-mastery is not the transcendence of the body by the mind, nor separation and insensitivity, it is clear that it does not mean being overwhelmed by emotions and sensations. On the contrary, it means accepting them as part of life, feeling them and letting them flow in order to maintain inner calm. In the practice of Aikidō, this is very evident when we allow ourselves to be overwhelmed by fear, the will to win, or other emotions. With training, we immediately sense that we have lost this calm; we are no longer “empty”, even if our technical mastery allows us to overcome the attack.

Far from the idea of technical mastery or control that allows us to “deal with reality”, the philosophy of Tao goes in the same direction, valuing intuition, mental emptiness and the ability to adapt, which allow us to harmonise with the situation: ‘If we understand how to harmonise, the body will be calm, and if the body is calm, the world will be in order. It is akin to the response of an echo (xiangyin). That is why, if we are able to achieve a moment of purity and harmony, it will be a moment of true, effective Virtue [or Regime of activity].’⁸

I experienced this while performing as a concert pianist for over ten years. If I was afraid throughout the concert, even when my performance was correct and I had sufficient mastery of myself outwardly, my interpretation suffered, and my relatives in the audience could sense my stress and were unable to enjoy the concert. If there were no stakes, no stress at all, I could lose my concentration and make silly mistakes. On the contrary, when I managed to be truly calm inside, with just the right amount of stage fright to maintain my concentration and stamina during the concert, then my perception and that of my relatives were completely different, “the world was in order”.

The stage

It was during my years as a concert pianist that I had my most revealing experiences of self-mastery. Beyond technical mastery or knowledge of the work being performed, the stage experience is quite paradoxical. Everything is prepared and rehearsed, sometimes for months, yet the element of the unexpected remains paramount. During my music studies, I specialised in accompanying singers and chamber music, areas where ultimately the most important thing is the present moment and coordination with other musicians. It is undeniable that, at the same level of pianistic skill, it was my ability to merge with others that was appreciated by my peers. I was not only “listening” for any discrepancies with the others, they felt that I was anticipating what was going to happen. I know that this ability comes from my practice of Aikidō since the age of six and from my search of seeking harmony with the partner. My inner calm allowed me to remain open, to perceive what was happening outside without being overwhelmed by emotions. I felt them, but I was not disturbed by them. Most of the time, at least!

Some experiences have been more powerful than others. Those of a successful concert in a beautiful hall are obviously very powerful, but when it comes to self-mastery, it is often the less successful experiences that reveal what we are capable of doing or not doing. Like the time I performed excerpts from Mozart’s opera Cosi fan Tutte. The performance was for secondary school pupils, in the school gym. The “piano” provided for me was actually an electric keyboard placed on trestles. We quickly realised that in order for the singers to hear me, the speakers had to be turned up to full volume, but that meant I could barely hear the singers myself. During the performance, the keyboard shook on its fragile legs, to such an extent that the large and unstable score on the small music stand threatened to fall off throughout. I also had to wedge the pedal, which was connected only by a wire, as it kept sliding back on the floor, moving further and further away from my foot. Other times, two pages of the score were turned instead of one, or the singer himself skipped two pages. In all these circumstances – which are quite disastrous for the quality of a performance –, even though my stress level was high, I did not panic, but simply looked for what I could do to be back with the others, in the right place at the right time. Time stretched out, like when you have an accident and see yourself falling, but at the same time you act to catch yourself.

Changing your perspective

Changing your perspective is not easy and requires not only physical practice, but also addressing symbols. As Carol Christ explains: ‘Symbol systems cannot simply be rejected; they must be replaced. Where there is no replacement, the mind will revert to familiar structures at times of crisis, bafflement, or defeat.’⁹ This is why we may need to evoke an incarnation other than the detachment of the heroes who have accompanied us for centuries.

A figure such as Kannon, “her who contemplates the sound of the world”, seems interesting to me for this purpose. This ancient goddess, worshipped in India and China under other names, became over time a bodhisattva and a Taoist goddess. But above all, she is the survival of much older matrifocal beliefs¹⁰, where she represented an active inclusive principle. In her original meaning, she evoked this capacity for unification, this absence of duality between myself and the world, between subject and object. Thus, we are both receivers and transmitters of this tranquillity. It is perhaps in this sense that O-sensei Ueshiba said: ‘Attackers, whether there is one or many, it does not matter, I put them all in my belly’.¹¹

Manon Soavi

Would you like to hear about the next article?

Article by Manon Soavi published in October 2022 in Yashima #17.

Notes

1
cf. Starhawk, Dreaming the Dark: Magic, Sex, and Politics, 1982, Beacon Press (Boston) [French trans.: pouvoir du dedans]
2
[See e. g. Ueshiba Morihei, The Art of Peace, Shambala Publications (Boston & London, 2002), p. 11 & 20. Or also Tsuda Itsuo, The Science of the Particular, Chap. XVIII, 2015, Yume Editions (Paris), p. 148, or (same author & publisher) The Way of the Gods, Chap. XIII, 2021, p. 101 (1^st ed. in French: 1976, p. 132; 1982, p. 96)]
3
Tsuda Itsuo, The Dialogue of Silence, Chap. I, 2018, Yume Editions, p. 16 (1^st ed. in French: 1979)
4
Laozi, Tao Te Ching, Chap. XVI, trans. David Hong Cheng (2000)
5
[Chin. míng xīn 暝心. This paragraph paraphrases Monica Esposito, La Porte du dragon [The Dragon Gate], PhD Thesis, Université Paris VII, 1993, Introduction, p. 70, 2^d parag. See also Chap. III, 2. The Secret of…, 2. Preface to…, (xii) Third stage…, pp. 216–7.]
6
Tsuda Itsuo, One, Chap. XIII, 2026, Yume Editions, pp. 100–1 (1^st ed. in French: 1978)
7
[definition proposed by Jean François Billeter (his original term is « régime d’activité »), see his Études and Leçons sur Tchouang-tseu [Studies and Lessons on Zhuangzi] published by Allia (Paris)]
8
The Dragon Gate (op. cit.), Chap. III, 5. Alchemical Pratice…, 7. Two texts…, (i) The Ten Rules of…, p. 345
9
Carol Patrice Christ, Laughter of Aphrodite: Reflections on A Journey to The Goddess, 1987, Harper & Row (San Francisco), p. 118
10
see the works of Heide Göttner-Abendroth and Marija Gimbutas
11
Tsuda Itsuo, private conversation with Régis Soavi. [See also The Dialogue of Silence (op. cit.), Chap. XI, p. 94 (‘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.’) and Heart of Pure Sky (same author and publisher), ‘Interviews on France Culture radio’, ‘La matinée des autres’, 2025, p. 46 (‘this is what Master Ueshiba said: “when there are a lot of people it doesn’t matter, I put them all in my belly”.’)]

Aïkido, Articles_Blog, EN, FR, IT, Non classé

Reishiki: A Musical Score

3 January 2026 name

by Régis Soavi

In our relationship with the dojo, we often deal with Reishiki (etiquette). From our first contact with martial arts, as soon as we enter a dojo, we see people bowing very respectfully at the entrance and then greeting each other, or sometimes heading towards the kamiza after picking up a weapon. Every school has its own rules of good conduct, just as it has its own savoir-faire. In the West, some of these rules are even posted next to the door, just waiting to be followed. However, this is not always the case, as many people are reluctant to follow them on the pretext of religiosity, modernity or even because they see an overly military or sectarian aspect to them. Nevertheless, our society has its own protocols and customs. Everyone stands up when the court enters the courtroom, actors and musicians bow to their audience, just as people stand up when the national anthem or the European anthem is played.

The respect that is demanded in a dojo is more than a custom of oriental origin, whether Japanese or Chinese. It is not a matter of playing a role, of “doing as they do in Japan”, of being strict and impeccable, even rigid in the scrupulous observance of the rules of good manners. Reishiki involves our whole being. Most of us have lost the habit of bowing to anyone or anything: the handshake, the good handshake, the kiss, or other more modern rituals have replaced what too often resembled a power relationship over inferiors, imposed by hierarchical superiors.

It took me a long time before I understood, as my master Tsuda Itsuo sensei taught me, that bowing between partners, whether standing or kneeling, is a way of uniting, coordinating the breath, and bowing to life in the other. If we accept it as a good practice, we are often far from understanding it through our senses. Reishiki, however, is the score of the marvellous piece of music that is the practice of aikido. The score gives us the rhythm, the tempo, the notes are written on the staff and are therefore easier to find, but everything remains to be played. Of course, you have to know the key: G? C? or F? And in what position? What instrument is it played on? How do we play it? Almost anything seems possible, but you cannot do just anything. An expert, a great master, is able to juggle with the notes, add improvisations, speed up the tempo in one part, slow it down in another. Insist on a cadence, delete one or shorten it. Just as an aikido master improvises in front of their partner, unifying the breath with them and moving in unconventional ways, creating a ballet that is both aesthetic and fearsome. Noro Masamichi sensei demonstrated this to us at every session in the 1970s, when I was still a very inexperienced young instructor.

Régis Soavi: recitation of the Norito, of Shintō origin, _Misogi No Harae_ which he recites every day during aikidō sessions. Calligraphy by Tsuda Itsuo sensei: 看脚下 (_Look under your feet_). Photo by Valentina Mele

Reishiki: just a ritual?

The ceremonial aspect gives us access to the sacred without condemning us to the religious, so that the profane itself is ennobled and becomes sacred as well.

A classical musician prepares before beginning to play by performing a certain number of times actions that could be described as rituals. They tune their instrument or simply check that it is in tune, do exercises to loosen up and memorize difficult passages, just as we take care of our posture and body, and check our outfit, keikogi, belt, hakama – all this attention is an integral part of the care we bring to the practice of our art.

Reishiki allows to structure the practice, through the various rituals and their repetition, so that attention can be focused thanks to the regular support they provide. Nowadays, at least in Europe, it is rare to find dojos where the practitioners take care of the daily housework, cleaning the toilets, tidying up the changing rooms, or the keikogi for lending to beginners, etc. In fact, they act like uchi deshi from another era. It has become difficult to convey this message to the younger generation, for whom learning has often become a chore that needs to be done away with as quickly as possible.

Reishiki: a moral code?

Reishiki is the gateway to a forgotten world, the world of inner sensation, a world that is immaterial and yet very real, very concrete. It is within everyone’s reach to find it, or to rediscover it when it is blocked by conventions or ideas inculcated by society to our detriment. Of course, the protocols that govern an art help us to avoid accidents through the order they require, but it is their fundamentally natural character that seems to me the most important. If this does not exist, or no longer exists, all that remains are customs deprived of their profound meaning. In a society in decline with respect to education, I believe it necessary to allow all those interested in martial arts to rediscover the basics, as indispensable as they are logical, of human functioning.

Reishiki obliges us to respect all human life and leads us to respect life has to other living beings. Through the moral code that will be applied to us too, if we apply it to others, we can rediscover a common ground between human beings. The values carried by Reishiki are also there to help us move forward in our daily lives. Women, for example, are respected by everyone for their quality as practitioners, not because they look good in the background, or out of condescension, or to respect parity – or they should be, because unfortunately this is not so often the case. A female musician who plays a wind instrument is not appreciated for her measurements or her lung capacity, but, like any other musician, for the quality of her playing, for the musicality of a piece that she is able to make us discover during a concert.

Reishiki: an impregnation

When we are able to feel the rituals, our everyday life takes on a different flavour. Reishiki is no longer a constraint, it is the path to our inner freedom and we are guided step by step by the ceremonial that has its origins in older rituals that are just waiting to be rediscovered. Modern sport¹ has its own rules and regulations, the roles of which seem identical a priori – safety, respect for others, respect for the referee, socialisation, etc. – and which we could easily confuse with reishiki, which is much older. It is easier for our Western view, we are used to it, we do not have to make any effort except to adapt to it, but as soon as we leave the tatami, the ring or the field, all these rules linked to the sport we practise disappear and other rules apply. These rules are often very different, sometimes simply good manners, sometimes the rulelessness of the street and its consequences. Reishiki remains in us like a presence, through a phenomenon that could be called imprinting, a kind of imprint, although not at the beginning, not in the first few years. Little by little, it shapes our mind and therefore our body, without deforming them; on the contrary, it allows them to develop harmoniously. The rules of sport are there to be respected for the time of the exercise, of the practice, Reishiki acts on the whole time of our life.

Reishiki: an artefact?

In my opinion, Reishiki should never be imposed; it is part of an understanding that must be developed by the most recent practitioners, while the older ones can help beginners to progress by their knowledge and example. Apart from the minimum good manners required everywhere, it is also, and above all, the atmosphere of the dojo that will guide newcomers. If we impose norms and conventions, we run the risk of everything becoming rigid and appearing as a new ideology to be applied and, yet, divorced from what is alive – as Matthew B. Crawford so aptly put it, ‘[l]ife then imitates theory: Ours is now a highly mediated existence in which, sure enough, we increasingly encounter the world through representations. These are manufactured for us. Human experience has become a highly engineered and therefore manipulable thing’². That our experience and our teaching become an artificial product, when it is precisely the opposite that we seek, is perhaps what awaits us. There is also the danger that it will go in exactly the opposite direction to what our art teaches or should teach: freedom of mind, intuition, life force and all that goes with it – flexibility, mobility, resistance, the ability to re-centre oneself in order not to sink after a fall or in the face of difficulty.

The salute in the Bushū-den Kiraku-ryū style, one of the arts at the origin of aikidō. Photo by Bas van Buuren

Creating the conditions

The gyms are adapted for sports, there are grandstands, a variety of activities can be practised, maintenance is managed by the venue’s administration, and there is a caretaker responsible for maintaining order in the corridors, the changing rooms, and so on. Managing to communicate Reishiki in a space of this nature is a challenge. Unfortunately, nothing predisposes you to respect the place, either as a public place – very few are respected today – or as a place, a space that you could make your own. A sports hall is for sport, a dojo is a place to practise Budō, Bujutsu, an art – whether martial or not. The vibe and atmosphere are different. Would you not find it strange to see someone baking by a swimming pool or watching a heavyweight boxing match in a tea house? To create a space, a place that was found not on the basis of future income, but on the basis of parameters of a completely different nature, which it is impossible for me to describe in a few lines, but which are decisive for the future dojo and its perpetuation if it is a martial arts school. To create a place of this kind is already to apply the spirit of Reishiki, because it will bring together people who will be its managers, its housemates as it were, for an indefinite period of time, and it will be the cradle of students already present as well as of future practitioners. They will learn to respect Reishiki and to ensure that it is respected, for they will be both the originators and the transformers of Reishiki according to the needs. They will be the continuators of a tradition that they feel is necessary and even indispensable, for the teaching and the practise their art.

Tokonoma, Tenshin dōjō, Paris. Calligraphy by Tsuda Itsuo sensei, 大仁不仁 (*Great kindness excludes small kindness*). Photo by Laurent Festaz

Reishiki is also about gratitude: knowing how to say thank you

How can I end an article on Reishiki without paying tribute to the masters I have been lucky enough to meet, sometimes to follow, always to respect. There are too many of them, and to list them all would be tedious for the reader, because it all began in my childhood, when I was barely twelve. But I would like to mention those who guided me at crucial moments, like my first Judo teacher, the Kawaishi method, who knew how to guide me and whose discipline as well as kindness marked me for life: Roland Maroteaux sensei, my initiator into aikido in the early seventies, thanks to whom I met Tsuda Itsuo sensei, that master in the shadows who was “my Master”. The same goes for Henry Plée sensei, who gave me my chance (“gave me a leg up” as they say) by allowing me to teach aikido in his dojo on the Montagne Sainte-Geneviève, when I was a brand-new black belt. I have not forgotten any of them (even those I do not mention here) because it was thanks to their firm simplicity and the guidance they were able to give me that I came to understand and appreciate Reishiki.

Régis Soavi

Article by Régis Soavi to be published in April 2025 in Self & Dragon Spécial Aikido n° 21.

Notes

1
concept developed by Pierre Bourdieu in « Comment peut-on être sportif ? » [‘How to Be Sporty?’], Questions de sociologie [Topics in Sociology], 1984, Les Éditions de Minuit (Paris), p. 174 (‘It seems to me we should, first, ponder the historical and social conditions that make possible this social phenomenon we take too easily for granted: “modern sport”.’ – trans. Itsuo Tsuda School)
2
Matthew Bunker Crawford, The World Beyond Your Head: On Becoming an Individual in the Age of Distraction, 2015, pub. Farrar, Straus and Giroux (New York), Preface, pp. ix–x

Aïkido, EN, FR, IT, Non classé

Without Fixed Reference, A School Without Grades

21 December 2025 name

by Manon Soavi

Tsuda Itsuo sensei said, ‘There is no black belt in mental emptiness’¹, emphasising that what is essential cannot be measured or compared. Following this line of thinking, Régis Soavi sensei made the radical choice in the 1980s to establish a school without grades. This choice stands out in our competition-based society.

An infinite horizon

Disclaimer: this article is in no way intended to claim that this choice is the best one, or to denigrate grades or anything else. It is simply that the riai of our school (the consistency of its principles²) follows this path. This article describes another possibility, without seeking to evaluate one system over another, but rather in a spirit of discovering another culture.

The choice not to have grades of any kind is something that sometimes surprises or disappoints people. Indeed, some people feel the need to measure their progress and have milestones, which is understandable given the context in which we live. But this particular feature is also an approach that liberates and relieves many people! Here at least, in our School’s dōjōs, there is no measurement, no comparison, no hierarchy.

In a world where everything is quantified: the vitamins we swallow, our productivity, our hours of sleep, even the speed at which our planet is dying, everything is measured and calculated. A place without grades is a bit like moving from the horizon of a city, made up of landmarks, neighbourhoods and buildings, to the horizon of the ocean. It is liberating and slightly exhilarating.

sans grade pliage du hakama — Leaving time and space for other possibilities

Without fixed reference

Tsuda sensei wrote that with children we are ‘without fixed reference’³, meaning that we cannot refer to external, objective data: at this age, this height, this ability, this need. Yet this is what most approaches to childcare suggest! It is the spirit of systematisation. For Tsuda sensei, it was a question of sharpening one’s ability to pay attention, awakening one’s intuition and feeling the baby’s needs through the fusion of sensitivity. A sensitive dialogue, unique because it is different for each person and each moment, with our intuitions being verified through the baby’s reactions. The nature of the relationship then shifts from the pursuit of performance (raising a baby or taking a grade) to the quality of the relationship, of the ever-changing present moment. A quality that cannot be evaluated externally, as it must always be renewed.

Similarly, a school without grades does not provide fixed objective benchmarks, this technique, this speed, this precision or anything else. Since we start with the individual and everyone is different, no one can be compared to another. In our style of Aikidō, each person develops, through a common technical form, their own specific style, which not only suits them, but also fits in with the cycles of life, the ages and the states of each individual.

It is in our relationships with others that we can measure how far we have come, both through our own observation and through feedback from our partners and sensei. Or by going to see other teachers during occasional courses. Because without an external judge, there is no punishment and, above all, no reward! Of course, this does not mean imagining ourselves to be brilliant and all-powerful! In that case, our partners and sensei will be sure to bring us back down to earth. It is about rediscovering the joy of doing things for their own sake. It is also about rediscovering time, a time that is not linear, because our “progress” is not a straight line with an end point. Rather, it is a circular evolution: ‘Eastern thought does not proceed by demonstration, it is not oriented towards a final and definitive meaning, but moves in circles of successive experiments so that understanding springs from a return to the very centre of the question.’⁴

It is obviously possible to combine a grading system with the idea of an endless path; the great masters have always done so, but in our school we decided to establish this paradigm from the outset.

sans grade hakama — A simple act, always renewed

The right moment

Once this model has been discarded, we find ourselves in a situation where we start without a hakama, and we then have the opportunity to discover the right moment to put on this much-vaunted hakama. In the philosophy of Non-doing, it is a question of rediscovering the right action, one that is neither calculated nor determined by our “small intelligence”, the calculating will that clings to small goals, but by the “great intelligence” that expresses itself if we really listen to it⁵.

Some people put on the hakama after a year of practice and others after ten years. In fact, it does not matter except to themselves and their ability to sense the right moment. But for many, grasping that moment is very difficult. Many miss this opportunity to rediscover the meaning of the right moment through wearing the hakama. Whether through excessive levity, fear, anxiety, pretension, misunderstanding, or a thousand other reasons. We are faced with ourselves.

It is also an opportunity to discover the difference between choice and decision! Tsuda sensei attached immense importance to decision-making, as he puts it:

‘A decision can be made very quickly depending on circumstances, but it can also take a long time to mature.

Most of the time, we confuse the act of deciding with that of selecting. But they are two completely different things.

Selection involves the comparison of several possibilities and the choice one makes among them. It is an act of intelligence.’⁶

‘It is not the same with the kind of decision that determines our direction in life. That kind of decision is not an act of intelligence but an act of instinct.’⁷

‘Real decisiveness is that which responds to inner tension which has accumulated to the maximum degree. Without inner tension, no decision can be made. The more courage, sacrifice of self-esteem and material benefits a decision requires, the more consequential it is.’⁸

By offering practitioners the right conditions to sense the right moment and make a genuine decision, we use the hakama as a tool to guide them along this path to autonomy: deciding for themselves. This may seem trivial, but for many it is not easy and the right moment will be missed.

Accompanying each person on this path is also a rich learning experience for the more experienced, who must be careful to act in a spirit of Non-doing: sometimes letting things mature, often increasing internal pressure, rarely agreeing! However, no course of action can be determined in advance; here too, one goes ‘without fixed reference’, but when the action is right, it is obvious. For this action to arise, one must empty one’s mind and have no preconceived ideas. This support can only be provided if, and only if, the person considering wearing the hakama is “thirsty” for this transmission. It is their availability and their positioning that determines whether or not this is possible.

Giving, receiving, returning

The practitioners’ journey begins even before they put on their hakama, with the act of folding that of a senior practitioner. Here again, the absence of grades can be a little disorienting at first. Our approach is always that the act should have meaning in itself, not out of respect for tradition. However, we do not view each other with forced egalitarianism. Many things are taken into consideration: age, years of practice, but also aptitude or inner attitude. Sometimes a person will have an aptitude or affinity for a weapon or a certain type of technique, or may simply be able to help someone older than them through deeper breathing. Ultimately, it depends on many factors.

So why fold the hakama? To show gratitude? Yes and no. Folding the hakama is not simply a direct expression of gratitude for something. Sometimes it can be, of course, but there is much more to it than that, such as a quality of relationship. This relationship can be likened to what anthropologists have called the ‘gift economy’.

Highlighted by Marcel Mauss and Bronisław Malinowski in the early 20^th century⁹, it can be said that this system is based on the triple necessity of: giving, receiving and returning. Unlike the market economy (of which bartering is a part), the gift economy does not expect reciprocity. It implies that person A offers wealth to person B, without person B having to give anything in return or feel indebted to A. On the other hand, it is an act that exists within a context (family, culture, society) – in our case, the dōjō and practice. The gift economy therefore involves giving, receiving and returning within the context, but not necessarily to the same person, nor with the same value, nor at the same time. What matters is that the circulation of wealth continues, that there is no stagnation or accumulation.

In our case, the wealth is a teaching or an attitude, a moment of practice, etc. The person who has received it will continue to circulate wealth by giving it to others. They can also fold the hakama, but if we understand the meaning of the gift economy, we understand that folding the hakama is not a way of repaying what the other person has given us. We are not even, because folding the hakama is not giving back but giving in turn. Folding the hakama also implies that the senior person receives! For the person to whom the hakama is folded, it is also a gift that “obliges” them, in return, to continue returning, and so on. This is why it should not be systematic, otherwise we lose the meaning of the act, the meaning of giving, receiving and repaying.

This cannot be imposed, otherwise we fall back into the hierarchical binary system. That is why we leave everyone free to follow their own path, to understand in the short or long term, because ‘[t]rue morality arises from within’, as Tsuda sensei said¹⁰, echoing anarchist Kropotkin on this internal wisdom of living beings. But since children are taught from childhood to respect people according to the hierarchy and authority they exercise, we completely lose the sense of simple and natural respect. This respect that emerges when we are respected. We let time and practice work so that the obligation imposed by our habits and education falls away, and respect finally emerges.

Other possible horizons

Recently, researcher Heide Göttner-Abendroth theorised in her work on matriarchal societies that these are gift economies (useful clarification: matriarchal societies are not the opposite of patriarchy, they are egalitarian, matrilineal societies where women, and particularly mothers, are at the centre of the clan, in an acratic position, i. e. without power).

Göttner-Abendroth even explains that ‘[t]he economic principles of matriarchal societies are inextricabl[y] interwoven with spiritual principles.’¹¹ ‘The guiding image for the economy is Mother Earth herself, and as with earth, sharing and giving away out of an abundance are its supreme values.’¹²

Motherhood being, obviously, the gift of life without expectation of return, these societies consider motherhood to be a cardinal value, not the fact of having biological children or not, but the ability to give and the state of mind that this implies. In these societies, we can even talk about social motherhood practised by both men and women, regardless of whether or not they have biological children.

It is therefore an attitude to life, a position of respect and care, obviously directly linked to the gift of life on this planet, the Earth. Today, society is only just beginning to become aware of the interconnectedness of all living things and the inextricable links between humans and other forms of life. But while science has progressed, society’s mindset is evolving very slowly and our values are still predation and competition for resources considered inert – in short, patriarchal capitalism.

What is the connection between our small Aikidō school and Katsugen Undō and these major global issues? What is the connection between a hakama and a society practising the gift economy? I would say that, on our own scale, we are helping to create space-times where other values prevail. Without travelling to the other side of the world, we can voluntarily take a step back from comparison and focus on the concrete experience of ki, thus rediscovering the feeling of life in all things that guided our ancestors¹³. Feeling begins with knowing how to feel oneself! Independently of the projections, judgements and ideas we have about ourselves. The hakama, folding it and putting it on, can, if we are able to grasp it, be an opportunity to experience another paradigm for ourselves.

Manon Soavi

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Article by Manon Soavi published in July 2023 in Self & Dragon Spécial Aikido n° 14.

Notes

1
[He also wrote in his first book The Non-Doing: ‘The important point […] is not the technical details so much as the fact of emptying one’s mind. […] Can one speak about a qualified doctor in the science of empty-mindedness or about a black belt in the art of complete self-abandonment?’ (Chap. XI, 2023, Yume Editions (Paris), p. 119 & 120)]
2
[ri-ai: 理合(い)]
3
[see the last three chapters (XVIII, XIX & X) of Even if I do not think, I am, 2020, Yume Editions (Paris)]
4
Gu Meisheng, Le chemin du souffle [The Way of the Breath], 2017, pub. Les Éditions du Relié (Paris)
5
[for reference on small/great intelligence by Zhuang Zi or O-sensei Ueshiba, see Régis Soavi, Sara Rossetti, Manon Soavi, Itsuo Tsuda – Calligraphies de printemps, [Itsuo Tsuda – Spring Calligraphies], Yume Editions, 2017, pp. 257–9]
6
Tsuda Itsuo, The Way of the Gods, Chap. VI, 2021, Yume Editions, p. 46
7
ibid., p. 47
8
ibid., p. 49
9
[see e. g. Mauss’s essay The Gift: Forms and Functions of Exchange in Archaic Societies]
10
[see The Way of the Gods (op. cit.), Chap. X, p. 76]
11
Heide Göttner-Abendroth, Matriarchal Societies — Studies on Indigenous Cultures Across the Globe, Glossary, ‘Matriarchal economy’, 2012, pub. Peter Lang (New York), p. 466
12
ibid., Chap. 14, ‘14.7 Understanding the structure of matriarchal societies (continuation)’, p. 322
13
[see Noguchi Hiroyuki, The Idea of the Body in Japanese Culture and its Dismantlement, ‘2. Perceiving Life in All Things’]

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External Things are Neither Certain Nor Necessary

19 December 2025 name

by Manon Soavi

Max Stirner wrote in 1844: ‘there are […] intellectual vagabonds to whom the ancestral home of their fathers seems too cramped and oppressive for them to be willing to content themselves with the limited space anymore ; instead of staying within the bounds of a moderate way of thinking, and taking as inviolable truth what grants consolation and reassurance to thousands, they leap over all boundaries of tradition and run wild with their impudent criticism and untamed skepticism’.¹

Tsuda Itsuo sensei is known for his ten books, sometimes also for his calligraphy imbued with Chan philosophy (Zen in Japanese), or for introducing Seitai to Europe. His school of thought, ‘the School of Respiration’², although relatively modest, has had a lasting impact on the thousands of people who have been to his dojos or read his books. However, one should not imagine that his path to wisdom was a long, quiet river. On the contrary, it was his rejection of the certainties of the past that pushed him towards another path. Tsuda sensei was undoubtedly an ‘intellectual vagabon[d] to whom the ancestral home of their fathers seems too cramped and oppressive’, as Stirner puts it.

When he was born in 1914, his father was a wealthy Japanese industrialist who had settled in Korea, then under Japanese rule. It is not possible to know exactly what motivated Tsuda Itsuo’s rebellion against his father and his departure at the age of sixteen. Nevertheless, we know that there was the way his father behaved after the death of his mother and older sister³. There was something unacceptable to the young man that Tsuda Itsuo was at the time, but his father expected him to resign himself, to endure and to remain silent. Added to this suffering was his encounter with a young Korean girl (whom he would eventually marry fourteen years later, when he found her again during the Second World War). This young girl, with whom he fell in love, allowed him to witness some of the immense suffering of the Korean people, who were then being ruled with extreme violence by Japan.

At sixteen, having completely broken with his father, he renounced his birthright and left, alone, with no certainty except that it would be unbearable for him to continue on the path that had been laid out for him. So for four years he roamed, as a vagabond, through China and Manchuria, spending two years in Shanghai. He found the city to be extraordinarily cosmopolitan, with French and British concessions on one side and a strong presence of Korean, Japanese and Chinese anarchist movements on the other.

certitude intérieure incertitude extérieur — Accepting external uncertainty

It seems that Tsuda Itsuo did not like certainties, because at the age of twenty he left for Paris, knowing only a few words of French, in search of freedom of thought. When he arrived in 1934, he found himself in the midst of the Popular Front movements, strikes and mass demonstrations of the time. It was a movement of a force that is difficult for us to imagine today, and one that was crushed by the war, wiping out the revolutionary working-class youth of the time. Little by little, Tsuda Itsuo settled in and began studying at the Sorbonne with Marcel Mauss and Marcel Granet. He was in contact with the intellectual circles of Montparnasse, and I believe I can say that he planned to stay in Paris, at least for a while. But in 1940, the world was plunged into war and he was conscripted by Japan. To his great despair, he had to embark for a country that he ultimately knew nothing about.

What awaited him in Japan was the chaos of war, nationalism and total uncertainty about the future. Perhaps extreme situations reveal those who collapse and those who have the strength to continue on their path. I do not know if Tsuda sensei had any certainties, but the fact is that he continued on his path despite the war. His interest in Sinology and ethnology remained undiminished; on the contrary, he published translations and articles. After the war, his life seemed to “stabilise”. Married and employed (he worked for Air France as an interpreter), he nevertheless continued to explore tirelessly. His encounter with Nō, then with Seitai and its founder Noguchi Haruchika (with whom he studied for twenty years), and finally with O-sensei Ueshiba and Aikidō were the decisive factors in the development of his philosophy: Non-doing and the notion of Ki.

certitudes — _External things are neither certain nor necessary_, calligraphy by Tsuda Itsuo

Cultivating uncertainty

One might think that at this point, certainties would set in, as is often the case with people of a certain age after a tumultuous youth. But this was not the case. At the age of fifty-six, he returned to France with no promise or guarantee, as he himself wrote⁴. Living frugally once again, in a maid’s room near the Gare du Nord in Paris, he began to write, directly in French. He also began teaching Aikidō and spreading Katsugen undō (the gymnastics of the involuntary in Seitai). At the age of sixty-eight, in his eighth book, he wrote:

‘From the current point of view, I am a reckless man. I do not take precautions against microbes, viruses, pollution, diseases. I am neither protected nor armed against dangers. I do what I like to do, without bothering anyone.

It is not my place to impose my ideas, saying, “Do what I say, not what I do”.

Such a formula belongs to the great and powerful, not to me. My formula is: “I live, I go, I do.”

When I do something, it is not to conform to a moral, social or political purpose. I do what I feel inside, what I can do without regret. I’m not looking for an outside utopia. I seek inner, unconditional satisfaction.

It is in calm and deep breathing that I find my true satisfaction, in spite of the many annoyances of modern life. I have overcome difficulties, and will do so for as long as I live. This is how I find the pleasure of living.’⁵

Tsuda Itsuo also left us valuable teachings through his calligraphies. On the subject of uncertainty, we find this sentence from Chuang Tzu, which he wrote in calligraphy: ‘External things are neither certain nor necessary’⁶. External things come and go, misfortune and happiness, nothing is predictable and nothing is in itself misfortune or happiness. However, it is difficult to truly accept this uncertainty of external things, as we have seen for ourselves during the two years of crisis we have just experienced. Months of instability and crisis which, without being the equivalent of war, have worn us down and exhausted us. We have been able to gauge, on our own scale, how difficult it is to carry on, and the effects are still being felt.

Inner strength

The flaw in Western education is that it tends to make us focus solely on the voluntary aspect of the individual. So, to compensate for this weakness, human beings display their certainties on the outside while remaining very uncertain of themselves on the inside.

Tsuda sensei’s teaching redirects our attention to the unsuspected capacities of the involuntary⁷. Listening to our inner needs as they express themselves and give us directions to follow for ourselves, while remaining unpredictable and open to the outside world, since nothing is certain or necessary. It means trusting in human adaptability.

Having never been to school, I had to deal with a procession of people who projected their own concerns onto our choices and who were convinced that my parents were ruining my future prospects. However, one thing is certain: the future is always uncertain (and sometimes does not even exist). So I lived my childhood in the present moment rather than being dictated to by a non-existent future. In the joy and confidence of doing things for themselves, in the moment when interest was present. My parents had moments of doubt, of course, but they were convinced that living like their elders was simply not living but dying slowly. They preferred to choose uncertainty by taking a different path. Because the inner certainty that the most important thing was to live in the present never left them. Not going to school was an incredible opportunity to learn to rely on one’s own resources to face the inevitable difficulties of life.

Practising an art such as Aikidō means, at least on the tatami mats, having to rely on this spontaneity because, regardless of technical training, it is impossible to predict everything. Bodies are often more or less paralysed from within and bodily activity is frozen (bodily activity understood according to J. F. Billeter⁸: ‘the totality of energies and unconscious activity that nourish and sustain conscious action’). But then adaptation and integration no longer take place. Thus, an art that sets the body’ resources in motion again, that reintroduces play, is truly beneficial, even though it is not a therapy. Life resumes through the body.

This is why Aikidō must not become a sterile technical catalogue, with predictable attacks and standard responses. The element of uncertainty must be maintained using various teaching methods such as jiyū waza or working with multiple attackers, for example. When I began studying the jūjutsu techniques of Bushūden Kiraku ryū, what was formative was stepping outside the framework of Aikidō and rediscovering certain techniques that were very similar to Aikidō, but in a different way; this broke the mould and allowed me to continue Aikidō with an internal sense of the possibilities of atemi, kubi shime, kaeshi waza, etc. Without necessarily applying these elements to every technique, the simple fact of having felt them in my body allowed me to position myself differently.

Creativity

Aikidō obviously trains us to sense situations where we need to leave or act before it is too late. This is, of course, a basis. But it has more to do with intuition and the individual’s potential for creativity, as expressed by researcher Arno Stern, than with control: ‘To create is to acquire freedom from the grip of consuming society. When I speak of freedom, I do not use the word lightly; it is both the condition and the goal of education that engenders creative action. Creativity does not mean the production of works. It is an attitude towards life, an ability to master any given aspect of existence.’⁹

There are many examples in martial arts. Because what makes an art effective is not the range of techniques, but first and foremost the human being and their ability to react. There are, of course, many stories and tales of martial arts that illustrate this, but I would like to conclude this discussion by telling you a story that places Aikidō in a reality where there is no certainty about the outcome (the external) but there is clear evidence of the need to face up to it (the internal). It is recounted by the daughter of Aikidō pioneer, New York Aikikai founder and O-sensei direct student Virginia Mayhew:

‘When I was seven my mom and I moved to southern California and lived in a old motel in downtown Los Angeles. Late one night, when we were returning to our room an angry man wielding a bat blocked our path and demanded our money. My mom tried to reason with him and offered to share her money. That just seemed to make him angrier and he came at my mom swinging his bat menacingly above him. I remember being frightened the minute my mom moved towards him. I didn’t understand irimi then so it didn’t make sense to me why she would move towards a man who was about to hit her with a bat. The actual confrontation lasted only a matter of seconds. The bat never connected with my mom because all of a sudden it was in her hands and then she had the guy’s wrist in a painful wrist lock. She leaned down close to him and said, “I am not going to hurt you but you should know that it is unwise to attack a woman especially when her child is present. When I let you go you’ll leave peacefully but we will be keeping your bat.” When she finally did let go of his wrist her would-be attacker couldn’t flee fast enough.’¹⁰

Manon Soavi

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Article by Manon Soavi published in January 2023 in Dragon Magazine Spécial Aikido n° 12.

Notes

1
Max Stirner, The Unique and Its Property, ‘1. Humanity’, ‘1.3. The Free’, ‘1.3.1 Political Liberalism’, transl. & intr. by Wolfi Landstreicher, 2017, pub. Underworld Amusements (Baltimore), pp. 129–30
2
[see e. g. Tsuda Itsuo, The Non-Doing, Chap. I, 2023, Yume Editions (Paris)]
3
[see e. g. The Dialogue of Silence, Chap. XVI, p. 135–6 (mother), and Even if I do not think, I am, Chap. IV, p. 34–5 (sister), pub. Yume Editions (resp. 2018 & 2020)]
4
[see the beginning of the Foreword of his first book The Non-Doing (op. cit.): ‘In 1970, at the age of fifty-six, I abandoned my job and launched myself into an adventure which showed no promise or guarantee.’]
5
Tsuda Itsuo, The Way of the Gods, Chap. III (end), 2021, Yume Editions, pp. 29–30]
6
Régis Soavi, Sara Rossetti, Manon Soavi, Itsuo Tsuda – Calligraphies de printemps, [Itsuo Tsuda – Spring Calligraphies], Yume Editions (Paris), 2017, p. 354
7
[see e. g. the last words of the Foreword to his 7^th book Even if I do not think, I am (op. cit.): ‘As for me, I try to direct your attention to the unsuspected wealth of our unconscious being.’]
8
see the works of sinologist Jean François Billeter on Chuang Tzu or his book Un paradigme [A Paradigm], published in 2012 by Allia (Paris)
9
Arno Stern, L’Expression — ou l’Homo-vulcanus, 1973, pub Delachaux & Niestlé (Paris)
10
Shankari Patel, ‘Irimi’, 13 April 2014, on Feminist Aikidoka blog

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Between Submission and Rage: Fear

18 December 2025 name

by Manon Soavi

Everyone experiences fear to varying degrees, but we do not all experience the same fears, and when we talk about fear in general terms, we tend to refer to it in masculine terms. While fear is obviously not exclusive to women, there are specific aspects to female fear in our world, and that is the angle I have chosen to explore here.

Women always face double or triple penalties. If you are a poor man, life will be difficult, but if you are a poor woman, it will be worse. If you are an immigrant, life will be difficult, but if you are an immigrant woman, it will be worse, and so on. There is always an accumulation, because being a woman is already perceived as a “handicap.”

The subject of fear and its relationship to martial arts was already not an easy subject for men. But for women, it is something else entirely. For women, fear is often a daily companion with many faces. There is a real education in fear in the education of girls. So while it may not be worse than for men, I believe it is absolutely necessary to hear this point of view as well, because as Howard Zinn says, ‘Until the rabbits have historians, history will be told by the hunters…’¹ Women must tell their own stories. They must tell what fear does to their relationship with the world and what it does to their bodies.

To begin with, we need to look at, as philosopher Elsa Dorlin suggests:

‘What it feels like to be a woman’

Women are particularly familiar with fear because they grow up in a world that is rather hostile to them. The degree of hostility depends on the region of the globe where you are born. Of course, for each woman, it will depend on her upbringing and experiences. Nevertheless, we can identify broad outlines and societal trends.

As we know, it is from childhood that boys are able to develop and experiment with their agility, strength, bodies, and power. In contrast, girls’ space is very often reduced to static games and cute little toys. Their minds are preoccupied with concerns about appearance, which distracts and consumes their energy. Their bodies are not developed and they will rarely, if ever, discover their power. Added to this is a whole myth of male superiority that fuels a culture of submission and a norm of ‘defenseless femininity’. Philosopher Elsa Dorlin, who studies how the dominant classes ‘disarm’ the dominated populations at all levels, explains the policy of making it impossible, unthinkable, to defend oneself. She calls this phenomenon ‘the factory of disarmed bodies’. Or how ‘it is a question of leading certain subjects to destroy themselves as subjects […] Producing beings who, the more they defend themselves, the more they damage themselves.’²

This is how fear is transmitted over generations. Being a woman so often means bearing fear. A fear that is disconnected from real situations, that becomes a background, like prey that is unaware of itself. Of course, it is so unbearable that many women fight against this fear. Some succeed more or less in escaping it. Nevertheless, although it is not very pleasant to look at or acknowledge, I believe we need to look a little more closely at this position of prey.

Elsa Dorlin dissects this cultural positioning of women as prey, which has been attached to them for too long. Through her analysis of a novel³, she provides a striking demonstration of this, and I can only quote long passages to convey its meaning. The character in the novel is called Bella.

‘Like millions of others, Bella is an unremarkable young woman whom no one is supposed to remember. She has no ambitions or pretensions in life, not even the simplest, most stereotypical happiness. […] Bella is an anti-heroine, an anonymous character, a woman who passes by and hurries on, a shadow in a crowd. And Bella is so ordinary that she can represent all women. […] Who has not once felt Bella’s existential mediocrity, her own anonymity, the familiar fear that accompanies it, her dashed hopes, her exhaustion from fighting for her rights, her claustrophobia at living in her cramped space, at surviving in her body, her gender, her humility in enduring her social hardship, her only demand to live in peace? Because we experience, almost daily, in repetitive and diverse ways, this myriad of insignificant acts of violence that ruin our lives and constantly test our consent.

[…]

The first pages describing Bella’s life implicitly outline what could be described as a phenomenology of the prey. A lived experience that we try by every means to endure, to normalise through a hermeneutics of denial, attempting to give meaning to this experience by emptying it of its unbearable, intolerable nature. […] She tries to live as usual, to reassure herself by pretending that everything is fine, to protect herself by acting as if nothing had happened, by derealising her own apprehension of reality – across the street, a man watches her day and night from his window, but perhaps it is she who thinks that a man is watching her. Bella lives in a constant state of trying to attach little importance to herself: to her feelings, her emotions, her discomfort, her fear, her anxiety, her terror. This existential scepticism on the part of the victim stems from a generalised loss of confidence that affects everything that is experienced and perceived, the self. Then, when denial becomes impossible, Bella “takes it upon herself”: by curling up in her body, staying hidden in her flat, shrinking her living space which, despite all her efforts, is violated. She lives in the banality of the daily life of a prey who wants to ignore herself, arranging her life to save its meaning’.⁴

In this passage, Elsa Dorlin demonstrates how this factory [of disarmed bodies] is being operated on women. Of course, this is a novel, but sometimes fiction is the best way to express reality: this paralysing fear, more or less permanent, that we try to deny in order to carry on living. It is an instilled, cultural fear that prevents us from acting and continues, time and again, to turn women into bodies of victims. We have all felt it to a greater or lesser extent. We have all fought against this fear in order to live anyway. To come home late, to travel alone, to accept an invitation, to work. We are forced to overcome this fear, otherwise we do nothing.

Unfortunately and paradoxically, this instilled fear and our efforts to overcome it short-circuit our instincts, including the necessary fear that allows us to sense danger and react to it in one way or another.

Phenomenology of the prey

The real prey, the animal hunted by a predator outside its species, pays close attention to itself and places immense trust in all the signals of instinctive fear. By refusing to pay this attention to themselves, women put themselves in even greater danger. Still following the analysis of the novel, Dorlin continues:

‘Bella’s story is also the story of a neighbour, an ordinary man who lives in the building opposite and who one day decided to assault her. Why? Because Bella seems so pathetic, so fragile, already such a “victim”. And if we are all a little bit like Bella, it is also because, like Bella, we first started to stop going out at certain times, on certain streets, to smile when a stranger spoke to us, to lower our eyes, to not respond, to quicken our pace when we went home; we made sure to lock our doors, draw our curtains, stay still, and not answer the phone. And, like Bella, we spent a lot of energy believing that our perception of the situation was meaningless, worthless, unreal: hiding our intuitions and emotions, pretending that nothing outrageous was happening or, on the contrary, that perhaps it was not acceptable to be spied on, harassed or threatened, but that it was us who were in a bad mood, who were becoming intolerant, paranoid, or that we were just unlucky, that this kind of “stuff” only happened to us. Precisely, Bella’s experience is a sum of commonly shared fragments of experience, but also a meticulous description of all these prosaic tactics, of all this phenomenal work (perceptual, emotional, cognitive, epistemological, hermeneutic) that we do every day to live “normally”, which amounts to denial, scepticism, and makes everything about ourselves seem unworthy.’⁵

This lack of attention to oneself and one’s feelings begins in childhood, which is when the distortion of perception occurs. How many little girls will hear, ‘He pushes you/hits you because he likes you. He’s a boy, it’s normal.’ Explicitly or implicitly, little girls are taught not to listen to themselves. This leads to a paradoxical situation in adult women, where they feel like prey and are afraid, but must constantly deny the signs. Because the predator, the enemy, is not of another species! A rabbit will never have the slightest doubt about a fox’s intentions. But for us, who are of the same family, he is both a potential enemy and a potential friend, lover, husband, father, boss, colleague… How can we maintain our discernment? These paradoxical injunctions poison the lives of most women in the long term. So we fight against fear with the energy of despair. We try as best we can to assert ourselves in this world. And one day it cracks, and rage replaces submission. Sometimes it allows us to react, but often it destroys everything around us.

Reshaping our relationship with the world

What can Aikidō do about this state of affairs?

I believe it is possible to bring about change in this state of affairs through the body. For it must be said that this endeavour to dominate operates very deeply in the body: ‘The object of this art of governing is the nervous impulse, muscle contraction, kinesic body tension, the release of hormonal fluids; it acts on what excites or inhibits it, lets it act or counteracts it, restrains or provokes it, reassures or makes it tremble, causing it to strike or not to strike.’⁶ In the education of girls, as with adult women, the long-term practice of Aikidō opens up a whole new perspective.

One day, during an Aikidō session led by my father, Régis Soavi, who has been teaching in Paris for fifty years, he said: ‘Before asserting yourself, you have to position yourself.’ This sentence struck me as the perfect definition of what Aikidō could be for women. Rather than trying to assert ourselves, to make demands on a society that does not listen to us or rejects our perception, we must first learn to position ourselves. Positioning ourselves in the martial sense of the term, therefore a question of Shisei. In the end, not being prey is a position, a posture. It is not about being a rabbit that arms itself to defend itself, but rather, through one’s inner posture, saying, ‘You may be a fox, but look, I am also a fox, not a rabbit.’ When we are positioned, self-assertion is there.

Position yourself before asserting yourself

Aikidō allows us to create new practices for ourselves that transform our reality and our relationships.

The first step is to rediscover, not an illusory neutrality, but the indeterminate, the sensation of life before separations. In our school, the Itsuo Tsuda School, we begin with meditation, then spend about twenty minutes practising movements and breathing exercises which, although they may resemble warm-ups, are not. One could say that it is a communion with space, with the life that surrounds us. It is a moment when each person is within themselves and with others in a common, indeterminate breath. Ueshiba O-sensei said: ‘I place myself at the beginning of the universe.’⁷ This statement, although it may seem far-fetched, actually gives us a much broader perspective than a simple exercise. Forget who we are, where we are, and simply breathe. Gradually, the breathing deepens and calmness arises, and we begin to rediscover the individual, before categorisations, separations, and culture. It is a bit like blowing on embers to rekindle a dying fire.

As we practise alone or in pairs, our bodies become freer and our movements more fluid. Regular practice, daily if possible, over a period of time, is necessary to gradually reshape our relationship with the world. To rediscover a body that inhabits its space, that occupies the street, that establishes a different way of being. As I said, it is not about becoming superwomen, capable of defending ourselves like heroines. It is not about fighting back blow for blow. It is about re-educating our bodies and minds in order to have a different Shisei, a different positioning in our lives. It is about no longer finding ourselves “prey” while ignoring warning signs.

The teacher’s role is to act as Uke as much as possible to help practitioners feel all the possibilities available to them, the Atemis, the Ma-ai, the Hyōshi, everything that will make a difference before they are completely blocked. If fear overwhelms us, we will overestimate the attacker and, paralysed, the situation will worsen. With practice, we can keep our breathing calmer and, without overestimating ourselves, position ourselves. This is why the attack must be committed, representing a certain danger without completely blocking.

This will also enable us to stop stagnating in a situation before reacting to it, whether it be at home, at work, or elsewhere. At the same time, we will no longer be polluted by unnecessary fears and anxieties that do not correspond to the situations that make us cower. Please note, I am not saying that victims of assault should have reacted. We know that shock is a human protective strategy and that sometimes the best thing to do is not to fight back in order to stay alive. My point does not necessarily concern extreme situations of great violence, but rather those that are mundane, supposedly “minor”, but which we have been taught to fear and which, when accumulated, are devastating.

It is not easy to change, to break out of the dualism of submission or rage. That is why it is through practice that the body rediscovers its capabilities and the mind calms down and finds peace. In the story I mentioned, Bella’s story, the novel only really begins when Bella reaches a turning point, when she finally decides that enough is enough. So she grabs a hammer. She is surprised to find that she finally has the strength to lift it, surprised that it has always been there, within reach. And the game of massacre begins, to the point that this novel caused a scandal in England because of the violence in the second part.

I am not trying to legitimise the violence in this novel; that said, how many great works, from historical novels to Westerns, from Ben-Hur to The Count of Monte Cristo, have made revenge the driving force behind men’s actions… But let us move on. I believe that we can have this revelation of our own power long before we reach the extremes of destroying ourselves or others.

As we practise Aikidō, which reconciles us with ourselves, we can rediscover a sense of power. Not a power that crushes others, but the power that comes from the hara, the centre of the human being. It is a centripetal process sometimes referred to as empowerment, when people take hold of ways of being, of self-practices, to unravel the domination exercised over them and regain power over their own lives. In the 1960s and 1970s, American feminists used this term to promote a form of liberation that was not dictated from outside – where women would once again be told what they should be, what a “free Western woman” is – but rather a centripetal emancipation, relying on the means available to each woman to respond to problematic situations themselves.

From this perspective, Aikidō can be a process of empowerment that allows us to revive our own internal resources and minimise the “radio interference” of cultural fear. Then our Shisei, our attitude, will be like that of the bird in the saying⁸:

The bird does not fear that the branch will break, because its confidence is not in the branch, but in its own wings.

Manon Soavi

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Article by Manon Soavi published in January 2022 in Self & Dragon Spécial Aikido n° 22.

Photo credits: Paul Bernas

Notes

1
[quoted in 2015 French biographic documentary Howard Zinn, une histoire populaire américaine [Howard Zinn, A People’s History of the United States]]
2
Elsa Dorlin, Se défendre. Une philosophie de la violence [Defending Oneself. A Philosophy of Violence], pub. La Découverte (Paris), 2017
3
Defending Oneself (op. cit.), an analysis of Helen Zahavi’s 1991 novel Dirty Weekend
4
ibid.
5
ibid.
6
ibid.
7
[see for instance Tsuda Itsuo, The Science of the Particular, Chap. XVIII, 2015, Yume Editions, p. 148, as well as (same author & publisher) The Way of the Gods, chap. XIII, 2021, p. 101 (1^st ed. in French: 1976, p. 132; 1982, p. 96)]
8
[This saying can be found online verbatim in French. It may have been inspired from Victor Hugo: Be like the bird, who Halting in his flight On limb too slight Feels it give way beneath him, Yet sings Knowing he hath wings. (1836, Songs of Dusk, ‘In the Church of ***’, VI). Another possible source is José Santos Chocano: The bird sings even though the branch creaks, because it knows what its wings are capable of.]

Aïkido, Articles_Blog, EN, FR, IT

A School of Sensation

17 December 2025 name

by Manon Soavi

Nowadays, some of us no longer want to feel. We no longer want to feel heat, cold, pain or fatigue. As individuals bend to social imperatives, norms and advice, neglecting the body’s own needs, they become desensitised. Often, we no longer feel precisely whether we are hungry or not, whether we want fennel, cheese, or meat. Some people no longer know whether their feet are hot or cold. And ultimately, feeling scares us.

Increasingly, because of the conditions in which we live, we are losing our ability to feel. To feel our environment, others, and above all, ourselves. Yet how can we determine our own destiny and find our way in life if we cannot feel? Or if we cannot feel with sufficient sensitivity? In Tsuda sensei’s teaching, this question was paramount, and he used the practices of Aikidō and Seitai as tools to rediscover sensitivity, that much-maligned ability so often confused with mawkishness¹. My father, Régis Soavi’s first dojo, opened in 1984, was called The School of Sensation, which shows how important this is in our School.

For Tsuda sensei, a process of sensitization begins when we regularly focus our attention on phenomena that we usually overlook. He wrote about this in his inimitable style:

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

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

However, I try to revive my feelings, to purify them, so as not to confuse wine with beer’².

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

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

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

‘Technical and cultural innovations are in fact the causes of our biological transformations. […] Since Erectus, behavioural and cultural factors have themselves become drivers of evolutionary change: biology and culture are weaving increasingly complex interactions, even into the most fundamental aspects of what it means to be human.’⁴

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

"Sei" la vie, calligraphie de Itsuo Tsuda. La sensation de la vie — _Sei_ [Life], calligraphy by Tsuda Itsuo.

Perceiving life in all things

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

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

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

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

‘A case in point is the advice given by Squanto [a Native American] to white settlers in New England about when to plant a crop new to them, maize. He reportedly told them to “plant corn when the oak leaves were the size of a squirrel’s ear”.’⁶

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

Seitai

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

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

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

‘Impatient people imagine that they are in good health because they are never sick. But if the body is sensitive to a bad stimulus, resists it, overcomes it and orders itself, the body’s safety valve is working and you pass through an illness’. ‘If a leper is injured, he feels no pain. If the body does not feel that something is wrong, its restorative powers are not aroused. The body only reacts if it can feel that something is abnormal.’ ‘It is necessary to make the extra-pyramidal system sensitive so that the body’s recuperative powers naturally arise to correct even small abnormalities. It is from this point of view that I teach katsugen undô.’⁷

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

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

Exercice de sensation avec le contact de la main. — Sensitivity exercise using hand contact

Aikidō

Another tool used in our School to sensitise the body is Aikidō. People practise it for various reasons, of course, but one of the consequences of practising Aikidō can be increased sensitivity if one takes a certain orientation. Master Sunadomari’s School, for example, attaches great importance to three principles: Ki no nagare (circulation/flow of ki⁸), Kokyū Ryoku (breathing/rhythm⁹) and Sesshoken Ten (contact with the partner through ki¹⁰). It can be said that these principles are also the foundations of the Itsuo Tsuda School and that they require us to refine our senses in order to discover and put them into practice.

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

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

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

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

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

The sense of touch

In many martial arts, the acquisition of special abilities to sense attacks before they happen has been the subject of research and fascination. Yomi, Hyōshi, Metsuke, Yi, etc.¹¹, all these “concepts” refer to this, to heightened senses, which are obviously necessary in real combat. But there is an even more mundane sense that our society is increasingly forgetting, reaching a climax today: the simple sense of touch. Yet this primary, “simple” sense is vital to us.

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

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

‘The body defends itself by grower tougher. We become immune to external and internal sensations. We do not even catch a cold. We are robust.

[…] Toughening gives us a healthy appearance, the envy of people who endlessly suffer from minor ailments. […] One gradually loses subtlety of expression and becomes stiff. Robustness has a flip side: fragility. […]

[…]

Mubyō-byō, the illness without illness, is what Noguchi called this state of desensitisation that isolates man from his environment.’¹³

Fortunately, this process is not irreversible and we can start going in the opposite direction to resensitise the body. Contact martial arts are among the last bastions – along with dance perhaps – where touching is still possible, where the information transmitted through touch is decisive for our reaction, for us to maintain or regain the sensitivity that reconnects us with our human abilities.

Manon Soavi

Would you like to hear about the next article?

Article by Manon Soavi published in July 2021 in Self & Dragon Spécial Aikido n° 6.

Notes

1
[In French, the characteristic of being sensitive – i. e. sensitiveness – has two versions, both coming from the adjective sensible (=sensitive, lit. “able to sense, to feel”): sensibilité and sensiblerie, the latter being a pejorative – because supposedly exaggerated – version of the former.]
2
Tsuda Itsuo, The Way of the Gods, Chap. I, 2021, Yume Editions, p. 12
3
Tsuda Itsuo, One, Chap. V, 2016, Yume Editions, p. 35
4
Pascal Picq, Et l’évolution créa la femme [And Evolution Created the Woman], pub. Odile Jacob (Paris), 2020, p. 243
5
One (op. cit.), Chap. XIV, p. 105
6
James Campbell Scott, Two Cheers for Anarchism, 2012, Priceton University Press, p. 31
7
Noguchi Haruchika, Order, Spontaneity and the Body, ‘II — Katsugen Undô’, ‘Getting the Body in Good Order’, 1984, Zensei Publishing Company (Tōkyō), pp. 71–2, 73 & 73–4
8
[ki no nagare: 気の流れ]
9
[for the interpretation of kokyū ryoku 呼吸力 as “rhythm”, see e. g.: ‘Kokyū ryoku consists in harmonizing one’s ki with aite’s’, Sunadomari Kanshu, interview by Léo Tamaki (in French), Dragon Magazine Special Aikido n° 18, Oct. 2017]
10
[probably comes from sessuru 接する]
11
[yomi 読み (reading), hyōshi 拍子 (rhythm), metsuke 目付 (“laying of the gaze”), yi 意 (Chin.: intent)]
12
Prof. Francis Philip Mcglone, quoted in Die Macht der sanften Berührung [The Power of Gentle Touch], documentary by Dorothee Kaden, 2020, Arte production [(Eng. transl. from the French, emphasis added by M. S.)]
13
Tsuda Itsuo, The Science of the Particular, Chap. II, 2021, Yume Editions, pp. 22–3

Aïkido, Articles_Blog, EN, entretiens, FR, Katsugen undo

#1 Breathing, a Living Philosophy

9 December 2025 name

Here is the first of the Six interviews of Itsuo Tsuda by André Libioulle, entitled ‘Breathing, a Living Philosophy’ and broadcasted on France Culture in the 1980s.

To read and/or to listen to.

BROADCAST N° 1

Q: L’École de la Respiration was created by Itsuo Tsuda in Paris in 1973. However, the word “school” is not entirely appropriate and Master Tsuda never intended it to be a closed, exclusive teaching centre. On the contrary, his views remain entirely open. He is interested in other breathing disciplines and above all in the field of thought related to breathing.

Concretely, L’École de la Respiration is a ”Dōjō”, a particular kind of space in the East, which refers less to the material place itself than to the energetic space. […] Of course, movement is an individual matter; it is to be found in the inner space specific to each person. However, it is created through a certain state of relaxation and a whole atmosphere conducive to meditation. That’s why, for example, it is recommended that the Regenerating Movement be practised with the eyes closed. The dōjō is a spiritual more than a physical space, and therefore not a school in the usual sense. Itsuo Tsuda?

I. T.: It is not a school in the usual sense of the word. As I have written and published books under the imprint of “L’École de la Respiration (“the school of breathing”), I applied this name to the association. The association is independent from me. I am a guest, I am not the boss, and insofar as the association requires my presence, I accept, provided that the members carry out this personal endeavour themselves. I am not there as a boss who gives orders; that’s something you have to understand.

Q.: It is a “school”, in inverted commas, that is open to everyone. The Regenerating Movement is practised here “without knowledge, without technique and without purpose”. That’s a bit of a paradox for a school, isn’t it?

I. T.: Yes. Well, people have to be well motivated. Otherwise we refuse them. For example people who ask for therapy, etc., or who come with other intentions, we refuse. What we are doing is to exercise the extrapyramidal, that’s all. But we can’t throw ourselves into it all at once, can we? we don’t know what it is. When I give the workshop, I start by explaining the thing. Not explaining the extrapyramidal system in anatomical terms, but in relation to the life one leads in the Western context, and bring people back into another context that is natural. Which doesn’t mean that I’m against Westernization, it’s an irreversible thing. Japan is now westernised. But while accepting this conditioning, if you are determined, if you are motivated, you can get out of it and breathe freely, feel full and free.

Q.: Imagine someone entering L’École de la respiration: what can he expect? How will things work, concretely, in practice?

I. T.: They arrive and they sit roughly in a circle and I start to give a sort of talk. And there are people who don’t understand at all. At first almost no one does. But there are those who are attracted, who stay. But their heads are full of questions. And I refuse to answer. I say: “Wait a minimum of a year, two years if possible”. At the end of a year or two, the body changes, evolves and then they no longer know what to say and the questions have evaporated.

Q.: The people who come are not sick people, I mean they’re people who simply have a need for personal development, a need to feel better about themselves, usually..

I. T.: Well, the motivations are diverse. But what I ask for is practice without purpose. There is a psychiatrist who was attracted precisely because it is marked “without purpose”, because he knows from his own experience that this is extremely important. But for others it makes no sense; a practice without a goal is completely… crazy! That is one of the conditions that I insist upon. Otherwise people come and ask me all sorts of things and they go nowhere, they’re just banging their heads against the wall.

Q.: So at a certain point, people stop asking questions. What has happened inside them, what has changed so that all of a sudden, all the intellectual questions are resolved?

I. T.: Well, the body has evolved, sensations have evolved, so we don’t see the same thing from the same perspective. Before starting, such and such a thing is important; people think it’s absolutely necessary to ask me questions. But after a year or two, it becomes so obvious that they no longer need to ask questions.

Q.: But in the first stage, there’s a breathing practice, there are preparatory movements for another more fundamental movement that you call the Regenerating Movement. How does the preparation work?

I. T.: To tell the truth, you don’t need any preparation if you’re sensitive and not very complicated. But modern life doesn’t always allow you to be uncomplicated, so we need a bit of stimulus to get us going. You don’t need a memory, it’s something that arises from within, and it comes of its own accord.

Q.: So it’s more like an immediate, spontaneous reaction on the part of the person, and everyone has a particular reaction, everyone has a singular organic reaction that is unique to him or her.

I. T.: We can’t create a model for the Regenerating Movement, because each individual has his or her own movement and the movement of the same individual differs every day. That’s what they are going to find out for themselves. The difficulty is that people arrive with a head full of imaginings and it’s a real problem to get rid of these. They know thirty-six thousand methods that they mix up with the Regenerating Movement and which distort everything. I make sure that people don’t mix everything up, that’s the greatest difficulty.

Q.: Initially, it seems that people find it hardest simply to feel, to live in contact with their sensations. That’s what the Regenerating Movement brings.

I. T.: People say, “We’re not in the Middle Ages anymore”. Well, what’s the difference between the Middle Ages and now? Gestation still takes nine months; that hasn’t changed. Only, in the Middle Ages there was neither radio nor television. Only the means have changed. But the body, on the contrary, has become weaker. There are many people who are neither completely alive nor completely dead. They are in a kind of twilight,, without feeling. What we’re doing is not adding something extra, but going “back to the source”, which allows us to really feel what’s happening every day, at every moment. That’s what has been completely neglected. All we do is schedule, plan things with a view to what’s going to happen in a year’s time, in three years’ time, and so on. But what are you doing now, what are you feeling now? That we do not know.

Q.: Master Tsuda, the people who come to you come because they feel the need, let us say, for a personal evolution. But people come to work on themselves and they come with spontaneous body tendencies. In several of your books, you’ve mentioned a concept known as “taiheki“.

I. T.: It’s a concept that is also quite difficult to explain. In our modern lives, the body’s activities become increasingly specialised. Some people need their eyesight, their hearing, their brains, and so on. Athletes need their muscles. Because of this specialisation, we are more or less deformed. The channelling of energy becomes specialised. We cannot all of a sudden change direction. We’re always on the same channel.

Q.: You talk about the polarisation of energy…

I. T.: … Yes, polarisation if you like; channelling. And we think we can control all that, but it’s difficult indeed. That’s why we need to normalise the terrain, so that we can use all our pawns, if you will. For example, one woman told me that before doing the Movement, she didn’t know whether her feet were hot or cold, she had to take off her shoes and then touch her feet with her hand so she could say, “ah! yes, my feet are hot or cold”. But now she doesn’t need to do that anymore, she can feel directly. Sensation doesn’t work in most people.

Q.: Most people are desensitised…

I. T.: … desensitised either in the feet or in the legs, etc.

Q.: And by being desensitised, people are cut off from themselves.

I. T.: Yes, they are fragmented, they are compartmentalised. They see the world through this very, very narrow perspective.

Q.: Your desire is to put people in touch with themselves, with their sensations, and thereby even with “ki”’, that notion that evades all concepts, a moving notion: qualitative, not quantitative. The truth of science is quantitative, but the truth of the Movement is always particular, always concrete.

I. T.: We come into the world with no knowledge, with no explanation. How is it that a newborn baby can turn white milk into yellow poo? The baby has no knowledge. Well, at that very moment, the absence of knowledge allows everything to work. We have to be able to get to that point. Except with adults, the problem presents itself in a different way, because we cannot imitate a baby. If there are a lot of things that come to the surface of the conscious mind, that’s precisely why we are in the state of “heart of pure sky”. When we are very busy, we don’t even think about it. That is the return to the source, which is different from what happens with a newborn.

Q.: Will the people who come to you later become practitioners of the
Regenerating Movement, or is it just a practice they follow for the sake of their own well being?

I. T.: That’s up to them, isn’t it? I don’t say anything. If they want to do it, they do it, that’s all. But if people aren’t truly motivated, things just fall apart. And if they’re really motivated, little by little their horizons open up. So, as to how far they will go, for the moment I can’t say.

[end of Broadcast N° 1/6]

continue with Broadcast N° 2

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Being Free Makes Others Free

8 December 2025 name

[Nov. 19] Manon Soavi was invited by Italian web magazine DeaByDay to talk about “female conditioning through education” and her career path. This interview is part of a series of interviews published by this web magazine on women who are making a difference in the world every day.

The interview

1. Who is Manon Soavi?

I am 37 years old, I am French and I teach Aikido, which I have been practising since childhood. I also work in digital communication for associations. I worked as a concert pianist and accompanist for about ten years and I never went to school.

2.You didn’t go to school. How did you get through your childhood? Didn’t you ever want to go to school?

When I was five, I wanted to try school. I wondered what it would be like! I lasted four days before deciding I would never go back. I understood! I couldn’t stay in a place where if I said ‘no’, it wasn’t respected. I can totally respect rules, but respect has to be mutual, and at school it isn’t.

3. Have you ever felt marginalised? How were your first encounters with the “outside” world? What differences did you notice, if any, between yourself and others in your perception of the world?

Of course I’m a marginal! But in fact, most people feel like marginals, feel different and suffer because of it, but they don’t really know why. I know why I’m different and why I want to stay that way!

As a teenager, I thought I was suffering from a certain loneliness, a distance from other young people my age, but in the end I discovered that I wasn’t suffering from loneliness but from disappointment that the world was like that, disappointment at the poverty of human relationships. And, of course, disappointment in male-female relationships. Not only male domination, but also, and above all, the attitude of women themselves.

And over time, I realised that there is much worse. There is the suffering of loneliness in a crowd. The inconsolable loneliness you encounter at school, being alone in the face of difficulties. Alone in the face of the world. I have never been alone. My parents were always with me, every moment, until I was ready to face the world, until I was strong enough.

Sometimes people think that this is a way of overprotecting a child and that the child needs to face challenges and fend for themselves. But even from a martial arts perspective, this is absurd. You don’t send a child who isn’t ready to fight onto the battlefield. Otherwise, you’re sending them to certain death. If you give them time, young people learn, and one day, when they are strong enough, they spread their wings and are ready. And then, believe me, they can endure a lot, because the strength is inside them. Even if the outside bends, the inside does not break. The problem with external strength acquired in childhood for self-defence is that it tends to collapse because the foundations are not solid enough. That’s how we find ourselves in untenable situations, suffering from depression, burnout or other problems. We have become so accustomed to putting up with things that we no longer feel in time that we need to react. That is why it is important to rediscover the sensitivity that alerts us and the ability to react.

One of the strangest and saddest things for me was seeing the masks that everyone wore to appear different from who they really were. More beautiful, more intelligent, more funny. Obviously, women played the role of seductresses, manipulators, falsely weak, waiting for Prince Charming to finally live! How sad! All these vicious codes that determine the hierarchy of human relationships. I knew respect, but not hierarchy. And the world did exactly the opposite, with no deep respect for others, but orders, prohibitions (to be broken, of course) and hierarchy all the time. It was very depressing.

It took me a while to realise that my way of being attracted certain people. That being yourself simply proved that it was possible. I refuse to play the social game. I accept certain superficial rules that are inevitable for living in society, but I reject the essence of the game. Perhaps then some people will realise that all you have to do is stop playing. We keep our prison locked ourselves; we have the key in our hands, but we are afraid.

I can only serve to say, ‘It is possible,’ or as Fukuoka sensei said, ‘there is nothing special about me, but what I have glimpsed is vastly important.’¹

4. In your opinion, is it still possible to offer this kind of experience in today’s society?

It’s no more difficult today than it was yesterday. Times change and the difficulties are not the same. But the difficulties of being true human beings are nothing new. The only question is: what do I want? In what direction do I want to take my life?

5. Today, some feminists seem almost to want to abolish the idea of masculine and feminine. In fact, however, there are fundamental biological differences: what do you think about that? What does being a feminist mean to you?

I am in favour of respecting differences. Every individual is unique and different. Some people are tall or thin, some like sports or reading for hours, some think before they act, some eat when they are upset. We are all different, and of course biological differences matter enormously. But they should not determine our role in society, our rights or our behaviour. It’s not about creating a single model, male of course, no, on the contrary. It’s about respecting each being in their needs, in their uniqueness.

For me, being a feminist means striving for equality between men and women (which still does not exist, even in our countries), of course, but being a feminist also means being aware that women are the first to perpetuate conditioning. It is not about positioning ourselves as victims, because we are both victims and perpetrators at the same time. We perpetuate the model by educating our children, both boys and girls. So, above all, it means reflecting on our own situation, on what we convey every day to those around us, to our children, to our friends. It means reflecting on our culture, our media, our own expectations.

Being a feminist for me means no longer defining myself as “a woman”. It also means no longer seeing men as “males”. I am a feminist in the sense that it is necessary today to move forward, just as it was necessary for women in the past to fight for certain rights.

One day, perhaps, we will no longer be women or men, black or white, young or old, but simply true human beings.

6. What is the Itsuo Tsuda School and what is your role there?

The Itsuo Tsuda School works to spread the practical philosophy of Itsuo Tsuda, passed on by Régis Soavi, my father. It brings together dōjōs in Europe entirely dedicated to the practice of Aikidō and Katsugen Undō (Regenerative Movement). I am Technical Advisor to the Itsuo Tsuda School, which means that I watch for of the orientation of our School.

7. At the Itsuo Tsuda School, you practise Aikidō and Katsugen Undō (Regenerative Movement). What are their distinctive features?

Katsugen Undō is a foundation, a practice that awakens the vital capacities of each individual, and is therefore a foundation for our lives. Whatever activity we engage in, it is essential to rediscover a natural body that reacts correctly.

In Aikidō, the focus is on breathing and the sensation of Ki, which is at the heart of our school, rather than on the sporting or martial aspects. We practise by seeking fusion with our partner rather than opposition. Martial effectiveness stems from our ability to be in the right place at the right time, but this is not an end in itself.

8. There is a strong female presence at your school. Can you tell us why, given that martial arts are predominantly male territory?

From the very first dōjōs that my father, Régis Soavi, created in the early 1980s, he wanted to ‘empower women’. He has always pushed in this direction. Empowering women does not mean “de-powering” men! But in a world where women do not have power, we must give it to them in order to achieve balance.

And then, of course, it is the focus of our practice, our attention to sensitivity, which develops through the practice of both Katsugen Undō and Aikidō, that is unique. Women certainly find a path that speaks to them. But there are also many men in our school who aspire to something other than an escalation of strength and aggression.

Master Ueshiba, the founder of Aikidō, was a great Budōka, even formidable, but what makes him great is the fact that he is one of the few who has transcended the duality of combat. It was the story of his entire life. But the gift he gave to humanity was to talk about going beyond combat. That Budō could forge human beings capable of much more than just winning by defeating others. In Aikidō, there is no victory, there is a surpassing of opposition, and that is very different. It may be a utopia, but it is the hope of training people who are capable of laying down their arms without becoming victims.

We often think that in Europe we no longer fight, that we are ‘good people’! This is to forget a little too quickly how we treat those who are weaker, younger or more dependent than us. The elderly, the sick, immigrants, children, babies, all those who are not given a choice, all those who are not listened to. How we talk to the cleaning lady, how we talk to those we give orders to. Are we really that good? Are we really free from violence? When faced with adversity, our first instinct is to fight back, and women, as dominated social beings, are confronted with this every day. So finding another way is surely a more pressing necessity for women, although it is necessary for everyone.

9. How can practising Aikidō and Katsugen Undō change people’s lives, especially women’s?

Precisely because we practise in a direction of fusion and non-doing. It is not about adding something but about getting rid of what clutters us, both physically and mentally, so that our being can find room to breathe. A place where it is possible to be oneself and not to “appear”. Women in particular have little room to be themselves, and these practices can help us break free from social conditioning. It is a tool, a path. It is not about practising and waiting for a miracle that will make us beautiful, rich and intelligent. It is up to us to take the steps.

10. When did you start practising and what motivates you to continue?

I started Aikidō when I was six years old and I haven’t stopped since. I started because my father taught it and I simply enjoyed it! Why do I continue? First of all, because I still enjoy practising and I don’t feel like I’ve reached the end of my journey, far from it.

And then it’s a tool for communicating with others without going through social conventions; it’s direct communication, in silence. It’s really enjoyable to walk a path accompanied by other people who are heading in the same direction.

11. Your journey took place in France. Are there opportunities for Italian women to follow the same path?

Itsuo Tsuda left behind nine books, which provide guidance for anyone interested in his practical philosophy. They have all been translated into Italian. But to practise, it is best to go to a dōjō. In Italy, there are dōjōs in Milan, Rome, Turin and Ancona. There are courses and daily practice. The dōjō is a well from which we can draw to find ourselves.

We are the ones who must walk the path, whatever tools we use to evolve, it all depends on ourselves. On our inner decision.

Notes

1
Fukuoka Masanobu, The One-Straw Revolution, 1975, Part I, ‘Nothing at All’ (very end), Eng. trans. 1992, pub. Other India Press, p. 10

Aïkido, EN, FR, Katsugen undo, Manon Soavi

The Philosophy of Non-Doing. Meeting with Manon Soavi

6 December 2025 name

[Jun. 23] Interview with Manon Soavi for the release of Itsuo Tsuda, The Anarchist Master — The Art of Living Utopia, published by L’Originel (Obernai, France). Interview conducted by Jean Rivest for the Réseau Vox Populi channel in Montreal on 20 May 2023.

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.

http://soavimanon.rifleu.fr/.

Itsuo Tsuda, The Anarchist Master — The Art of Living Utopia. Published (in French) by L’Originel – Charles Antoni¹ (2022, France).

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Notes

1
reunified since 2025 within French publisher L’Originel (Obernai)

Aïkido, Articles_Blog, EN, FR

Itsuo Tsuda, The Anarchist Master

5 December 2025 name

[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)¹.

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)

Aïkido, Articles_Blog, EN, FR, IT

The World We Live In

4 December 2025 name

by Manon Soavi

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 both¹. 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 shown², 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 15^th and 16^th 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’³. 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 21^st 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.

Maître Bow Sim Mark. Experte en Fu Style Wudangquan Shaolin (Tai chi, Bagua, boxe Tanglangquan) et mère de l'acteur Donnie Yen (star des films Ip man de Wilson Yip) — 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.’⁴ 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’⁵. 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.

Naginat et kusarikama : Shimada Teruko. Article la violence — 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 20^th 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’⁶ 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.’⁷

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.’⁸ 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’⁹. 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.’¹⁰

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.’¹¹ 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.

Naginat et kusarikama. Article la violence — 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.’¹² 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’.¹³

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’¹⁴ 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 women¹⁵, 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.’¹⁶

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.’¹⁷

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.

Manon Soavi

Would you like to hear about the next article?

Article by Manon Soavi published in July 2020 in Self & Dragon Spécial Aikido n° 2.

Notes

1
this title is a reference to The World We Live In: Self-Defence by Edith Garrud (newspaper Votes for Women, 4 March 1910)
2
cf. 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
3
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’ (3^rd Part), 2009, pub. Serpent’s Tail (London), p. 37. Trans. from the original French: 2006, pub. Grasset (Paris)
5
Elsa Dorlin, Se défendre : une philosophie de la violence [Defending Oneself: A Philosophy of Violence], 2017, pub. La Découverte (Paris), p. 21 or p. 66
6
ibid.
7
Tsuda Itsuo, The Dialogue of Silence, Chap. VIII, Yume Editions, 2018, p. 68
8
ibid., p. 69
9
Ellis Amdur, Steal the Technique, KogenBudo blog, 21 Mar. 2021
10
Defending Oneself (op. cit.)
11
Ellis Amdur, Senpai-Kohai: The Shadow Ranking System, KogenBudo blog, 21 Mar. 2021
12
Chimanda Ngozi Adichie: The danger of a single story (from 10’30”), UTube channel TED, 7 Oct. 2009
13
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.
17
Ellis Amdur, Interview with Abe Toyoko of the Tendo-ryu, KogenBudo blog, 21 Mar. 2021

Aïkido, FR, Manon Soavi

Fukiko Sunadomari and the Women Erased from History

1 December 2025 name

by Manon Soavi

Did you know that Morihei Ueshiba, one of the greatest budoka of the 20^th century, would shout angrily whenever he saw his students practising: ‘No one here is doing aikido! Only the women are doing aikido!’¹?

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 force²?

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?’³

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.’⁴

Lecoq cites French grammar⁵ as an example of deliberate masculinisation⁶, 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, 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.’⁸

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 Fujitani⁹. 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 9^th 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.’¹⁰ She held the position of Fujin Buchō (director of the women’s instructor section)¹¹ 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 letter¹² 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. Fukiko apparently had many unpublished photos from this period¹⁴.

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.¹⁵

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 Kumamoto¹⁶. To finance her project, she decided to sell some of the many original calligraphies by O-sensei that he had given her¹⁷.

Fukiko Sunadomari passed away on 1^st 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.’¹⁸

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’.¹⁹.

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.’²⁰.

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!

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 mystic²¹ 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’²² 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’.²³

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 girls²⁴? 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.

Notes

1
words 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)
2
these words can be found – at least – in: ► Itsuo Tsuda, The Path of Less, 2014, Yume Editions, Chap. XVI, p. 157 (1^st 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
3
Titiou 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)
4
Titiou 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)
5
[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
12
Guillaume 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)
13
‘I am glad I have Aikido’, op. cit., p. 26
14
Historical photo: Morihei Ueshiba, Aspiring Calligrapher!, op. cit.
15
ibid.
16
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)
23
Isis 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.]
24
The Path of Less, op. cit., loc. cit.

Aïkido, EN, FR, IT, Katsugen undo

I Go Rediscovering Freedom

1 December 2025 name

The search for inner freedom in the practice of Aikidō 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 Aikidō 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.¹ 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.” ’²

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.’³ 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.’⁴

“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.’⁵

Itsuo Tsuda e Haruchika Noguchi — 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.’ 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.’⁷

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 Aikidō and Katsugen undō 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.’⁸

The words of Master Gu, who was imprisoned during the Chinese Cultural Revolution, apply equally to Tai Chi, Aikidō and Katsugen undō, 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 freedom⁹, 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”¹⁰.

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
4
One, op. cit., Chap. III, p. 24
5
Tsuda Itsuo, The Science of the Particular, Chap. IX, Yume Editions, 2015, p. 76
6
Tsuda Itsuo, The Dialogue of Silence, Yume Editions, 2018, pp. 85-6
7
One, op. cit., Chap. VI, p. 47
8
La vision du Dao du professeur Gu Meisheng (video), no longer available – words probably inspired by this part 5 (French) video at the end (‘when I was in prison, in the 1970s’)
9
The title refers to the passage from Dante Alighieri‘s Divine Comedy, ‘He goes seeking freedom’, in originale « Libertà va cercando »
10
cf. the video and interview Manon Soavi, Being Free Makes Others Free

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Living Without Certainty or Uncertainty

21 November 2025 name

by Régis Soavi

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.

incertitude — 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.

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.

Les aveugles et l'éléphant par Katsushika Hokusai — The Blind Men and The Elephant, by Katsushika Hokusai

The story of the blind men and the elephant

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.

Régis Soavi

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Article by Régis Soavi published in January 2023 in Self & Dragon Spécial Aikido n° 12.

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Ame no Ukihashi Ken, the Sword That Links Heaven and Earth

20 November 2025 name

by Régis Soavi

pousse_bokken_tsuda — 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 Ukihashi¹, 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 Bōjutsu² 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 19^th 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.

regis_soavi_baton — 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 Kendō

Aikiken is not Kendō 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.

regis_soavi_bokken — 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.’ ³

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

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 Hosada⁵ 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.’ ⁶

Régis Soavi

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Article by Régis Soavi published in April 2016 in Self & Dragon Spécial Aikido n° 12.

Notes

1
see the Kojiki (古事記), a collection of myths about the origins of the islands that make up Japan and of the Kami
2
the bō is a long stick, 180 cm long, wielded with both hands
3
Zhuangzi, translated Burton Watson, The Complete Works of Zhuangzi, 2013, Columbia University Press, pp. 71–72
4
[this story seems to be told in Tsuda Itsuo, The Path of Less, Chap. XII (end), 2014, Yume Editions (Paris)]
5
nō theatre: Kanze Kasetsu School
6
Tsuda Itsuo, The Non-Doing, 2023, Yume Editions, p. 12 (1^st ed. in French: 1973, pub. Le Courrier du Livre (Paris), p. 10)

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At the Core of Movement – the Involuntary

18 November 2025 name

by Régis Soavi

‘If I have to give my Aikido a goal, it will be to learn to sit, stand up, move forward and backward.’¹ Tsuda 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 (1^st ed. in French: 1975, Le Courrier du Livre (Paris), p. 166

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Memoirs of an Aikidoka

17 November 2025 name

by Régis Soavi

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.’¹Read more →

Notes

1
Tsuda Itsuo, The Way of the Gods, Chap. XVIII, 2021, Yume Editions (Paris), p. 144 (1^st ed. in French: 1982, Le Courrier du Livre (Paris), p. 156–7)

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Harmony or Coercion and Escape Route

12 November 2025 name

by Régis Soavi

Coercion: the act of compelling someone to act.

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.

nage waza

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.’¹

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.’²

nage waza régis soavi ukemis

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.

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?

nage waza régis soavi ukemis

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.’³

‘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.’⁴

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.

Régis Soavi

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Article by Régis Soavi published in July 2021 in Self & Dragon Spécial Aikido n°6.

Notes

1
Tsuda Itsuo, The Non-Doing, Chap. I, 2013, Yume Editions (Paris), p. 21 (1^st ed. in French: 1977, pub. Le Courrier du Livre (Paris), p. 18)
2
Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching, Chap. 58, trans. Ellen Marie Chen
3
Tsuda Itsuo, The Path of Less, Chap. XV, 2014, Yume Editions, p. 148–9 (1^st ed. in French: 1975, Le Courrier du Livre, p. 140)
4
ibid., Chap. XVI, p.156 (1^st ed. in French: p. 148)

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Atemi Yes, Atemi No

1 November 2025 name

by Régis Soavi

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.

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.

Régis Soavi

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Article by Régis Soavi (on the topic ‘Do you teach atemis?’) published in June 2020 in Aikido Journal no74.

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Testifying

31 October 2025 name

by Régis Soavi

Responsibility

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.”¹ 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.

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 1^st 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.

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.’²

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.

Hotei montre la lune. Dessin de Sengai — ‘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.

Régis Soavi

This article by Régis Soavi was written for Self & Dragon Spécial Aikido before the magazine ceased publication in 2025; the topic was “Professionalisation.”

Notes

1
Jacques Marpeau, Un mot, un enjeu : « Profession » et « métier », [One Word, One Issue: ‘profession’ and ‘trade’], 3 March 2023 (pub. online), emphasis by R. Soavi
2
Itsuo Tsuda, The Path of Less, Chap. XV, Yume Editions (2014), pp. 150–151

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Ki, a Dimension in its Own Right

28 October 2025 name

by Régis Soavi

‘Ki belongs to the realm of feeling, not to that of knowledge.’¹. 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’²: ‘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.’³

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. 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 Silence⁵. Thanks to this, I gained a better understanding of the directions ki took when it had a form.

Dessin exécuté par Maître Ueshiba — 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

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.’⁷

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 20^th arrondissement. You cross a small garden and on the first floor of a very simple building is “The Dojo.”⁸

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.’⁹

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.

Régis Soavi

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Article by Régis Soavi (on ki 気) published in January 2017 in Dragon Magazine Spécial Aikido n° 15.

Notes

1
Tsuda Itsuo, The Non-Doing, Chap. II, 2013, Yume Editions (Paris), p. 27 (1^re ed. in French, 1973)
2
ibid., Chap I, p. 17
3
ibid., p. 16
4
[see e. g. Tsuda Itsuo, The Science of the Particular, chap. XVIII, 2015, Yume Editions, p. 152–3 (1^st ed. in French, 1976, p. 157–8)]
5
Tsuda Itsuo, The Dialogue of Silence, chap. XII, 2018, Yume Editions, p. 106–7 (1^st ed. in French, 1979, p. 157–8)
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]
7
Tsuda Itsuo, Heart of Pure Sky (posth.), ’Booklet n°3 – Respiratory Practice in Aikido’, 2025, Yume Editions, p. 102 (1^st ed. in French, 2014)
8
[more of which in Yann Allégret, On the wach for the right moment, pub. online (Feb. 2014)]
9
The Non-Doing (op. cit.), Chap. II, p. 25–7

Aïkido, Articles_Blog, EN, FR, IT

Fear

21 October 2025 name

It all started on an ordinary afternoon in my neighbourhood of Blanc-Mesnil in the “93” département¹. 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.’²

tanto regis soavi

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 article³. 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.

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.

His work continues today.

Régis Soavi

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]
2
Tsuda Itsuo, The Way of the Gods, Chap. IX, 2021, Yume Editions (Paris), p. 70–71 (1^st ed. in French, 1982)
3
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.’]

Aïkido, Articles_Blog, EN, FR, IT

An Art of Uniting and Separating

5 June 2025 name

by Régis Soavi

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.

Awase Musubi — *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.

Working with weapons: Ame-no-uki-hashi ken

Ame no uki ashi ken_2 — Outdoor weapon session, summer workshop (Mas d’Azil), Régis Soavi sensei

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.

demostration_2 bokken — 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’.

Régis Soavi

Article by Régis Soavi published in October 2014 in Dragon Magazine Spécial Aikido n° 6.

Notes :

Tsuda Itsuo, The Path of Less, Chap. XIX, 2014, Yume Editions, p. 182 (1^st ed. in French, 1975, pub. Le Courrier du Livre (Paris), pp. 174–175)
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)]
Tsuda Itsuo, Facing Science, 2023, Yume Editions, Chap. III, p. 23 (1^st ed. in French, 1983, pub. Le Courrier du Livre (Paris), p. 24)

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Deepening

2 June 2025 name

by Régis Soavi

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’.

KATSUSHIKA HOKUSAI Fujiyama / 富士山 — 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.’

Itsuo Tsuda approfondissement — 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.

Régis Soavi approfondissement — Régis Soavi

Progressing to become or deepening to “be”

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”?

Régis Soavi

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 (1^st ed. in French, 1973, pub. Le Courrier du Livre (Paris), p. 12) (Translator’s note)]
Tsuda Itsuo, The Dialogue of Silence, Chap. X, Yume Editions, 2018, p. 84 (1^st ed. in French, 1979, pub. Le Courrier du Livre (Paris), p. 36)
The Non-Doing, op. cit., Foreword, p. 13 (French ed.: p. 13)
ibid., Chap. I, p. 16 (French ed.: p. 16)

Photo credits: ???Paul Bernas

Aïkido, EN, FR, IT

Ki No Nagare: Visualisation

1 May 2025 manon

by Régis Soavi

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.’ ⁴ Wei 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

Régis Soavi

An article by Régis Soavi published in July 2022 in Yashima #16.

Notes:

Marc-André Selosse, Jamais seul [Never Alone], 2017, pub. Actes Sud (Paris), pp. 326–7
ibid., p. 327
ibid., p. 329
Jean François Billeter, Leçons sur Tchouang-Tseu [Lessons on Zuangzi], 2002, pub. Allia (Paris), p. 28
Tsuda Itsuo, The Path of Less, Chap. XVIII, Yume Editions, 2014, p. 169
ibid., pp. 173–4
Constantin Stanislavsky (1863–1938), Russian actor, metteur en scène and theatre arts teacher
The Path of Less (op. cit.), p. 171

Zen, Yin and Yang

O-sensei Tsuda Itsuo

Pushing oneself or finding oneself

‘Aikidō is the art of purifying ki’

Norito

Writing

Koan

Evolving

An open school

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Notes

A source of results

A focused attention

Ambience is not a decor

Regeneration

Creating a temporary ambience

An ambience that respects everyone’s independence and Freedom

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A first part!

Repetition

The foundations of this work

The need for a suitable setting

The Discovery of Yin and Yang

From solitary practice to osmosis

Aikidō: religion or philosophy ?

Maintaining health

Simple movements

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Notes

Entering the sphere

Imagination or visualisation?

To work slowly

If I ain’t seen or felt it, I’m dead1words reported by Léo Tamaki in the video GregMMA et Aikido (13 Dec. 2019) on Youtube channel Karaté Bushido Officiel

Fear

Action and perception

Do not overlook anything

Tsuda Itsuo sensei

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Notes

What guides us

Intuition, a deception?

Intuition, a certainty?

Another dimension, Ki

A very ancient path

Your work, should you choose to accept it, …

The involuntary

A warning to rebuild oneself

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Notes

Returning to the root

Perceiving reality

Our compass: sensation

The stage

Changing your perspective

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Reishiki: just a ritual?

Reishiki: a moral code?

Reishiki: an impregnation

Reishiki: an artefact?

Creating the conditions

Reishiki is also about gratitude: knowing how to say thank you

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An infinite horizon

Without fixed reference

The right moment

Giving, receiving, returning

Other possible horizons

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Cultivating uncertainty

Inner strength

Creativity

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‘What it feels like to be a woman’

Phenomenology of the prey

What can Aikidō do about this state of affairs?

If I ain’t seen or felt it, I’m dead¹