by Régis Soavi

This was a definition of our art once given by someone close to O-sensei Ueshiba Morihei¹Ōsawa Kisaburō (1911–1991). The words have stuck, but what of the reality of the practice? Aikidō may have lost its prestige by becoming a “fighting sport”.

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.

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..

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 Schoolmaster²Jacques Rancière, The Ignorant Schoolmaster: Five Lessons in Intellectual Emancipation, Stanford University Press, 1991 (original in French: 1987, pub. librairie Arthème Fayard (Paris)), 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.