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

Contemplating The Sound of The World

1 February 2026 name

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

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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, Articles_Blog, EN, FR, IT

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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The Art of Dissatisfaction

18 December 2025 name

by Manon Soavi

Ikebana master Mei Ando Keiko recounts how, as a child, she would watch her grandmother practising her art:

‘I saw her take two leaves from the plant and place them in front of the tokonoma, on a perfectly ironed white cloth where a small number of other plants were already arranged. Then she went to the cupboard and fetched a dark-coloured, rustic bowl. Sitting in the Japanese style on the tatami-covered floor, she placed a kenzan in it and poured water from a small watering can. With great calm, she then took a branch and began to observe it carefully, her hands moving slowly and lovingly. When it came time to cut the branch to adjust its length or remove leaves, she did so without hesitation.

So as not to disturb her, I sat just behind her and watched her carefully handling these simple and modest materials. In the end, she had once again created an ikebana that captured the essence of things and was full of charm, and a deep sigh of admiration rose from within me.

[…]

One day I exclaimed, “I wish I could arrange flowers as well as you do in your compositions!” and she replied simply, “I too would like to be able to make my Ikebana a little better!” This statement struck me because, until then, I had thought that my grandmother, having reached the pinnacle of the Way, always felt satisfied with her compositions. I understood, however, that this response did not stem from false modesty and did not contain any judgement about her own abilities. It was a sincere expression of the feeling of something unfinished that only she, in her heart, could know.

[…] With these simple words, my grandmother had unwittingly revealed to me the full depth and beauty [of the Way].’¹

This feeling of something unfinished or a dissatisfaction, which is a sting of a sort, is very typical of Japanese masters in their arts. But I think this feeling is very far from the frustration and deep dissatisfaction that many people experience in our time. In our dōjōs, in our practices, we are sometimes confronted with the difficulty of putting into perspective Ways that require perseverance and continuity, while we increasingly seek quick satisfaction. The very notion of effort is no longer very fashionable, or if there is effort, there must be results, a return on that effort. The problem is that the search for a result, for a predetermined goal, conditions the action and therefore the result.

I observe two trends that seem quite widespread: one where we see everything as bleak, with no future and no hope, which is a depressive state. The other where we try to focus on what brings us satisfaction and pleasure. It is quite obvious that depressive states or suicidal thoughts are not very liveable conditions for humans, but I would like to question the other stance here: the search for a state of satisfaction. And, of course, to question the position of budo and what it can lead us to understand. I am not seeking to oppose two positions, but to explore a question. Are we more fulfilled because we are satisfied? Or rather, what kind of satisfaction are we talking about?

The pursuit of satisfaction has gained momentum in recent years; some people keep gratitude journals where they write down the positive things that have happened in their day. Others change jobs or cities to be in an environment more in line with their visions and values. Last, well-being and fulfilment are constant concerns for many people. Some point to the paradox of a humanity that has never known such a high level of material well-being and yet continues to feel uncomfortable in its own skin. We are surrounded by material comforts, and yet we are still dissatisfied. Are we like spoilt children?

What is more, we know that satisfying all our desires would not even give us real, deep satisfaction. In the end, we are a bit like what Johnny Hallyday sang in the song L’Envie: ‘I was given too much, long before desire. I forgot my dreams and my thanks. All those things that had value. That make us want to live and desire.’

Long ago, ancient tales warned us against forgetting, against the dissolution of the Self that comes with the fulfilment of all desires. Like those tales where we enter an inn and never come out, caught up in a life of pleasure and immediate satisfaction that sometimes even leads us to death. Does this mean that we must follow an austere moral code or a life of labour? Do those who have less than us not aspire to this comfort? Should we stay in a job that does not suit us, that bores us? Or stay close to toxic people? A priori, no, of course not; so should we follow our dreams?

Dissatisfaction, a powerful driving force

Our actions have unconscious motivations that we justify after the fact, but what triggers us to act is indefinable. We enjoy playing the piano, flower arranging, cooking or martial arts, but why, all things considered, we do not know. Practising these arts gives us both deep satisfaction and dissatisfaction. That is why we keep coming back to them again and again.

In Japanese culture, there is an interesting concept that cultivates this slight dissatisfaction as a driving force. For example, in Seitai, parents are advised not to feed their babies 100%. Tsuda Itsuo talks about “the spoon less”. If parents are attentive and focused, they can stop feeding the baby just before they are “too full”. Just one spoonful less. Of course, if the baby cries, it means they are still hungry and need to be fed, but when the pace of eating slows down, if you pay close attention, you can tell when one less spoonful will not make any difference. This slight dissatisfaction stimulates the baby’s appetite instead of “filling them to the brim” and making them feel completely full and content. It also keeps the baby’s sensitivity alive, as they know, to the nearest bite, what they need and what they do not, without being confused by other messages such as feelings, propriety, finishing their plate, pleasing their mother, etc. The same is true of the hot bath in Seitai, where you get out of the bath a few seconds before complete relaxation, just before you become like a boiled vegetable, so that the body has benefited from the relaxation and getting out gives it a “boost”, a surge of energy.

Karate master Shimabukuro Yukinobu refers to hara hachibu, a principle from the Okinawa Islands, which consists of stopping eating when you have reached 80% fullness². I think it is a bit like the same idea.

In fact, it is dissatisfaction that drives a child to walk, talk, jump, run, etc. If they were only seeking a feeling of bliss, they would remain at the same stage: pampered by their parents! Of course, this is in no way to justify abuse, but rather to point out that, here too, the best is sometimes the enemy of the good. It is not by adding more that we feed better. It all depends on our perspective. Tsuda Itsuo remarked: ‘I have been fortunate enough to know some aspects of the Japanese tradition. My experience may still be superficial, but it offers a striking contrast to modern thinking. The point here is not material satisfaction, but the deepening of our sensitivity.’³

Dissatisfaction drives us to improve ourselves.

When used properly, the sting of dissatisfaction drives us to continuity and perseverance. Speaking of his practice of Aikidō, Tsuda sensei wrote:

‘For me, learning to sit down and stand up is already huge. I continue to discover new facets of both. I am far from satisfied with what I do. This dissatisfaction always propels me forward, towards complete satisfaction.’⁴

‘On the other hand, I know a man who is a billionaire in spite of himself and he’s as miserable as can be. He is young, handsome, intelligent. He lacks for nothing. He can have anything overnight. But even this ease exasperates him. He does not know how to find true satisfaction.

The spontaneous is something we feel. It is ki. It is the invisible, the imponderable seeking to take a tangible form. If the form is satisfying, the spontaneous dies out.

Ki dies on taking form, this is the point in common that I found between Ueshiba and Noguchi. Understand here: ki in the sense of impulsion.

We’re hungry. We eat. We are full. We don’t want to hear another word about food.

But the value of human beings is in their ability to find the ki that is never satisfied. Mr Ueshiba told me what his Aikido would be like when he was one hundred and fifty years old. He died at the halfway point.’⁵

Itsuo Tsuda respiration — Tsuda Itsuo: ‘I live, I go, I do.’

Dreams or illusions

The problem with dissatisfaction arises when it overwhelms us. Work, family, boredom, commuting, cars, feeling fed up – when the world shrinks around us, we seek escape. So we dream. And another trap closes in on us because the injunction to “live your dreams” has become nothing more than a compensatory phenomenon. Paradoxically, we encourage people to chase their dreams, but this becomes an illusion, a mirage that keeps them where they already are.

As philosopher Henri Lefebvre analysed in the 1950s: ‘dissatisfied, suffocated, the individual feels as though he is dying before he has lived, and is forced into the insane situation of pleading for a “repetition” of the life he has never had.’⁶

‘In their work as in their “private” life and leisure activities, most people remain imprisoned within narrow, out-of-date frames of reference. Even if they are worried or discontented, even if they want to smash these social limits, they have no clear idea of the possibilities.’⁷

Accustomed since childhood, it is difficult to break out of the consumption-compensation relationship of leisure and tourism, to break out of compensation and return to a lived, direct relationship, to an enjoyment of the act as proposed by the Situationists, for whom Lefebvre was a source of inspiration.

I believe that intense, in-depth practice of an art form can help us reconnect with reality. In the case of Aikidō, this art brings us into contact with the fully experienced act, the present moment. Not the absurd (derealised) reality of our daily lives, but the reality of sensation, of contact with others, the reality of the body. When practising Aikidō, we are no longer in the context of work or leisure; it is a practice that calls for the totality of the individual. It is not just a question of the number of hours practised. Obviously, practising every day helps, but it is not essential. After a while, whatever we do in life, Aikidō, and also Katsugen Undō in our school, become the axes that articulate our existence.

Finally, to paraphrase an author talking about the act of revolting: practising in a dōjō is a situation where ‘by giving oneself to it unreservedly, one always finds more in it than one brought to it or sought from it: one is surprised to find one’s own strength in it, a stamina and an inventiveness that is new, plus the happiness that comes from strategically inhabiting a situation of exception on a daily basis.’⁸

Thus, little by little, our whole life “becomes” aikidō. And we find ourselves ‘inhabiting a situation of exception on a daily basis’.

This is often what masters exude; their lives are total. Their entire lives are a constant journey and a quest to go beyond what, even now, dissatisfies them.

Tsuda Itsuo always brought everyone back to their own decision by saying:

‘My formula is: “I live, I go, I do.”

You will say that I am selfish, because I only speak of what is happening inside of me. It is true that I do not say like so many philanthropists:

“Do not worry. I will do everything for you. I will eat for you, I will digest for you, I will defecate and urinate for you, I will breathe for you.”

I say coldly:

“I will not do anything for you until you are determined to do it on your own.” ’⁹

Manon Soavi

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Article by Manon Soavi published in April 2022 in Self & Dragon Spécial Aikido n° 9.

Photo credits: Bruno Vienne, Bas van Buuren

Notes

1
Mei Keiko Ando, Ikebana, Zen Art, Chap. X, ’My Grandmother and Her Ikebanas’, 2017 (French transl. from the Italian), pub. Centro di Cultura Giapponese [Eng. transl. from the French, pp. 140–1]
2
interview by Léo Tamaki, Yashima #11 [in French], March 2021 [hara hachi-bu: 腹八分]
3
Tsuda Itsuo, The Non-Doing, Chap. VII, 2023, Yume Editions (Paris), p. 72
4
Tsuda Itsuo, The Path of Less, Chap. XVIII, 2018, Yume Editions (Paris), p. 174
5
ibid., Chap. VIII, p. 87
6
Henri Lefebvre, Critique of Everyday Life — Volume I — Introduction, ‘3 — Marxism as Critical Knowledge of Everyday Life’, 2008, pub. Verso (London & New York), transl. 1991 by John Moore, p. 141
7
ibid., ‘6 — What Is Possible’, p. 247
8
The Invisible Committee, To Our Friends, April 2015, transl. by Robert Hurley, pub. Semiotext(e) (South Pasadena – California), the Intervention Series, p. 219
9
Tsuda Itsuo, The Way of the Gods, Chap. III (end), 2021, Yume Editions, pp. 29–30

Aïkido, Articles_Blog, EN, FR, IT

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

Would you like to hear about the next article?

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

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Itsuo Tsuda Spring Calligraphies

15 December 2025 name

The event surrounding the publication of Itsuo Tsuda’s book Calligraphies de Printemps [Spring Calligraphies] was held on 18 and 19 November 2017 at Dojo Tenshin in Paris. The audience was able to enjoy nearly 100 reproductions of Itsuo Tsuda’s calligraphies and discover the 468-page book.

A look back in video, images… and text!

Presentation by Régis Soavi

Articles_Blog, EN, FR, IT

Holding One’s Course

15 December 2025 name

While no single practice is obviously a ready-made solution to the situation we are experiencing [March 2020 lockdown], continuing a daily practice often helps us to hold our inner course and keep our balance in an unstable situation full of unknowns.

The practical philosophy taught by Itsuo Tsuda is also a path to rediscovering our “inner freedom”. Current events impose severe external constraints on us: it is no longer possible to meet up to practise, or even to move around freely. Some people are also unable to do their jobs, preoccupied with financial difficulties, their loved ones, their health… In short, there is no shortage of reasons for concern and constraints. We are all affected in one way or another, but while recognising this fact, we can look within ourselves and around us for elements that will help us get through this period.

garder un cap - Quietude interieure calligraphie itsuo tsuda — _Inner Peace_, calligraphy by Itsuo Tsuda

This can only be personal; some will need a programme, some will need to practise, even alone, some will need rest, there is no universal answer. It is an opportunity, despite everything, to draw on our inner resources and decide how we want to live in the moment, whatever it may be.

To do this, we have tools at our disposal: the Respiratory Practice, the Regenerative Movement, Itsuo Tsuda‘s nine books, Régis Soavi sensei’s articles, but also what we have discovered through this: the awakening of our inner strength.

It is not a question of overcoming fear or fleeing reality, but of facing the situation while maintaining inner calm. This is one of the meanings of budo for martial arts practitioners: overcoming difficulties while maintaining one’s integrity.

As Régis Soavi sensei reminds us in his latest article, our art teaches ‘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.’¹

We invite you to read these words by Master Tsuda commenting on a sentence by his own master, Haruchika Noguchi:

‘I am free and without barriers. I detach myself from life and death. The same goes for old age and disease.. [H. N.]

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.

For Noguchi, to be free and without barriers is unconditional. In fact, for his entire life he was anything but free, working fifty years without a day of respite, extremely busy schedules, unable to go on vacation as office workers do, roused at impossible hours by clients needing his help, seeing to the education of his live-in disciples until four in the morning, then a short sleep, etc. This is the opposite of the idea we have of freedom in the West. It is slavery, pure and simple.

For Noguchi it was work around the clock, without interruption. A heavy responsibility requiring that he remain available at all times.

When we think of the organisation of modern life, which increasingly discharges individuals of responsibility, with limited work hours, leave of absence and vacations, group protection, verbal concealment, etc., such unrelenting responsibility is unthinkable.

It was the same with Master Ueshiba, who said to his disciples: you can attack me anytime, anywhere; that included the hours of sleep as well. Availability around the clock.

How could they lead such intense lives, like deep-sea fish that endure great pressure, and also feel free? Let us restate this question as a reverse proposition: it is because they felt free that they could enjoy such intensity of life.

They were beings who belonged to a different dimension from ours, some would say. As for us, we are assailed by all kinds of fears: the fear of not being able to keep ourselves alive, the fear of lack, the fear of pain and most of all, the fear of death.

I detach myself from life and death, said Noguchi. I detach myself from human affairs, said Ueshiba.

Life in Europe is dominated by the Administration. One must not do anything that does not correspond to some administrative category. All these categories are a century old by now. It is not surprising that Aikido is classified as a combat sport, despite the spirit of the founder. Everything has to be stored in the drawers of an old wardrobe, shirts here, and socks there. But what exactly does the Administration take care of? Human affairs. There are no drawers for things that do not concern it. There is no place in Europe for Seitai or Aikido unless they are disguised as something else. If the Administration decides that Aikido is a handkerchief, it must be ironed, folded into quarters and put in the top left drawer. We cannot do anything about it.

Life, death, old age, and disease are all themes that keep the waltz of structures going, as well as the foxtrot of money. So they are extremely important.

But when one backs away from it all, what a relief! Then we can talk about real freedom without barriers.’²

Notes

1
Régis Soavi, « Reishiki: a Music Score », review Yashima #07 (in French), March 2020
2
Itsuo Tsuda, One, pp. 24-6, 2016, Yume Editions

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Unpublished Letters #2

15 December 2025 name

Continuation of Itsuo Tsuda’s correspondence, from which we are publishing a few letters, with the kind permission of Bernard and Andréine Bel. Link to read the first letter.

These are Itsuo Tsuda‘s replies, between 1972 and 1979, to a young couple who were beginning to practise the Regenerating Movement. In these letters, we follow their desire to share this discovery with those around them in their town.

This letter followed a letter in which we told Itsuo Tsuda about our stay in Saanen in July, during which we had a group of people practise the Regenerating Movement, including a large number of students of Yvon Achard, a yoga teacher in Grenoble. The group’s reaction had been enthusiastic. Itsuo Tsuda‘s reflection on the tendency of Westerners to lump everything together prompted us to exercise great caution. We were careful never to use this term, even though our sessions were identical in every way to those organised by Katsugen-Kai. It was also at this time that we decided never to accept money from participants: ‘among family and friends’… Andréine Bel
Read more →

Articles_Blog, EN, entretiens, FR, Non classé

#3 Breathing, a Living Philosophy

9 December 2025 name

Here is the third 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.

(back to Broadcast N° 2)

BROADCAST N° 3

Q.: You know France very well, having worked before the 1940s with two extremely important figures, Marcel Granet and Marcel Mauss. Marcel Granet was a sinologist and Marcel Mauss a sociologist. What were the most important moments you spent with them?

I. T.: For five years, I attended these scholars’ courses, and it opened my eyes to unknown aspects of Western society. Mauss dealt with the sociology of different peoples, including the Polynesians, and so on. He had a very, very deep view of things, and he observed things that he called “total phenomena”, whereas in Western societies, things are always analytical, rational, and so on.

Q.: Yes, the idea of globality.

I. T.: Yes… and Granet also gave me the opportunity to view ancient Chinese society from a very, very different perspective from the usual; that is, transforming everything, using Western reasoning. .

Q.: After this French period, this Parisian period, you returned to Japan, and there you had another absolutely decisive encounter, with Master Ueshiba, the creator of Aikidō, and Master Noguchi.

I. T.: Master Noguchi enabled me to see things in a very concrete way. Through the things manifested by each individual, it is possible to see what is going on inside. It is completely different from the analytical approach, in which the head, the heart, the digestive organs each have their own specialization; and there’s the body on one hand and the psyche on the other, isn’t that so? Well, he made it possible to see the human being, that is, the concrete individual, in its totality.

Q.: So you worked there with Master Noguchi, and also with Master Ueshiba for several years.

I. T.: I worked with Master Ueshiba for ten years before coming to France. Well, he gave me the opportunity to be something other than… the individual trapped inside the skin. I visited the United States, and then I tried to see what the possibilities were, what I was going to do. I started by writing, and little by little, it took shape.

Q.: I believe The Non-Doing was published in 1973. It was the first book you published. Around what time did you return to France?

I. T.: 1970.

Q.: And then you decide to create l’École de la Respiration. That is quite a singular term! Can you tell us why you say “school”? Surely this was not a school in the traditional sense of the word?

I. T.: No, not at all (laughs). It’s the only name I could come up with to make people understand that there’s a whole… thing behind the breath. For the uninitiated, breathing is the work of the lungs. But here the word “breathing” takes on a greater and greater extent, doesn’t it?

Q.: Yes, so at l’École de la Respiration, people practise the Regenerating Movement. You described the Regenerating Movement as an exercise of the extrapyramidal motor system.

I. T.: Yes. The Regenerating Movement is not a discipline in the usual sense of the word.

Q.: The word extra-pyramidal may not be immediately comprehensible to our listeners. In any case, the term “extra-pyramidal” basically refers to an area of the brain, as compared to another considered to be the seat of voluntary movement.

I. T.: Yes. In humans, there are two motor tracts. One is the pyramidal motor system, which is the source of all voluntary movement. That’s what we learn in school, like the interweaving of the nervous systems, and so on.

Q.: It’s a term from physiology…

I. T.: …yes, that’s right. But for a long time we neglected the extra-pyramidal system, which supports this voluntary system, because we were afraid of leaving the voluntary system, and that is precisely what Master Noguchi started to do. When he himself began, he was a little surprised because the body starts to move on its own. When you believe that the whole body obeys your will, it is strange, isn’t it? But the truth is, we do not control all the body’s movements. If that were necessary, what would we do when we’re asleep?

Q.: There is a whole area of our activity that is covered by the voluntary system. But that system does not govern all our activity. There is an area that is beyond the reach of the will.

I. T.: There’s a Japanese doctor who says that voluntary movement accounts for only three per cent of our total bodily movement. But for Noguchi, nothing is voluntary. That’s (laughs) really strong.

Q.: In short, the action of the extra-pyramidal system is somehow superimposed on the action of the pyramidal system.

I. T.: Yes.

Q.: You’ve specified that the Regenerating Movement exists in two forms…

I. T.: … Yes…

Q.: … on the one hand, in all individuals, it exists as a form of natural bodily reaction, for example, yawning, sneezing, restlessness during sleep. And then there is another form, developed about fifty years ago by Master Noguchi. Master Noguchi, it should be pointed out, is the creator of the so-called “Seitai” method.

I. T.: He embarked on this career by pure chance. It was the time of the great earthquake of 1924 that hit the entire Tōkyō area. He was twelve at the time. He was very interested in that sort of thing, he had fun with it. But the whole region was devastated, and there were people who were homeless and wandering around; diarrhoea was spreading, and so on. He saw a woman crouched down in great pain. So he rushed over to her and simply applied his hand…

Q.: … applied his hand to the spine…

I. T.: … and then she said, “thank you, child”, or anyway, she smiled at him. That was the starting point of his career. The very next day, people started coming to see him. Starting on that day, he was no longer able to leave this path. This is what we practise now under the name of “yuki”: you put your hand on the spine or the head and then exhale through your hand, and that’s it. Well, when you see it done, at first glance, it doesn’t seem like much. But as you concentrate on it, you feel that it’s working inside you.

Q.: So yuki is one of the elements of the technique developed by Master Noguchi. There’s something that surprises me a little about the technique you’re describing: Seitai, as you explain, is a technique used to provoke something spontaneous. Isn’t that a little paradoxical?

I. T.: Seitai is a word that Noguchi coined later. In the beginning, by force of circumstance, he simply became… a healer. He practised therapeutics. But, around 1950, there, he abandoned this notion of healing, of therapeutics; he rejected all that and created the notion of “Seitai”, meaning “normalised terrain”. When the terrain is normalised, problems disappear on their own.

Q.: Perhaps we could temporarily summarise the Regenerating Movement with two important elements: the exercise of the extrapyramidal motor system. This exercise is not really a technique. In fact you say, “at l’École de la Respiration, we work without knowledge, without technique and without purpose”. As for the second important element, the Regenerating Movement is a spontaneous movement that virtually exists in all individuals, and we cannot say that the Movement is provoked; it becomes activated in individuals.

[end of Broadcast N° 3/6]

continue with Broadcast N° 4:

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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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Articles_Blog, Dojo Tenshin, EN, FR, IT, Katsugen undo

‘Is biological and cultural extinction underway?’

8 December 2025 name

[Sept. 21] Marc-André Selosse is a biologist and professor at the Natural History Museum and teaches at several universities in France and abroad. His research focuses on mutually beneficial associations (symbiosis), and his teaching focuses on plants, microbes, ecology and evolution. In 2020, just before the first lockdown, Tenshin dōjō (Paris) was due to host him for a lecture on microbiota. Due to circumstances, this lecture could not take place, but we hope to be able to make this invitation a reality as soon as possible. In the meantime, we invite you to (re)discover his fascinating work through two videos and the article we wrote about his book Never Alone (in French) and its points of convergence with Seitai.

Marc-André Selosse : ‘Is biological and cultural extinction underway?’

[excerpt]

‘The biological microbiota within us is in poor health, it is shrinking and directly affecting our health: we suffer from these “diseases of modernity”, which affect our immune system (allergies, asthma, autoimmune diseases, etc.), our nervous system (Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s, autism, etc.), and our metabolism (diabetes, obesity, etc.). We have observed that the microbiota is less diverse in sick individuals than in healthy individuals. By 2025, these diseases of modernity, linked to the decline of our microbiota, will affect 1 in 4 Europeans.’

To continue, click on the video:

Presentation at the symposium organised by the Fondation pour la Biodiversité Fromagère [Foundation for Cheese Biodiversity] on 14 September 2021 as part of the Mondial du Fromage [World Cheese Fair] in Tours (France).

Marc-André Selosse, Medicine in the Face of Evolution

Marc-André Selosse answers questions from the Yvelines Medical Council

What binds us together: microbiota and human terrain

by Fabien R. (February 2020)

Since the dawn of civilisation, microbes have shaped our diet, enabling food (bread, cheese, wine, vegetables, etc.) to be preserved and consumed. Domesticated empirically for thousands of years, the microorganisms involved in these processes were only identified relatively recently, less than 200 years ago.

And it is only even more recently that scientists have begun to study the microbiota, i. e. all the bacteria, fungi, viruses, etc. that are harboured by a host organism (e. g. a human being) and live in a specific environment of that host, such as the skin or stomach.

Most of us are unaware that our lives depend on a close association, called symbiosis, that we naturally establish with tens of billions of bacteria that populate the surface of our bodies and even the depths of our intestines. We consider ourselves to be above and independent of all this microbial influence, with the notable exception of people with colds, who often hear the phrase, ‘Ah, but don’t give me your germs!’ The microbiota is therefore considered, at best, only for or in terms of its pathogenic potential.

This now outdated but still omnipresent view of microbes as harmful has profoundly influenced our relationship with nature, our bodies and, more broadly, life itself. Whether it be pesticides in agriculture or antibacterial soaps and disinfectant gels on our skin, these products indiscriminately eliminate both beneficial and harmful microorganisms, creating conditions that impoverish the soil – both in our fields and in our mucous membranes.

These hygienist actions, repeated over time, starting at birth, prevent the human immune system from maturing, so that later on it will no longer be able to recognise the body of which it is a part, or will have disproportionate reactions. Our era is also one of autoimmune diseases and allergies.¹

The Seitai principles, in the work of Haruchika Noguchi², start from a radical point of view: intuitive rather than analytical. Based on his thirty years of experience as a healer, H. Noguchi abandoned the idea of therapy in the 1950s because he had observed that it weakened individuals’ bodies and made them dependent on the practitioner. This led him to consider health in a completely different way, acknowledging that the body’s reactions are manifestations of an organism responding to restore its balance.

‘Illness is natural, the body’s effort to recover lost balance.’ ‘It is good that illness exists, but people must avoid becoming enslaved to it. This is how Noguchi happened to conceive of the notion of Seitai, the normalisation of the terrain, if you will.’ ³

This rebalancing is the work of the involuntary system; it does not depend on our will. It causes symptoms that involve the microbiota. For example, the flows that expel harmful germs from the body (colds, diarrhoea)⁴, the regulatory function of fever, or the antibiotic function of iron deficiency in pregnant women.⁵

humain forêt symbiose microbiote — photo by Jérémie Logeay

The Seitai philosophy has the distinctive feature of viewing human beings as an indivisible whole. There is no separation between the psychological and the physical. The word seitai (整体) translates as ‘normalised terrain’. H. Noguchi‘s concept of terrain is comprehensive. It partly overlaps with the concept of microbiota. For us, the latter is like the soil surrounding the roots of a tree; it is Nature living in harmony and collaboration within each of us, without us even being aware of it. That is why we are never alone.

Whether we consider microbes to be harmful and fight them, or take advantage of their help and collaborate with them naturally, is a question of inner orientation. Favouring excessive hygiene or promoting what Mr. Selosse calls ‘clean dirt’⁶ is part of this same choice. The expression ‘cultivating one’s garden’⁷ takes on a new and concrete meaning. It all depends on us.

Where instinct has disappeared, scientific discoveries must be made available. Although self-taught, H. Noguchi was fully aware of the science of his time. This fuelled his reflections and intuitions. In this same spirit, we are honoured to welcome Prof. Marc-André Selosse, who will present the latest discoveries on the human microbiota and engage in a discussion with the audience.

Notes

1
Marc-André Selosse, Jamais seul — Ces microbes qui construisent les plantes, les animaux et les civilisations [Never Alone — The Microbes That Build Plants, Animals and Civilisations], 2017, pub. Actes Sud (Arles, France), p. 185
2
See the work of Itsuo Tsuda (9 volumes), available from pub. Courrier du Livre (Paris), and Haruchika Noguchi, 3 books in English available from Zensei Publishing
3
Itsuo Tsuda, The Dialogue of Silence, Chap. IX, Yume Editions, 2018 (1979), pp. 75 & 76
4
Never Alone (op. cit.), p. 156
5
See the blog article Marc-André Selosse: La disparition silencieuse des SVT [M.-A S.: The Quiet Disappearance of Earth and Life Sciences], Café pédagogique [Pedagogical Coffee], 7 May 2019
6
Never Alone (op. cit.), p. 156 and p. 197
7
ibid., p. 169

Articles_Blog, EN, FR, Katsugen undo, Non classé

What Binds Us Together: Microbiota and Human Terrain

8 December 2025 name

On 30 November 2022, Tenshin dōjō in Paris will welcome biologist Marc-André Selosse for a lecture entitled: The Human Microbiota: From Our Bodies to Our Civilisations.

Here we offer you a reading of his book Never Alone (in French) and its points of convergence with Seitai.

What binds us together: microbiota and human terrain

Reservations required

Notes

1
Marc-André Selosse, Jamais seul — Ces microbes qui construisent les plantes, les animaux et les civilisations [Never Alone — The Microbes That Build Plants, Animals and Civilisations], 2017, pub. Actes Sud (Arles, France), p. 185
2
See the work of Itsuo Tsuda (9 volumes), available from pub. Courrier du Livre (Paris), and Haruchika Noguchi, 3 books in English available from Zensei Publishing
3
Itsuo Tsuda, The Dialogue of Silence, Chap. IX, Yume Editions, 2018 (1979), pp. 75 & 76
4
Never Alone (op. cit.), p. 156
5
See the blog article Marc-André Selosse: La disparition silencieuse des SVT [M.-A S.: The Quiet Disappearance of Earth and Life Sciences], Café pédagogique [Pedagogical Coffee], 7 May 2019
6
Never Alone (op. cit.), p. 156 and p. 197
7
ibid., p. 169

Aïkido, Articles_Blog, EN, FR, IT

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

Articles_Blog, EN, FR, Manon Soavi, Non classé

To Live Utopia – Interview with Manon Soavi

6 December 2025 name

[Oct. 23] In this interview, Manon Soavi talks to us about her book Itsuo Tsuda, The Anarchist Master — The Art of Living Utopia.

1/11: Une enfance libre?

2/11: Les racines du taoïsme et de l'anarchisme

3/11: Itsuo Tsuda et l'anarchisme

4/11: La philosophie pratique d'Itsuo Tsuda

5/11 : Les outils d'une révolution

6/11 : Le dojo, lieu d'expérimentation collective

7/11 : Un outils quotidien: le bain chaud

8/11 : La science du particulier

9/11 : Les capacités naturelles des enfants

10/11 : La société du haut du corps

11/11 : Le rapport hommes-femmes

Itsuo Tsuda, The Anarchist Master — The Art of Living Utopia is available at your local bookshop or on L’Originel publishing website.

In this interview, Manon Soavi discusses several aspects covered in her book:

A free childhood
The roots of Taoism and anarchism
Itsuo Tsuda and anarchism
Itsuo Tsuda‘s practical philosophy: Aikidō and Katsugen undō
The tools of a revolution
The dōjō, a place for collective experimentation
A daily tool: the hot bath
The science of the particular
Children’s natural abilities
The upper body society
The relationship between men and women

To find out about meetings and events related to the book, visit this webpage.

An interview conducted in Paris at Tenshin dōjō.

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Articles_Blog, culture, EN, FR, IT, Manon Soavi

The Path of Itsuo Tsuda – Interview With Manon Soavi

6 December 2025 name

[Apr. 23] Interview with Manon Soavi for the publication of Itsuo Tsuda, The Anarchist Master — The Art of Living Utopia, published by L’Originel (Obernai, France). By Louise Vertigo, on AligreFM radio programme Respirations, 17 February 2023 broadcast live.

Listen to the podcast here [in French] or read the [English] transcript below:

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LV: Hello Manon Soavi.

MS: Hello.

LV: I am delighted to welcome you for the publication of your book Itsuo Tsuda, The Anarchist Master — The Art of Living Utopia, published by L’Originel. For you, the practice of energy and martial arts leads to something more, as it prompts you to reflect on and take a stance on the functioning of society itself. This is what we will discover throughout the programme. First of all, I would like to ask you to introduce yourself.

MS: Thank you for having me today. I often say that I am like Obelix: I fell into the pot when I was little, since my parents began this journey before I was born.

It started with the May 1968 revolts and the questioning of systems in the 1970s. Then their encounter with Itsuo Tsuda enabled them to truly implement and experience in their bodies and sensibilities a different way of looking at the world, at life and at human relationships. It was a turning point for putting all these ideas into practice, all the turmoil that surrounded those years: anarchists, situationists, all those thinkers who questioned the modern world. And these thoughts that nourished them found a very strong echo in Itsuo Tsuda. This encounter changed their way of life, their way of being – gradually, it was a journey.

When I was born, and then my sister three years later, something obviously continued in terms of the relationship with the children and the pace of life. In other words, there was no question of them having come all this way towards liberation, this journey to break free from these systems of domination, only to let their children start again from scratch. That’s why it was only natural that neither my sister nor I ever went to school. That’s fundamental. Because not going to school allowed us to have a very different life, a kind of continuum between childhood, adolescence and adulthood, without these separations, these boxes, these categories of child | man | woman | work | leisure – everything was intertwined. And the philosophy of Itsuo Tsuda, the philosophy of Non-Doing, the importance of the body, of the subconscious, all of that was present, omnipresent in our daily lives.

Manon Soavi en entretien sur Aligre FM — Manon Soavi on AligreFM radio (93.1)

LV: Yes, we will develop all that. You are Sensei Régis Soavi‘s daughter. Your father was a student of Itsuo Tsuda for ten years. He has been teaching Aikidō for over forty years...

MS: Fifty years now, actually.

LV: Oh, right! And could you… So I imagine it was Itsuo Tsuda who brought him to this level?

MS: My father started jūdō when he was young, at the age of 12, and pursued it for a while. Then he started Aikidō, practising with several Aikidō masters, including Master Noro and Master Tamura. He had a long journey in Aikidō… and one day (in 1973) he met Itsuo Tsuda. Itsuo Tsuda was someone who completely reoriented his practice of Aikidō. Moreover, the discovery of Katsugen Undō – which translates as Regenerative Movement – was another dimension that, too, changed the nature of my father’s Aikidō. Itsuo Tsuda became his master, the one he followed for ten years, until his death. Shortly before Itsuo Tsuda‘s death in 1983, Régis Soavi decided to move to Toulouse and open his own dōjō. Itsuo Tsuda agreed and encouraged him to continue on his path. Since then, he has continued to teach every morning for 50 years. Every morning, he teaches Aikidō. And to introduce people to Katsugen Undō.

LV: Very well, yes. I was lucky enough to have this experience with you. So now we’re going to talk about Itsuo Tsuda‘s unique journey. And first, we’ll talk about his influences. Who was he? And perhaps we can start by talking a little about the beginning of everything in energy, which is the Tao. So who was he, and what was his journey?

MS: Itsuo Tsuda was born in 1914 into a Japanese family living in Korea. Korea was occupied by Japan at the time. It was a very rigid, harsh, militarised, colonialist society. At the age of 16, Itsuo Tsuda refused the right of primogeniture. He opposed his father quite violently, since he left home. He left everything behind at the age of 16 and went wandering, as he said. He travelled through China. And finally, in the 1930s, he had only one desire: to visit France. In my opinion, he had already been exposed to anarchist ideas in China through publications, and this had already made an impression on him. But when he arrived in France in 1934, it was the time of the Popular Front, a period of significant social change in France, the scale of which has been largely forgotten today, and when the anarchist movement was very strong.

These years in Paris were extremely important for Itsuo Tsuda. He studied under Marcel Granet and Marcel Mauss at the Sorbonne, studying sinology and sociology. These researchers had a profound influence on his thinking and his understanding of the world and different cultures. When the war broke out, he was forced to leave for Japan. At the age of 30, he discovered his country during the Second World War. This was also a major upheaval. He would have liked to stay in France, where he still had a whole journey ahead of him. But life decided otherwise.

After the war, he immersed himself in his own culture, which he ultimately knew little about. He discovered Noh theatre and then Seitai, with Master Haruchika Noguchi, and spent the last ten years of Master Ueshiba‘s life studying Aikidō. This journey, with these discoveries of a culture where the body is not separate from the mind, where there is this feeling of life in everything, where things are not inert matter, are not separate, as much the body as the mind, nature, ourselves… We are a whole. And this is a discovery of a way of thinking that he had already approached, through ancient China, through Marcel Granet. And his research on anthropology, which he continued all those years in Japan – he translated Marcel Granet‘s The Religion of the Chinese People, he was the first translator into Japanese, it was really something he explored in depth. And this discovery of Taoism – he is a great connoisseur of Chuang Tzu.

But Japan was also closed off for 200 years. This explains why they have preserved traces of a much older, much more fundamental culture, which continues to be expressed in traditional arts.

LV: Yes. Very interesting. So, I’m going to read a passage from your book and then we’ll take a musical break, which will give you time to think about the question. Regarding the Tao, which he is interested in:

‘ “In this initiatory geography of the Dao [Tao], there is a dark threshold represented by the bottom of a mysterious valley.” The Dao De Jing expresses this in a vague and poetic way: “The spirit of the valley does not die. It is the Dark Female, […] this is the origin of heaven and earth. Indiscernible, it always seems present and never runs out within us.” Gu Meisheng explains that this is a figurative way of talking about the active aspect of the void, which he explains in these words: “The valley is both an empty and sensitive place that echoes sounds. The valley is empty, but when we shout, the echo answers us. Such is the nature of the dao. The dao is therefore a void of extreme sensitivity.” ’

We listen to Dead of Night by Orville Peck.

MS: In this excerpt you read about the Tao, Master Gu Meisheng explains it very well. Only poetry can truly convey something that cannot be expressed in words.

You are probably familiar with the Zen story about a Zen master in a monastery who asks one of the monks to clean the garden… So the monk rakes and rakes and cleans until everything is spotless, then goes to see the master and says, ‘There, it’s done.’ The master arrives, looks at it and says, ‘Do it again.’ So the student starts again, cleaning everything thoroughly, impeccably, and returns to the master and says, ‘There, it’s done, master.’ So the master comes and says, ‘That’s not right,’ and leaves. The student is starting to get fed up. So this time he leaves a small pile of dead leaves. He returns to the master and says, ‘It’s done.’ When the master arrives, he looks and says nothing. Well, that’s what the void is: the void is active. We cannot define it definitively. But it’s true that it goes completely against our philosophy, against the way we see the world today in the West, which has spread throughout practically the entire world.

This is exactly what Tanizaki lamented in In Praise of Shadows. We have this idea that everything must be brought to light, everything must be dissected, there must be no grey areas, there must be no unknowns, everything must be explainable by rationality. Except that when we dissect a human body, an animal body, whatever, the essential is no longer there anyway. There will always be that essential that escapes us.

And in my opinion, this is completely in line with the analyses of some ecofeminist thinkers, or also Mona Chollet, who talk about this whole aspect that is unknowable by rational science, but which can be felt, experienced, which is something that human beings know, to which they have a very strong connection. Ecofeminist thinkers try to deconstruct our understanding of the world to show that rationality may not be on the side we think it is, that it may not be about dissecting everything, approaching everything from the most rational angle. Perhaps there is a whole that completely escapes us, a relationship with the Earth, a relationship with living things, perhaps even a relationship with the obscure, with the body, with all those things that we have denigrated, relegated, crushed, and that we need to revalue or rediscover.

LV: Yes. Mystery is very important, it is very precious. So here we come to the principles of martial arts: cultivating sensitivity and attention. Remaining attentive to biological speed, which requires intense concentration. I took that from your book. So we were talking about gyō in the influences of this master…

MS: Yes, so Itsuo Tsuda found in the body practices of seitai and Aikidō this embodiment, this possibility of feeling. He found the dimension of ki and breathing. Gyō is a term that is often translated as asceticism¹. Except that the difference between Western asceticism is that we seek to leave our bodies through practices, to no longer feel, to extract ourselves from the body. Whereas in gyō, in the ascetic practices of Asia or even in India, at least in certain branches, on the contrary, we seek unity, the reunification of mind and body through ascetic practices. These ascetic practices influenced Me Ueshiba in particular, who passed on some of them through Aikidō. Through Aikidō, we can see a possibility of rediscovering this connection, this wholeness of being.

LV: You mentioned seitai again, and the regenerative movement. Perhaps you could enlighten us a little on this.

MS: Seitai was developed by Mr Haruchika Noguchi in the 1950s. It focuses on what makes each individual unique and indivisible, and on their innate ability to balance themselves in order to maintain their health. It is the unconscious movement of the body.

Among Seitai, which could be described as a philosophy, an understanding of human beings, there are several techniques and practices, including Katsugen Undō, which Itsuo Tsuda translates as Regenerating Movement, and it is precisely this aspect that interests Itsuo Tsuda: Regenerating Movement. It was this aspect of Seitai that he chose to pass on in France in the 1970s. He was interested in it because, with his personal orientation, his philosophy, his search for freedom for himself and others, this search for freedom and autonomy, he saw in Katsugen Undō a way to reactivate the body’s own means of regaining balance. No longer depending on an expert, an external practice, the opinion of a master or anyone else.

That’s why I compare it to what Ivan Illich called ‘convivial’ things, which are tools that anyone can use, no expertise required, and that’s fundamental to Itsuo Tsuda.

LV: Yes, it reminds me of how we work with that dimension in Qi Qong. We work with these dimensions of self-medication that are the body.

MS: Mr Noguchi said that we never stopped with the ‘you must’ and ‘you must not’, with external instructions, and since the 1950s, this has only gotten worse. Today, we must eat five fruits and vegetables a day, we must drink a litre of water, we must eat but exercise, we must do sport, but not too much… we are constantly bombarded with external injunctions…

LV: That’s true.

MS: And we forget our own biological needs, which depend on the day, the moment, lots of things, and which are not the same for us, for my neighbour, for my child; everyone has different needs and the only compass is ourselves. Rediscovering the ability to sense whether we want carrots or chocolate, whether we’ve eaten enough or not, is quite simply the beginning of autonomy.

LV: Absolutely. So now let’s talk a little about Ki, which is called Qi in China, for example. You write, ‘Ki defies any attempt at categorisation,’ said Itsuo Tsuda, who explained this many times. Here in the West, Ki is very difficult to explain because it does not fit into the system of categories. And you give this example: feeling observed.

MS: Depending on the circumstances, Ki can be translated as intuition, atmosphere, intention, vitality, breathing, action, movement, spontaneity… it is something fluid that cannot really be defined. Itsuo Tsuda also said, ‘Ki dies on taking form’². But it is something that can be felt. It is a concrete experience. He gave this example: you are walking down the street and suddenly you feel it. You feel that you are being watched, you turn around… perhaps you find “someone” watching you from behind a curtain. Maybe it’s just a cat, but either way, you felt it. You sense the intention. Obviously, in martial arts, we use it to sense the ki of aggression, of danger. That’s one form. But we can also sense the ki of danger for other reasons. Conversely, we can sense a welcoming ki, we can sense an atmosphere. We feel good in certain places. And in certain places, we feel extremely uncomfortable.

LV: And even with people. For me, there are friendships, loves of ki.

MS: Absolutely. There are people who give off something.

LV: You immediately feel at ease, immediately comfortable, because that qi – I would say qi or ki, it doesn’t matter – speaks to mine (laughs).

MS: Of course. Absolutely. The problem is that from childhood, from early childhood, we are taught not to listen to ourselves. Not to listen to our intuition, that thing that speaks to us. So unfortunately, by losing touch with ourselves, we forget that feeling a little.

LV: Very well, let’s think about that while listening to Hot Hot Hot by Matthew E. White.

LV: We’ve touched on this briefly, because it must be said that this book is very rich and I recommend it to you, but now we’re going to talk about Itsuo Tsuda‘s teaching itself. And I’m going to ask you first what he found in the practice of Aikidō by Me Ueshiba?

MS: He met Mr Ueshiba in the last years of his life. At the end of a lifetime of practice and research, Mr Ueshiba proposed an evolution of his art. He called it a path of love. I believe it is a powerful tool for human evolution. There is indeed gyō, ascetic practices, misogi, and various other things that fuelled his own research.

I believe that what fascinated Itsuo Tsuda was this master’s freedom of movement. Tsuda was already in his eighties, yet he had a freedom of movement that Itsuo Tsuda, who was forty, did not have; he already felt stiff. Through the practice of Aikidō, the daily practice of the first part, which Itsuo Tsuda called the respiratory practice, which is an individual practice with all kinds of movements that bring the body back to life, into movement, that deepen the breath, it is something that actually nourishes, that nourishes the life within us.

What is rather strange, or curious, is that even among rebels and revolutionaries such as The Invisible Committee, we find this sentence where they say: ‘the depletion of natural resources is probably much less advanced than the depletion of subjective resources, the vital resources that affect our contemporaries’. It is this exhaustion that is at issue, and it is a matter of revitalising internal resources, this root. Itsuo Tsuda said that he was there to propose ‘to revive the root’³. And I think that is what he also found in Aikidō.

In any case, that is what “this practice” taught him, that is what it gave him as a direction. Because here again, as with Seitai, where he took up Katsugen Undō, in Aikidō there were also more martial and other aspects that did not interest him, which other students of Master Ueshiba developed, each following their own path.

But what interested him was the aspect of breathing, the circulation of ki, this possibility through the body. That’s what struck him and that’s what he passed on in his school.

Itsuo Tsuda on the right, Régis Soavi in between, ca 1980

LV: It’s true that Master Ueshiba‘s aikidō is a great treasure and that some have developed their own path. And there is also Master Noro, who created a movement, an art of movement.

MS: Absolutely, yes.

LV: It is no longer a martial art but an art of movement. In fact, they were friends..

MS: Yes, absolutely. He knew Master Noro, who created Ki no michi, quite well. There was a big age difference, since Master Noro was a student of Master Ueshiba at a very young age, he was a live-in student, he was 17, 18 years old, whereas Itsuo Tsuda actually started Aikidō at the age of forty-five. And despite this big age difference, they had a lot in common, a fairly strong affinity.

The fact that Itsuo Tsuda started Aikidō so late also gave him the opportunity to acquire intellectual knowledge, as he also had a background in Sinology, to have these references because Mr Ueshiba spoke in a poetic, literary way, with references to mythology and Chinese culture. Itsuo Tsuda had a background, he was truly an intellectual, and he had the knowledge that allowed him to get into it. He was also the translator, the interpreter in fact at the beginning, and he continued to be the interpreter for Westerners who came to see Ueshiba. Like André Nocquet and others. So it was also a way for him to be very much in touch with Master Ueshiba‘s discourse, which he had to translate to make it understandable to these Westerners.

LV: Very good. So there’s another aspect that I found interesting about Master Itsuo Tsuda, which is ‘the mnemonic that consists of forgetting’⁴.

MS: (laughs) It’s about reconnecting with yourself, as he said. It’s about trusting our inner abilities, our own resources, and also our unconscious and subconscious minds.

We think that we are the ones who decide to do this or that, but in fact, 90% of our vital activity, if not 100%, is completely unconscious. We can’t speed up or slow down our heartbeat, except perhaps a few yogis, but most of the time we have no impact on our vital functions. And we have an illusion of control over ourselves, over nature, over others… we are completely under the illusion of control.

Instead of stressing out about ‘I mustn’t forget to buy milk on my way home’ – that’s stress, it’s the mind trying to remember. And we all know very well that most of the time we get home, put down our keys and say to ourselves, ‘Oh! I forgot the milk…’. Whereas Itsuo Tsuda says, ‘Visualise yourself getting off the tube and popping into the little supermarket next door to buy milk.’ Visualise this action, you can see it, OK? And now, forget about it, don’t think about it anymore.

LV: Thank you for that advice, which I will put into practice right away. So, what happens in the dōjō? The dōjō allows you to regain control over your body, and this extends to everyday life. Let me quote you: ‘The dōjō is one of those unique places where time passes differently, where the world stops for a few moments.’

MS: In our school, we have several dōjōs, which are places entirely dedicated to Aikidō and Katsugen Undō. They are not gyms, they are not sports halls, there are no other activities. They are places that are managed by associations. So people manage themselves, organise themselves. All members are responsible for their dōjō. There is no distinction between the dōjō on one side and customers on the other. Everyone is at home and at others’ homes at the same time. So it’s a space that’s a little out of time, out of this world, thanks to the direction Itsuo Tsuda gave it, and the direction that Régis Soavi, my father, has continued for 50 years, and which I myself am now trying to continue. To continue to provide this impetus. To make people understand that it’s possible to live differently.

LV: Yes, so the dōjō is the place where we come to practise the Way. I’d like to come back to this notion of martial arts, which cannot be something mechanical where the body is an object. So it’s much more connected to this dimension of breath. And therefore to spirituality. So your father recites a norito in the morning.

MS: Yes, and not just my father. We all begin the session with this norito, which is a recitation. To be honest, we don’t even know what it means. It’s a moment, a way of putting ourselves in another state, another frame of mind. Sometimes my father uses this example, talking about a Schubert Lied that is in German – and maybe we don’t understand German. Yet when we listen to it, something resonates within us. We feel it, we hear it, it’s inexplicable.

LV: Yes. There are vowels that are sacred, particularly in Sanskrit, and the sound and vibration really have an effect. So it comes from Shintoism. It is an invocation to the original gods. I will read an excerpt where your father talks about this:

‘Régis Soavi says: “The norito does not belong to the world of religion, but certainly to the world of the sacred in the animistic sense. The vibrations and resonance produced by the pronunciation of this text bring us a feeling of calm, fulfilment and sometimes something that goes beyond that and remains inexpressible. Norito is misogi. In essence, it is never perfect; it changes and evolves. It is a reflection of a moment in our being.” ’

So let’s think about that while listening to Shannon Lay‘s song Sure.

LV: So today we’re talking about Master Itsuo Tsuda. And we’re talking about anarchism.

MS: Anarchism is a word that has become taboo. A word that is associated with violence and chaos. And in fact, we completely forget, we forget, and I would even say that it is surely done on purpose to detach it from what it was, from what anarchist philosophy still is. Anarchist philosophy is about self-organisation, self-management. It is order without power. It is simply a rejection of the domination of some over others. Ultimately, it is something that is not so unfamiliar. Even before the creation of states, let’s say around 3000 or 4000 BC, there were societies that were self-managed, and they existed for many thousands of years. And even after the creation of states, there were many places on earth that continued to be self-managed, with various ways of functioning.

There are a number of historians and researchers, such as Pierre Clastres and David Graber, who have conducted research and shown that all kinds of social organisations exist. What is certain is that even if there is a leader, the leader’s role is not one of coercion, it is not to direct others. It is often a mediating role, someone who has to find a way to organise things but who does not decide anything alone. The leader cannot give orders to others. Anarchism is about rediscovering this individual power and something that is being organised with others.

Anarchist movements have been very powerful. There have indeed been a few acts of violence that have been blown out of proportion in order to discredit the movement, to discredit a whole rich and complex body of thought. There is not one form of anarchism, there are many. And this is something that greatly influenced the thinking of Itsuo Tsuda, including the thinking of my father, Régis Soavi. This search for freedom, not only inner freedom, of course, but also freedom with others.

In the dōjō, it is really a question of taking charge of all aspects of our existence. Therefore, it is important to understand that this is not a matter of freedom that is detached from reality. Aurélien Berlan contrasts the fantasy of deliverance, where we would be freed from all material contingencies, but obviously freed alongside other people who are slaves, whether they be energy slaves, technological slaves or other dominated people. So, as opposed to the fantasy of deliverance, he talks about the quest for autonomy. Taking back control of our own abilities in all aspects of our lives. This obviously ties in with subsistence feminists, who also talk about this very important aspect of reclaiming all aspects of our lives.

And that’s what we’re looking for in a dōjō. In ours, at least, there is obviously the practical aspect of the body, but there is also the fundamental aspect of this organisation, of breaking out of a relationship where we arrive, we are customers, we pay and we want something in return. We are all involved, we are all working to keep this dōjō alive so that the place exists, for ourselves. It’s not about saying we have to do it for others, I’m sacrificing myself… not at all. Each of us does it for themselves but in collaboration with others.

dojo — Dōjō Scuola della Respirazione, Milan

LV: Yes, what I find really interesting about this path – and here we find, as you mention in your book, things in common with the Kogis in particular – is that ‘True morality arises from within’⁵. This work, this inner change, will lead to outer change. And you also say that the creation of the state has led to the dispossession of the creative values of the individual.

MS: Morality comes from within, as Kropotkin, the anarchist, says, as does Itsuo Tsuda, and indeed the Kogi people. It is not a question of having external rules, prohibitions, or injunctions, but of rediscovering the morality that makes us want to collaborate with one another.

There is also the notion of attentiveness. The Kogis live without leaders. But we live with domination. We are both dominated and dominant towards others. We cannot simply say, ‘Ah yes, this is freedom, we will do without leaders and everything will be easy.’ That is not reality. The reality is that we need to re-educate ourselves to understand the attentiveness and self-discipline that this requires. We need to rediscover both our power and our capacity for organisation.

Ultimately, there is a realisation that is somewhat similar to what Winona LaDuke says about Native Americans: they know they are oppressed, but they do not feel powerless. On the other hand, white people do not consider themselves oppressed, but they feel powerless. Well, that’s exactly it. We rediscover that ultimately we are dominated, we are dominant, but we are not powerless.

I think that was also the meaning of Itsuo Tsuda‘s statement, ‘Utopia exists nowhere except where we are.’⁶ It is about rediscovering that power today and now. And I am here to say that it is possible.

LV: Definitely. (laughs)

MS: Even if it takes time! It’s not a magic wand. It’s something you have to work at, discover. It requires a journey within your body, as well as within your mind. There are philosophical tools, tools for intellectual understanding, and tools for breaking free from what we have fully integrated since early childhood. From early childhood, children are taught not to listen to themselves, not to say ‘no’, not to be themselves. So, we end up with people who internalise domination, and we have to work to break free from that, but it is possible. It is possible to follow this path and become at least a little bit freer.

LV: Yes, we are on that path anyway. So you talk about this culture of separation, particularly when you mention babies crying, saying that it is not particularly normal for babies to cry in other cultures. In Kenya, there is more of a culture of closeness and attachment.

MS: The culture of separation is a way of separating ourselves from ourselves, from our bodies, from our feelings, and obviously from each other. It means thinking that it’s normal to let a baby cry, to drag a child down the street who is screaming because they don’t want to go to school, that it’s normal, that life is like that, that in any case you have to ‘lose your life earning it’, as the 68ers said.

And yet, is that what life is all about? Isn’t it possible to refuse to play this game altogether? Can’t we rediscover that we are free inside ourselves? Of course, people will say to me, ‘Yes, but what about money? Yes, but there are debts… Yes, but we have to pay for this, that’s how it is, in life we have to suffer…’ – but who actually said that? Really? Why? In fact, maybe just, no. Maybe we feel like we have all these chains, and in a way we do, of course. They don’t just fall off with a wave of a magic wand.

But we can forge a path that brings us together and where we will realise that the children’s tears may indeed express the fundamental truth that things are not right at all!

LV: I think that’s a very nice conclusion! So Manon Soavi, I really recommend this book, The Anarchist Master, Itsuo Tsuda – The Art of Living Utopia.

Notes

1
[see also shugyō 修行 (ascetic practices), gyōja 行者 (ascetic person) and their fusion shugyōja 修行者]
2
[see The Path of Less, Chap. IX (end), Yume Editions, 2014, p. 87
3
[see The Unstable Triangle, Chap. I, 2019, Yume Editions, p. 15]
4
[see The Unstable Triangle (op. cit.), Chap. VII
5
[see Even if I don’t think, I am, Chap. X, 2020, Yume Editions, p. 76]
6
[quote from a 1975 letter written by Tsuda to Geneva dōjō (Katsugen Kai). See also The Way of the Gods, Chap. 1 & 2, 2021, Yume Editions]

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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)

Articles_Blog, culture, EN, FR, IT, Nô

The Misogi of January 1st

5 December 2025 name

The following notes serve to trace the origins and important moments in the preparation and conduct of the Misogi ceremony on January 1^st as practised in the dōjōs of the Itsuo Tsuda School. They cannot replace the oral transmission and experience of the ceremony; they are guidelines, not a set of mandatory instructions. To help convey the atmosphere of these moments, it seemed appropriate to present these notes by drawing on the three rhythms of Japanese tradition, jo – ha – kyū, which Tsuda Itsuo discusses in his books:

‘By studying Noh theatre, I experienced the three rhythms: jo – slow, ha – normal, and kyu – fast. […]

[…]

Jo means introduction, ha rupture, change, and kyu means fast.

[…]

[…] fruits grow gradually (jo), ripen as we watch (ha), and suddenly fall from the branches (kyu).’¹

Origin and preparations (jo)

Life in our School’s dōjōs is punctuated by several cycles. Between the cycle that begins with the creation of the dōjō and the daily cycle of Aikidō sessions, there is the multi-weekly cycle of Katsugen Undō sessions, the seasonal cycle of seminars, and the annual cycle of the Misogi of January 1^st.

1
Tsuda Itsuo, The Science of the Particular, Chap. XVII (end), 2016, Yume Editions, p. 143-4

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In Complete Autonomy – Yuki Hô dojo

4 December 2025 name

When Tsuda Itsuo returned to France in the early 1970s, he wanted to build a bridge between East and West, to introduce this culture so different from his own to what he himself had discovered through his research on ‘ki’: ways to awaken sensitivity and rediscover inner freedom. He saw in Aikidō, which he practised with Ueshiba Morihei sensei, and Katsugen Undō, which he discovered with Noguchi sensei, concrete tools for working in this direction. In order to pass on these practices, he wanted ‘[his] dojo to be a dojo and not a sports club with a boss and its regulars, so as not to disturb the sincerity of the practitioners.’ (Tsuda I., Heart of Pure Sky, Le Courrier du Livre). He therefore brought his students together in a place exclusively dedicated to these two practices, which operates on an associative basis, independently and self-managed. This is how Katsugen Kai was created in Paris in 1971.

In the early 1980s, his student Régis Soavi moved to Toulouse and, with his master’s consent, opened his first dojo at 10 Rue Dalmatie. This was the first dojo of the Itsuo Tsuda School. The appearance of the place, which housed various professional activities, was not particularly aesthetic – next to Matabiau train station, a courtyard with a garage, a shed and, at the back, a small house – but there was ‘something’ about it…

Everything had to be done. A small group that was already practising Aikidō and Katsugen Undō with Régis Soavi embarked on a huge project to transform an old mechanical workshop into a dojo. Bricklaying, installing windows and doors, reinforcement work, electrical work, painting… without money but with enthusiasm and determination, sometimes with unexpected help. A few months later, the tatami mats were laid and the first sessions took place. And since then, it has never stopped…

1983, un hangar où tout était à faire - autonomie — 1983, a hangar where everything needed to be done

Today, almost forty years later, the Yuki Hō dojo is open every day: for Aikidō, every morning and evening twice a week, and for Katsugen Undō three times a week. The most experienced practitioners lead the daily sessions, and all members take care of the premises and activities in a spirit that combines traditional dojo practices with self-management. They welcome Régis Soavi sensei during the seminars he leads every two months, manage the accounts and administrative tasks, organise cleaning and major works… individually and collectively responsible for the premises and ‘their home’. What was once just a few tatami mats has now become a 100-square-metre space with a tokonoma in the centre housing a calligraphy by Tsuda Itsuo mounted on a kakemono.

There is also a floor upstairs with changing rooms, a kitchen and a dining area where you can share daily coffees and course meals, as well as many other facilities that now make it a dojo steeped in history, daily practice… and that special atmosphere that makes a space a dojo.

The first floor: changing rooms, a kitchen, a reading area, an office area…

This place is not only a dojo in a courtyard with a magnificent umbrella pine tree, but also a collective of associations, including an alternative education centre, an Arno Stern painting-expression workshop and a cultural centre for sharing knowledge and skills. The members of the dojo, nourished by the practice and the vitality it allows them to rediscover, have worked on this joint project with the aim of continuing to share what they have discovered. Tsuda sensei used Aikidō and Katsugen Undō as ways to rediscover ‘one’s inner strength’; for many, Yuki Hō is a place that has offered and continues to offer this possibility. This is how it is possible to leave behind the disturbances of everyday life, to breathe, to rediscover ‘Tenshin, the heart of pure sky’, as Tsuda Itsuo used to say.

Would you like to hear about the next article?

Article published in April 2022 in Self & Dragon Spécial Aikido n° 9.

Photo credits: Elio Scintu

Informations :

Dojo Yuki Hō (École Itsuo Tsuda)

10 rue Dalmatie, 31500 Toulouse.

www.dojo-yukiho.org

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Dôjô, Perpetual Motion

4 December 2025 name

by Manon Soavi

The opening of a new place to practise is always a joy, which is why we are delighted that a new dojo is opening in Pescara, a city located in the Abruzzo region on the Adriatic coast. Manola D. P., who, together with a group of people, was behind the creation of the Bodaï dojo in Rome, is now opening this second venue, after 18 years of travelling the 200 kilometres between Pescara and Rome to practise and keep the dojo alive.

On this occasion, we wanted to share with you some thoughts and photos that put the history of our school’s dojos into perspective. With a selection of photos illustrating how dojos are both places and concrete spaces, imbued with years of daily practice. Places carried by the energy and direction given by our sensei Régis Soavi for over forty years. And at the same time, places that are built by the will of the members themselves, by themselves and for themselves.

Let’s start by taking a look at what the premises in Pescara currently look like, and although it may seem discouraging, if you look further down at what the dojos looked like before the members started work, you’ll see that everything is fine!

To accompany this look back at the dojos that have already gone through the creation stage, here are some thoughts from my book The Anarchist Master, Itsuo Tsuda.

Excerpts from Chapter 8 Creating Situations: ‘Itsuo Tsuda, like Chuang Tzu, the Mamá Kogui, and the Situationists, also creates “situations” that enable and encourage the discovery of the philosophy of Non-Doing. It is not entirely certain that he thought of it in these terms, but his attachment to certain things – showing the importance he attached to them, the power he gave to these possibilities, to these situations – seems interesting to me, which is why I will highlight several of them.’

‘When he arrived in Paris, Itsuo Tsuda wanted to create a dojo very quickly. For the work he came to do in the West, he needed this tool, this place: a dojo, not a gym or a club. We could stop at the idea that Itsuo Tsuda, a Japanese man in his late fifties, was a traditionalist and that dojo is a Japanese cultural concept – there are dojos for kyudo, kendo, karate, etc. Nevertheless, Tsuda does not create Japanese dojos in the strict sense of the term. He imbues these places with a function of self-emancipation.’

Yuki Hō, Toulouse, since 1983

‘The dojo is not a place of consumption, nor is it solely for personal practice. In Japan, it is inseparable from the concept of uchideshi, or live-in students. These students live on site and take care of everything, sweeping the floors, preparing the master’s bath, cooking, gardening, etc. This teaching by immersion, by sharing a collective life with the master’s family but also with the other uchideshi, is a strong element of Japanese culture. The basic principle is that it is the student who wants to learn and not the teacher who seeks to impart knowledge. In Japan, they talk about “stealing the teaching”: the whole positioning is therefore reversed.’

Tenshin, Paris, since 1985

‘From this culture, Itsuo Tsuda retained the “total teaching” aspect of lived experience and working together. Of course, there would be no uchideshi, as Tsuda never wanted to mimic traditions or engage in Japonism. On the contrary, he extracted the essence of these traditions and, although stripped of their local colours, sought ways to reuse them in the contemporary world. The dojo is open every day, with a session at 6:30 in the morning and two evenings a week. Throughout the year, without interruption, the sessions are led by Tsuda and the members themselves.’

Scuola della respirazione, Milano, since 1983

’For the dojo is a place for individual and collective experimentation, for practising autonomy, where, like the uchideshi, everyone takes responsibility for different aspects of daily life in the dojo – discussing, deciding, DIY, gardening, repairs, leading sessions. It is a matter of moving away from the logic of dependence and the “ease” of relying on experts. As the philosopher Ivan Illich points out, individuals have forgotten how to recognise their own needs and, “intoxicated by the belief in better decision-making, they find it difficult to decide for themselves and soon lose confidence in their own power to do so”. (Ivan Illich, La Convivialité, pub. Seuil (Paris), 1973, p. 126.)’

Bodai, Roma, since 2004

‘The dojo does not welcome clients. Tsuda refuses to take responsibility for anyone, so every step must be an individual act of self-care. […] Thus, everyone is at home in the dojo, and at home with others at the same time. It is a place for both the individual and the collective.’

Akitsu, Blois, since 2007

Excerpt from the chapter Cultivating Sensitivity and Attention: ‘To do without rules, laws and leaders, one must pay close attention to both oneself and the collective. As the rebels of the Invisible Committee perfectly summarise: “Suddenly, life ceases to be divided into connected segments. Sleeping, fighting, eating, caring for oneself, partying, conspiring, debating are all part of a single vital movement. Not everything is organised, everything is organising itself. The difference is notable. One calls for management, the other for attention.” This state of distraction and insensitivity, which leads to a lack of attention, is often what causes many community experiments to fail. We are so used to following orders and rules and being assisted in all aspects of our lives that we do not even realise the degree of sensitivity and attention required to live “order without power”, as proposed by anarchism.’ (excerpt from The Anarchist Master, Itsuo Tsuda)

Dōjō, conceived in this way, is an excellent tool for rediscovering our abilities to focus, be sensitive and organise ourselves.

Ryokan, Ancona, since 2005

Our school has two other dojos that required less work but are still worthy of mention in this article:

Zensei, Torino, since 2013

Katsugen kai, Amsterdam, since 2005

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

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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

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Creating the Conditions

30 November 2025 name

I recently wrote in an article for Dragon Hors-série Aïkido magazine that ‘The Dojo itself is a place out of the social time, out of the epoch, indifferent to the geographical location.’ Today [April 2020 lockdown], when all the dojos of our School, like those in much of the world, are closed, we find ourselves without these spaces.

We can practise at home, but it’s not always easy because everything catches up with us when we try to practise at home: social time, the era we live in, our geographical location. We find ourselves surrounded by our furniture, next to the telephone, not far from the children or the dog, in the confined space of a Parisian flat or in a vast expanse of countryside. We may feel too cramped or, on the contrary, lost in too much empty space. Everything reminds us of our daily lives, and it can become very difficult to detach ourselves from our surroundings. This is why dojos are so important, especially in our early years of practice.

Sometimes practitioners set up a space in their homes for practising. Placing a calligraphy piece and a few tatami mats can help us get into the right frame of mind and disconnect from our everyday environment. For some, it will just be a rug, for others one or two tatami mats in the living room, cleared of children’s toys for the occasion. Others will set up an attic or a corner in their bedroom. The only thing that matters is not adhering to an idea or imitating a ‘mini-dojo’, but the possibility for us to express a space and time for our practice.

This is usually used by practitioners when they are unable to go to the dojo for various reasons. They practise individual movement (Katsugen Undo), the respiratory practice of our Aikido or a few weapon kata. It all depends on the individual, their needs and the circumstances.

Of course, in the long run, it is possible to ignore the context, whatever it may be. If our ability to concentrate allows it, it is possible to practise in the midst of noise, next to a child playing with Lego, or whatever else. Human history is rich in examples of people who have gone through great trials while maintaining their art and their practices. Calligrapher Li Guoxiang, for example, practised calligraphy for ten years by tracing with water on stones because nothing else was available to her to practise his art(1). Master Gu Meisheng also recounts discovering unlimited inner freedom in Chinese prisons during the Cultural Revolution.

Nevertheless, I believe they appreciated having ink, a brush and freedom when it was possible!

All things considered, we look forward to returning to the calm and focused atmosphere of the dojos as soon as possible. During this period of lockdown, when it is becoming increasingly important for everyone to maintain a daily, or at least regular, practice, if you need to, don’t hesitate to clear some space, even if it’s minimal, to refocus and take the time to practise.

On the Itsuo Tsuda School Facebook page, several members have shared their practice spaces, which you can see at the end of the article ⇓ ⇓⇓

To further our approach, we are also creating an audio podcast channel where we will share readings aloud from chapters of Itsuo Tsuda‘s books. You can listen to them in the car, on the underground, while cooking or cleaning… It’s another way to discover or rediscover these works. Visit the Soundcloud channel or YouTube. The first recording is here:

Manon Soavi

Practitioners share their home-dojo

Manon Soavi

1. Fabienne Verdier, Passagère du silence [Passenger of Silence], Eng. transl. The Dragon’s Brush: A Journey to China in Search of a True Master, Sept. 2006, Shambhala Publications Inc. (1^st ed. in French: Sept. 2003, Albin Michel (Paris), p. 284)

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Solitary Practice

30 November 2025 name

Above the clouds, there is the immutable sky, the heart of pure sky, Tenshin.
(Itsuo Tsuda)

In these troubled times [March 2020 lockdown], when our daily lives have been disrupted and practising in dojos is impossible, we would like to remind you that it is still possible to continue your individual research and practice.

Here are a few suggestions for not just enduring the constraints, but taking advantage of them to do things that we don’t necessarily do on a regular basis.

Practice

Every day in our dojos, we do what we call “respiratory practice”, a set of movements codified by Itsuo Tsuda based on what O-sensei Ueshiba practised. While many today would call it Aiki-Taisō, Itsuo Tsuda referred to it as ‘solitary practice.’ So, although we do it in groups in the dojos, it is possible to do it at home, every day if you wish. It does not require much space and can be done silently.

It is also possible to practise katas and suburis with bokken or jō. You can also do visualisation work by repeating movements slowly, whether in the role of tori or uke (with your eyes closed if this helps you to block out your surroundings).

Katsugen Undō can of course be practised individually. If you have already done an introductory seminar, you will be familiar with the triggering and stopping exercises.

Deepening your practice in other ways

We also recommend that you take the time to read, or reread, the foundation of our school, the teachings of Master Tsuda. He wrote nine books, all translated in English and published by Yume Editions, as well as a posthumous book, Heart of Pure Sky.

In addition, on the ITS blog you will find numerous resources with articles on Aikido, Seitai, calligraphy, Japan, the concept of body, etc. They are also sorted by category under the ‘deepen’ tab on the website.

Several videos are also available on our YouTube channel.

And why not take the opportunity to discover Yashima magazine, in this March 2020 issue (No. 7). You will find two articles by Régis Soavi sensei: ‘Reishiki: a Music Score’ on the theme of etiquette in Aikido, and ‘Seitai’, an introductory article on this subject.

Articles_Blog, EN, FR, IT, Katsugen undo, katsugen undo découverte

The Session of Katsugen Undô #6

30 November 2025 name

In this sixth part, Régis Soavi describes a session of Katsugen undō (translated as Regenerative Movement).

Subtitles available in French, English, Italian and Spanish. To activate the subtitles, click on this icon. Then click on the icon to select the subtitle language.

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Some additional information

Seitai was developed by Haruchika Noguchi (1911-1976) in Japan. Katsugen Undo (or Regenerating Movement) is an exercise of the extrapyramidal motor system that is part of Seitai. Itsuo Tsuda (1914-1984), who introduced Katsugen Undo in Europe in the 70s, would write about it: ‘The human body is endowed with a natural ability to readjust its condition […]. This ability[…] is the responsibility of the extrapyramidal motor system.’ ¹

Excerpts from the video on Yuki

It’s simplicity itself. We always want to add lots of things because when it’s too simple, we feel like it’s not working.

We’ll invite people to do two or three exercises. One exercise will relax the solar plexus area. Here, we exhale deeply. It’s like a kind of artificial yawn. So it’s a voluntary exercise. A kind of artificial yawn. We relax the solar plexus area.

One of the second exercises we do, for example to trigger individual movement, would be “spinal rotation.” Well, here it’s about regaining a little flexibility. I see people today with aging bodies, their spine is completely blocked, they can no longer turn around. They have to turn their whole body to look behind them. Whereas all they need to do is rotate their spine. But very often, even in people in their thirties, the spine is blocked. So this is an exercise that relaxes the body. That’s the second exercise.

And the third exercise, which is a little more complicated, involves putting your thumbs inside your closed fists and pulling everything back. Okay. It’s difficult to show you like this, you really need someone to show you more precisely. That’s why there are organized workshops. That’s for individual movement.

And then what do we do? Nothing! We do nothing. We let the body trigger the movement. If we do the individual movement, it’s very simple. You can do it anywhere. It can be very discreet. It’s not about starting to scream… It’s not something that’s very visible. It’s extremely discreet. There is no noise during a movement session. Sometimes there are slight noises, almost nothing. So that’s the individual movement.

And then in the dojos, during the week, that is, two or three times a week, depending on the dojo, we practice the mutual movement. So there we simply do the plexus exercise and add a few concentration exercises, such as breathing through the hands, Yuki, the activation chain, all of which allow the bodies to be ready to let the movement be triggered. However, the triggering itself will be done by activating the second points of the head. I can’t demonstrate it like that. By activating the second points of the head, in a way, the voluntary system will go into rest mode. And it is the involuntary system that will take over, that will lead.

So what does that mean? It doesn’t mean that suddenly we’re brainless and don’t understand anything anymore. When we eat, for example, it’s the digestive system that suddenly, when it was quiet and doing nothing, suddenly starts to activate. All kinds of gastric juices are produced, the stomach starts working, the intestines work harder, etc. That doesn’t mean we stop thinking. At most, we feel a little drowsy. The drowsiness that comes with digestion, or when we’ve eaten well, we feel a little… ah, there it is. Because the involuntary digestive system has been activated. It’s not because this digestive system has been activated that there is nothing else. Here too, when we do the regenerative movement, the voluntary movement is at rest, we don’t think about it anymore, we close our eyes, we let the body move according to its needs.

And then, because the body is in an involuntary state, it can do things that it doesn’t usually do, or that it has somewhat neglected. And so it starts to move. That’s why we do it in a dojo, because it does things that can sometimes seem incongruous. For example, if you do movements like this on the subway, people might think, “Oh dear, that guy’s a bit weird…” But in the dojo, we’re relaxed, our eyes are closed, no one is watching us, it’s a bit like being at home. The movement we practise in the dojo is a training. We often say it’s training for the extrapyramidal motor system, but it’s not just that. It’s training because our bodies have weakened, because we have trouble reacting, so we retrain ourselves. It’s a bit like someone who can no longer walk. At a certain point, even the smallest step is difficult: going from the kitchen to the bathroom is difficult for them. So from the moment they start walking again, their body will start to function better. It’s the same thing with involuntary movement.

And at some point, of course, since this is training, it’s within a given time frame. We also have to stop that time at some point. That is to say, during the session, we did the training, we let the movement be triggered, then we stop the movement. Here again, there is an exercise very similar to the first one to stop the individual movement. We stop the movement. Then we lie down for a few minutes. And we come back, we resume the voluntary system, which will act again.

So we let the individual movement act completely as it needed to, on its own, for a certain amount of time, and then we return to our normal daily life. And so, the body will now regain its involuntary abilities. We will allow the involuntary to work more than before in everyday life. Because the body will say, “Hey, I need this,” and it will trigger another type of work. So again, there are exercises that allow the involuntary system to be trained, and then there is everyday life. We are not in the involuntary state all the time. We work, we do a lot of things with the voluntary system. But since the involuntary system works underneath, the body remains normal.

Notes

1
Itsuo Tsuda, One, Chap. VI, 2016, Yume Editions, p. 46 (1^st ed. in French: 1978, Le Courrier du Livre (Paris)

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Calligraphic Event in Rome

29 November 2025 name

On 12 and 13 October 2018, the recently renovated Bodai dojo in Rome hosted the event One Book – One Exhibition, which attracted a good turnout, interest and favourable reviews.

On the evening of 12 October, in front of a large number of visitors, the presentation of the book Itsuo Tsuda, Spring Calligraphies (Yume Editions, 2017) took place in the enveloping atmosphere of the exhibition of 87 calligraphies in photographic reproduction. The original calligraphy The Tiger was also exhibited for the occasion.

During Saturday, we received several visitors: among friends, connoisseurs and experts in Japanese culture, we were delighted to welcome aikidoka, journalist and blogger Paolo Bottoni, who wrote an article on his blog about Master Tsuda‘s calligraphy.

In total, around 80 people came to Bodai Dojo.

For everyone, including us, the organisers, it was an opportunity to come into direct and simultaneous contact with almost all of Master Tsuda‘s calligraphies: an unforgettable and richly rewarding experience!

For those who have not had the chance to discover this book and the entire body of Master Tsuda‘s work, you can find them in Rome at the Bodai Dojo, as well as on the Yume Editions website.

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Spring Calligraphies in Rome

29 November 2025 name

The exhibition ‘Spring Calligraphies’ is coming to Rome in October!

Scheduled in Dojo Bodai (Rome) on Friday 12 and Saturday 13 October 2018 is the event One Book – One Exhibition.

Following on from previous previews in Paris and Milan, the event once again offers the Roman public the opportunity to see the book Calligrafie di Primavera [Spring Calligraphies] and the rich photographic exhibition dedicated to Itsuo Tsuda‘s calligraphy that inspired the book published by Yume Editions in 2018.

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A Dream Comes True: Spring Calligraphies

27 November 2025 name

On 18 and 19 May 2018, we presented the book entitled Itsuo Tsuda, Calligrafie di primavera [Itsuo Tsuda, Spring Calligraphies] in our dojo in Milan. We exhibited more than 80 high-quality photographic reproductions of Master Itsuo Tsuda’s calligraphy (chosen from the 116 featured in the book) as well as three original calligraphy pieces.

An article, photos and two videos to relive the event!

The event at Dojo Scuola della Respirazione

Presentation of the book at RAI radio

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Itsuo Tsuda’s Calligraphies #2

27 November 2025 name

Continuation of the interview with Régis Soavi, who tells us about his discovery of Itsuo Tsuda‘s calligraphies.

Putting up a piece of calligraphy rather than a photo of a master has another advantage, which I understood later: it avoids a certain “cult of personality”. Instead of putting up a photo of Master Ueshiba, I could have put up one of my master, Itsuo Tsuda… but then that would imply something about “a Gr-ow-ate Maaaaaster” who IS, and that also goes in the direction of religions where there are saints, paintings of saints, statues of saints… We have this in Buddhism, and in Christianity too, of course…

But this way, we no longer have the same resonance, because these are photos of people, of “characters”.

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Spring Calligraphies, Thirty Years of History

27 November 2025 name

Spring Calligraphies is the first monograph devoted to the calligraphic work of philosopher and writer Itsuo Tsuda, bringing together 113 calligraphies and the research we have been able to conduct to date.

To mark its publication, an exhibition based on the photos in the book will be held at Tenshin Dojo in Paris on November 18 and 19, 2017. An opening reception will be held on November 18 at 6:30 p.m. Anyone interested in discovering the work of Itsuo Tsuda is cordially invited to attend.

The dojo is open and admission is free. Welcome !

In the meantime, we wanted to share with you a few lines about the origins and behind-the-scenes story of this adventure, which began more than thirty-three years ago.Read more →

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The Empty Trace

25 November 2025 name

by Manon Soavi

‘Chouang Tzu, the great Chinese philosopher, said 2,500 years ago: “True human beings breathe from their heels, whereas ordinary people breathe from their throat.”

Who breathes from their heels nowadays? People breathe from their chest, their shoulders or their throat. The world is full of these invalids who ignore themselves.’¹

This is how Tsuda sensei begins his first book, published in 1973, setting the tone by quoting the philosopher who most accompanied him throughout his life.

Tsuda sensei was a relentless researcher and a man of great culture. Throughout his life, he worked tirelessly to enable human beings to free themselves from what burdens and hinders them. Starting from his personal quest for freedom of thought, it was ultimately a philosophical understanding of human beings that emerged through his practices: Aikido, Seitai, Nō… And Tsuda sensei spread this philosophy of human beings, this path, primarily through his books²and his teaching in dojos over a period of ten years. But there was a more secret medium that he took up in the last years of his life: calligraphy.

L'ermite véritable, calligraphie de Itsuo Tsuda — _The true hermit_, calligraphy by Tsuda Itsuo

1
Tsuda Itsuo, The Non-Doing, Chap. I, 2013, Yume Editions (Paris), p. 15
2
nine books (plus one posthumous) published in French between 1973 and 1984 – still available[ – then in English from 2013 to 2025]

Returning to the root

Perceiving reality

Our compass: sensation

The stage

Changing your perspective

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Notes

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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Notes

Cultivating uncertainty

Inner strength

Creativity

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Notes

Dissatisfaction, a powerful driving force

Dreams or illusions

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Notes

‘What it feels like to be a woman’

Phenomenology of the prey

What can Aikidō do about this state of affairs?

Position yourself before asserting yourself

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Notes

Perceiving life in all things

Seitai

Aikidō

The sense of touch

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Notes

Presentation by Régis Soavi

Notes

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Marc-André Selosse : ‘Is biological and cultural extinction underway?’

Marc-André Selosse, Medicine in the Face of Evolution

What binds us together: microbiota and human terrain

Notes

Notes

Notes

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Notes

Vidéo de présentation

Notes

Origin and preparations (jo)

Notes

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Yuki Hō, Toulouse, since 1983

Tenshin, Paris, since 1985

Scuola della respirazione, Milano, since 1983

Bodai, Roma, since 2004

Akitsu, Blois, since 2007

Ryokan, Ancona, since 2005

Zensei, Torino, since 2013

Katsugen kai, Amsterdam, since 2005

Fate? Or political choices?

Women and violence

Violence or coagulated energy

Female gaze

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Notes

Practitioners share their home-dojo

Practice

Deepening your practice in other ways

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Some additional information

Excerpts from the video on Yuki

Notes

Notes