Rediscovering Aikido

By the time I arrived in Japan, I had quit Aikido. Though I had been training almost daily leading up to my move overseas, in the time it had taken me to secure a job and get on a plane I was disillusioned with the art. 

I had been training in a softer style on the west coast, and though I enjoyed the movement and had refined my ukemi to a high degree, I found the practice ultimately ineffective. The people I trained with were lovely, but I didn’t trust that what we were practicing would work on anyone but a highly complicit attacker in a dojo setting.

We were discouraged from using force (something I now see great value in), but we weren’t provided a means for disrupting or neutralizing an attack in a way that left me confident to manage real aggression. Day after day my partners would fall down for me and I’d fall down for them, but inside I knew something was missing.

I was still interested in studying the martial arts, so I moved to Japan with a uniform and a white belt, leaving my hakama and black belt back in the States. I planned to try Judo and maybe explore some other styles, but I wasn’t thinking Aikido would be one of them.

When I arrived at the school where I’d be teaching English in the Japanese countryside, it turned out that the father of one of my colleagues was a 5th dan and an instructor at the local Aikido dojo in town. My colleague, Ms. Naka, encouraged me to go to a class when she found out that I had trained back in the U.S. I wasn’t interested, but I didn’t want to be rude. I figured that starting a new job in a new country, it wouldn’t hurt to meet some new people (plus, she was cute!).

Something New

I went. I trained. Everyone was very kind and welcoming, but compared to what I had been practicing before their technique seemed sloppy. It felt more like an old-boy’s club than a place of real martial study. I decided I’d train for a while and leave when I found something better. I went back a few more times without much enthusiasm, though glad to get some exercise and meet new people. 

Then, on this one day, I noticed a new black belt training at the back of the dojo. He was in his mid-50s, and the others seemed to treat him differently. During class, I kludged together what Japanese I could and asked one of my partners who he was. They said he was Mr. Takahashi and that he was from another dojo nearby.

At the end of class, it was common for people to practice with each other informally—atogeiko, they called it. After we bowed out, a group of curious students gathered around Mr. Takahashi, who seemed happy to show them a few things. I trained with someone else for a bit, watching the others out of the corner of my eye. When we finished up, I began folding my hakama, continuing to look over at what was going on.

Soon enough, Mr. Takahashi saw me and gestured for me to come. I made my way over, and he stuck out his arm saying, “Morote motte. Shikkari motte. Chau de, shikkari ya de.” Here, grab my wrist with both hands, he said. No, harder. As hard as you can, he said. 

At my previous dojo I would have been scolded for grabbing hard, so this felt strange. But hell, I was 22, physically fit, and happy to oblige. I grabbed with all my strength. He moved somehow, and the next thing I knew I was on my back looking up at the ceiling completely dumbfounded. 

Pulling myself together, I got up again to grab. “Shikkari ya de,” he egged me on. I doubled down, grabbing with all my might and again found myself staring at the ceiling.

After easily throwing me a few more times he grew bored and called over the instructor who had just taught the class, one of the senior students at the dojo. Having previously learned about Japanese hierarchy, dojo etiquette, and the importance of saving face in public, I wasn’t sure what to expect.

“Shikkari motte,” he said. The instructor somewhat reluctantly grabbed and soon went down himself. What kind of a loose cannon is this guy, I thought.

To my bewilderment, he then grabbed the instructor and looked at him like, ‘Here, you try!’ The instructor, probably a 5th or 6th dan, could do absolutely nothing. He struggled, he flailed, but in the end he couldn’t budge Mr. Takahashi and inch.

“Dashite. Motto dashite. Asoko ya de.” Extend your ki. More, even more. Over there, he scolded the man to no avail.

Had Mr. Takahashi no manners whatsoever? This would have been overstepping bounds in the U.S., but here in Japan it seemed unthinkable. (I soon came to get used to these sort of antics, and no, people don’t appreciate being made a fool in any country!)

Beginning Again

It was that day I realized Aikido still had more to offer. I continued to practice in the town dojo where I lived, but soon found my way to training at Mr. Takahashi’s home dojo as well. The chief instructor, Mr. Hashimoto, was a tall, kind gentleman with tremendous hands from his years as a mikan farmer. He was gracious and even spoke serviceable English—which was great, because Mr. Takahashi spoke such a thick dialect that even some locals struggled to understand him.

I continued to train with them for the remainder of my three years in Japan, though by that point they were Takahashi Sensei and Hashimoto Sensei, both shihan (master instructors) in their own right. My wife happens to be from the same town their dojo is in, so even after returning to the States I’ve able to train with them every year or so when we go back to visit.

You may be wondering, can I now throw people to the ground, leaving them baffled as to what happened? Sometimes. Not like Takahashi Sensei, but he opened my eyes to a new aspect of Aikido which I have continued to pursue for nearly two decades since meeting him. 

The study of Aikido is a long and winding path. Though at some points I lost my way, with hindsight I am grateful for everything I have learned. Today, I train as intensely as ever. What keeps me coming back is that sense of wonder I experienced when I met Takahashi Sensei, and the recognition that I’m taking part in something with more depth than I can even fathom.

On Ki

Ki is the source of all true strength. Please link yourself to ki—that is the first thing that you should do. It is the foundation of your own body and spirit. —Morihei Ueshiba O-Sensei

Before leaving Japan, after having lived and trained there for three years, I asked my teacher: “Sensei, I’m returning to America, and they don’t understand ki. How do I learn ki without a teacher?”

He replied, “It’s easy. It comes in the crown of your head, fills your body, and radiates out from there.”

Thanks. I moved back to the US, continued to train, and with the exception of an occasional insight here and there, made little progress.

The next year, I returned to Japan with my wife to visit her family. I went back and trained with my teacher, taking in everything I could while I was there. On my last day, knowing I wouldn’t see him again for at least another year, I asked, “Sensei, I’m returning to America. They don’t get ki over there. How do I learn ki?”

He replied, “Oh, it’s easy. It’s the feeling of your arms floating in a bathtub,” at which point he pantomimed turning side to side with his arms extended, skimming along the surface of the water. 

Great. I went back to the US again, where I made even less progress than before. When I returned to Japan a year later, I trained with him once again. On the last day I asked again, “Sensei, I won’t see you for another year. How do I understand ki?”

Thinking back, I don’t remember his answer now because he’s answered me so many times and in so many different ways that one seems as preposterous as the next. He said one man learned it by casting cuts with a shoto (short sword); another put a tack on the wall and practiced sending ki toward it until he got it. One guy lay on his back and waved his arms around until he sensed the back of his body and thereby understood ki.

Now, as I was then, you might be tempted to write the whole ki thing off. In fact, I have been openly scoffed at by senior Aikido instructors in the U.S. for even mentioning the word. However, to ignore this concept, eponymous to the art, would mean missing a fundamental aspect of our practice.

Defining Ki

気 (ki), the second character in 合気道 (Aikido), is a concept that goes back thousands of years in Asian culture. The Japanese took the ideograph from the Chinese 氣 (chi). For example, it is the first of two characters used to write 氣功 (Quigong), the ancient Chinese practice for cultivating health and martial power. 

The character is formed by combining the radical 气 (ki), meaning steam or breath, and 米 (kome), meaning rice, which has been simplified into メ (me) in modern Japanese. The combination of these radicals therefore indicates “‘steam rising from cooked rice’ and in turn . . . ‘something in the air; spirits; unseen force’” (The Key to Kanji). The etymology of the character suggests a kind of inexplicable energy resulting from combining elemental forces. Not magic, but ki certainly has the quality of being something beyond simple explanation.

One of the reasons why ki is so difficult to understand, especially for Westerners, is that it’s such a fundamental concept for those immersed in Eastern cultures that there is no direct translation, and I would argue, no antecedent concept in Western culture. Energy, spirit, mind, lifeforce, intent—these all touch on the idea, but each falls short of a coherent, singular definition. However, simply because there is no simple translation doesn't mean pursuing an understanding of ki doesn’t hold some potential value.

Putting the Pieces Together

For those of us not native to the concept, I would encourage you to view ki as a starting point for exploration. Not that ki is arbitrary—I know one longtime Tai Chi instructor who simply refuses to use the term because people get so mixed-headed when they hear it—but that as Westerners we should approach it from the perspective of an outsider and not be too quick to presume understanding. Whoever you study with, he or she may have some useful insight. From there, much has been written in classic and modern texts. 

In practical terms, I would suggest feeling as a good starting point. One of O-Sensei’s senior students, Seigo Yamaguchi, would begin each class with shinkokyu, a breathing exercise, telling his students to, “Fill the room with your ki.” I’m certain the room didn’t suddenly light up with sunshine or fairy dust, but hearing their teacher say this, his students could bring their attention to their bodies, to the room, and to the moment. They used their feeling to direct their energy toward the purpose of their practice.

At the dojo and in your daily life, I’d encourage you to explore the concept of ki. When you wake up, take note of how you feel and find a practice that allows you to cultivate the quality you seek within yourself. On the mat, notice the feeling in your body as you practice technique. Start to develop a sense of what your partner experiences working with you, and refine that feeling. This will scratch the surface. From there, if you are lucky, diligent, and perceptive, you will discover dimensions of your practice you hadn’t previously imagined.