“Past the half-century mark then, Yamaguchi’s hair covered his shoulders and his eyes were as wild as a temple guardian statue’s”

Cover of “Zen Combat” by Jay Gluck

Raised in New York’s middle eastside in the only Jewish family in an Irish-Italian neighborhood, and with an inherited British accent, always one or two years younger than my public school classmates, I was ever on the lookout for some wondrous system of self-defense besides broken-field running. At seventeen in World War II in US Naval Air boot camp I learned some self-defense judo flips and promptly put the knowledge to good use against a bully cadet cadre almost a foot taller and bounced him down a flight of stairs and into the hospital, and myself to Captain’s Mast. (I got off.)

It all began to come together, ever so slowly, when I was living a two-year honeymoon in Japan in an idyllic fishing-farming village outside Hiroshima opposite the famed beauty spot, Miyajima, Shrine Island. I was trying to convert my cartooning style from occidental steel crowquill pen to soft oriental fur brush. I just couldn’t get the flimsy little bamboo brush to draw me a clean line. I was beginning to see that my whole western heritage had caused me to form a block against the technique of strength through delicacy the brush seemed to demand.

“Zen ken shu!” my white-bearded painting and calligraphy teacher said to me one day. “Zen meditation is the sword is the brush! Understand one and you understand all. But you cannot come to understand one without the other two.”

So I took to crossing bamboo swords with my aged painting teacher who, true to ancient tradition, was one of the highest ranking masters of Japanese kendo fencing. To remedy my Madison Avenue slouch over the drawing board placed atop the hori-kotatsu table over the heated sitting pit in the tatami-matted floor, he also had me learn to twang the great eight-foot bamboo Japanese long-bow with its yard-long bamboo arrows.

After months of strenuous effort wielding bamboo sword, bamboo brush, and bamboo longbow with its bamboo arrows I still wasn’t going anywhere. I had the same fault in all, old master said: too much concentration on the tool. “Think too much about sword, you lose sight of the end. Perhaps you understand easier if you see sword play without sword.”

Mas Oyama (1923-1994)

So old master took me to see a movie of karate champion Mas Oyama killing a bull with his bare fists, which is how I start Zen Combat. After seeing it I still wasn’t sure of what he meant, but decided this “swordless sword play” was worth a look. He arranged for me to meet Oyama, writing the formal letter customary to all oriental introductions. Interspersed with the Chinese ideographs common to written Japanese, he drew in minute tick-tack-toe doodles I had never seen in Chinese or Japanese. I questioned these.

“Oyama’s real name is Yong-I Choi. He’s Korean,” old master explained. He folded the letter and handed it to me. I was reminded of my sensei’s considerable prewar travels in Korea.

What I took in my hands was to turn out to be a ticket to a seven-year pilgrimage among mystic strongmen down Tokyo and Kyoto alleys, to lonely Japanese villages, up mountains in Japan, across high passes in Afghanistan, to gyms in Thailand, dervish drill halls in Iran, yogi ashrams in India and Nepal; to temples, gyms, shrines, hermitages; to meditate like a Buddha, be thrown about like a rag doll, dance with dervishes, and walk on red hot coals with sweet old ladies.

I looked up Mas Oyama in the outskirts of Tokyo, getting lost in the warren of unnumbered streets and houses. He greeted me with a gusty “hello.” He read the letter of introduction. As it was in Korean, he spoke to me in a lilting, breathy speech that acquainted me with the garlic-and-pepper kimchi pickles he’d had for lunch. Getting no reaction, he switched over to the staccato but more familiar Japanese, occasionally trying a sentence in the English, he, as it seemed everybody, was studying.

Then he gave me a convincing display of raw power by breaking river stones with his bare fist, and told me some of the history, or legend, of the “Self-Defense Arts of the Empty Hand,” from their systemization by saintly monk Daruma in 7th century China, to the introduction of karate to Japan before World War II by Gichin Funakoshi, and of how he, an exiled hothead, found his safety valve. “Funakoshi kept me out of trouble, straightened me out.” Then he took me to the dojo of the Goju-ryu master he was then attached to, Gogen Yamaguchi, popularly called “The Cat.”

Gogen Yamaguchi (1909-1989)

Yamaguchi Sensei, master of the dojo and dean of some two hundred thousand karateka looked every bit a “Cat.” He was 5 feet 5 inches tall, perhaps 135 pounds, including training suit and red belt. Past the half-century mark then, his hair covered his shoulders and his eyes were as wild as a temple guardian statue’s. When he walked, I’d swear his feet didn’t touch the ground. Most of the students were teenagers and most averaged 110 pounds, with few as heavy as 130. In tough neighborhoods such as this, police were wary of karate groups. Both Oyama and the “Cat” refuted the popular notion that they bred gangs, pointing out that no student in good standing had gotten into serious trouble—until today. There’s a natural tendency for a young sport to want to blood himself, but the dojo channels that tendency by contests for the coveted black belts. He knows if he fights outside, expulsion from the group is immediate—or worse. One had recently caused such a “problem” by beating someone up.

The evening class of about sixty had been going through its drills for some time when we arrived, and the air was pungent. An instructor shouted and everyone skimmered around to take places, squatting on their knees in neat rows. I was invited to join Mas at the front similarly sitting seiza facing the class, behind the Cat who was squatting in the lotus position of authority. The Cat went off into a lengthy lecture about responsibility and self-control. Three students sat to one side at an angle. The one in the middle looked worried. They leaned forward onto their knees and crawled toward the Cat. They bowed, the one center very deep and, I thought, frightened. The Cat purred to an instructor near him, who jumped up and barked at the trio.

Mas whispered to me, “He has ordered a shiai, a special match! Watch carefully.”The Cat commanded the Frightened One to throw certain blows “I hear you are famous for.” His target easily fended them off, obviously stunning him with his response.

“Where is the last minute pull back?” I asked, but Mas just grunted sullenly. “Seems this guy was showing off, bullying ‘civilians’. That is very big no-no.” The Cat barked again. Frightened One leaped to kick, but his target was faster, swept his feet aside and levitated to deliver two of his own to the chest. FO went down, bouncing on the tatami. This was looking serious. Mas frowned.

More purring from the Cat, more desperate attacks by FO followed by more full contact replies bouncing him on the mats. He got to his feet time and time again, bowing plaintively, deeper each time, holding back sobs. There was no blood. The Cat rose, walked over to FO who, chin on chest in supplication, was now trembling visibly. The Cat, in a mockingly gentle voice, ordered him to strike. Mas informed me, with a twinge of sarcasm in his voice, “It is an honor to face one’s sensei.” He did, feebly. The Cat just moved aside, ignoring it, and gave an order to “Do it with the fervor you used ‘that day’,” almost snarling the last two words. FO gathered his strength and lunged. The Cat bobbed, rose almost straight up as his feet shot out in double-quick time to his target’s head and chest. FO went down like a sodden sack of rice.

The silence in the dojo was palpable. Time seemed frozen. FO quivered slightly.

“Self-control is the hallmark of the true warrior,” The Cat announced to all. “Remember! The power in your hands is a sacred privilege. It carries a serious responsibility.”

He bowed. The audience responded as one, like a field of wheat in a summer breeze. The Cat mewed softly and two instructors dragged the hulk toward the showers. I never learned how he made out, whether he was even alive. I had a sick feeling I had just seen a ritual execution.

In Japan on the twenty-first of January, the time period known as daikan, or great cold, sets in, the coldest fortnight of the year. Some Japanese bundle up—others strip down to perform some of the strangest rites of purification, the kanmairi and kangeiko, winter pilgrimage and winter practice. Cold is ‘purifying.’ Kangeiko is for musicians, especially young geisha, hangyoku or ‘half-balls,’ who rise early and practice on the open veranda until their hands are numb and blue with cold, or preferably until they learn how to control the “inner heat” and prevent hands going blue-numb. It is for judoists, karateka, archers, kendo-fencers and track-and-fielders who work out every day at dawn in the open or in gyms with windows wide open, taking ice-cold showers afterward. I first did it one winter at the aikido dojo in Tokyo and came down with an almost fatal case of good health, have continued it since with archery, and modern plumbing notwithstanding, still in my late sixties take cold showers year-round. This, however, was not my first experience with playing Buddha in a cold shower.

Kanmairi pilgrimage is essentially a lay-religious act and may be either Buddhist or Shinto. It is usually led by a yamabushi, an ancient order of lay monks associated with the more exotic and tantric rites of modern Japan. They wear an animal-hide seat apron, an obvious holdover from pre-Buddhist practices, and strapped-on tiny box-hat, which have reminded some writers of Jewish phylacteries. I have heard them in cold season, just after supper, honking on their giant conch shell trumpets, calling the faithful out in a procession of white-clad ghosts from the primeval past, chanting their soulful “Zange-zange”—“repent, repent.”

My first winter in Kyoto I hunted out a group and hiked up behind the magnificent Miyako Hotel, then the grandest tourist hotel in Japan—in which I was not staying. I cut through Nan-zenji Zen temple with its gigantic ancient Chinese-style gate that stands alone in the middle of a field, now being neither exit nor entrance to or from anything, a true ‘Gateless Gate.’ I continued on under the Roman-style aqueduct, built in the last century when Roman and Greek set the style, uphill in the dark silence past the Buddhist nunnery and the temple and little candle-lit mountain shrines. Then I heard a mysterious, deep, rhythmical moaning: Fudo’s followers. Continuing on toward the sound, I saw a tiny light flickering through the trees. In a low shed, offering-candles burned before several tiny niches in the rock wall—snake holes. The cult of Fudo is a remnant of ancient cults, worship of the Earth deity and its messenger, the snake.

Ahead, to the left, stood a fenced enclosure into which a column of water fell through icicles from the cliff above, to flow on out under the fence and drop in another cascade into the ravine below. It was this enclosure from which came the odd sounds I soon recognized as Buddhist sutras, scriptures, being chanted by someone near hysteria. I crossed the ravine by a small bridge and headed for the protection of some bushes. Then, from behind, a deep voice froze me in my tracks— even though it bade me welcome.

An elderly woman stepped calmly from the enclosure, clothed only in an inadequately small face towel held up to her ample breasts. She looked my way as the man behind ushered me out of the darkness toward the shed. I was politely invited to warm myself over their tin-can charcoal brazier while she stepped into the darkness to don her peasant kimono. The warmth of the coals and the hospitality soon routed all goose pimples. They were the last of a larger group who came every night—heat or snow the lady walked three miles each way to commune with the one deity through the intermediary of Fudo.”

After a pleasant, if difficult, conversation, we started to leave. The old man asked, “Wouldn’t you like to strip down and go under the purifying water?”“No, thank you,” I politely declined, “I bathed earlier this evening.”

In the succeeding four decades I was to see countless other rites of midwinter immersion—most of which I cover in my guidebook, Japan Inside Out (Personally Oriented, Ltd., 1992). Thousands of youths dressed only in skimpy loin cloths march through snow and into freezing rivers up to their necks, then come ashore to dance around madly until clouds of steam rise from their bodies and all become so “hip” that some of them climb up onto a third-story balcony and leap down onto the steaming, milling mob, unharmed, un-harming. I have seen the elderly farmers of our village march calmly into the Inland Sea. I have followed our college karate club as it paraded en mass into an icy mountain river. I have, myself, participated in kangeiko at the aiki dojo in Tokyo; there ice cold showers substituted for the nonexistent mountain waterfall. And I visited Mas Oyama during one of his periodic mountaintop seclusions in winter, when mountain waterfall replaced nonexistent plumbing. In all, we kept in mind the ancient sage Yen Hui’s four steps to mental stillness:

(1) let limbs and frame go slack;

(2) close all avenues of sense perception: shut up, don’t listen, don’t look, don’t bother, just don’t —;

(3) shake off material forms;

(4) dismiss knowledge.

Andre Nocquet (1914-1999)

Mas took mountain training at least once every winter. One year he took along a sparring partner, Andre Nocquet, French savate expert and holder of a high-rank blackbelt in judo, who had been sent to Japan by the French national judo organization to study karate, aikido, and Chinese kempo. (I was to meet him some years later in 1954 in the main aikido dojo, become good friends and look him up again in France.) Andre said Mas had them out barefoot in the snow. Before dawn every morning they did an hour of exercise and freestyle karate-savate-judo and anything-goes grappling. “Then,” says Andre, “we’d eat a breakfast for a medieval monk and spend the rest of the morning yelling poetry at each other, me in French, Mas in Korean or Japanese, before our midday workout and hermit’s lunch.”

I recalled this poetry recitation when years later I learned that the giant sumo wrestlers, as part of their rigid training, memorize and shout Chinese poetry, and how the Pahlavans, champions, of the Persian zur khane, below, belted out Persian classical poetry in their marvelous basso. Then, at my old kendo sensei’s insistence, I took up utai, or reciting noh play librettos. That’s when I really learned how to breathe.

In Tokyo, at the Ueshiba dojo kangeiko in 1954, it snowed heavily. The outer walls of the low Japanese “barn” were taken off so that at the dawn class a whisker of snow lay on the edge of the outer tatami. I had been reading a lot on Tibetan practices, and the generating of “inner heat” fascinated me. I told some of the Tibetan tales to my instructor, Tohei’s then-main deshi, Tamura (since then in France). He understood the Tibetan descriptions immediately, hopped out onto the snow to plop down in lotus position, hands clasped before his chest, forefingers pointing up. Mist rose around him as the snow beneath his seat vaporized. He hopped back onto his feet leaving what appeared to be an elephant’s footprint in the snow. Soon all of us were sitting in the white fluff generating clouds.

The first thing I did upon my arrival in Tehran during my worldwide search for ancient sports was to look up a zur khane, a House of Strength. Friends offered to take me to theirs. Not the biggest nor best known, they said, but it was considered the most traditional, and for this distinction they were willing to go a bit out of the way. So was I.

Zoor Khaneth, a Persian house of strength

An explosive cacophony of drums, cymbals and gongs—all played by one man beside the door. Wild shouts, as into the room streamed a line of youthful men dressed in what looked to be ‘harem pants’ but which were large red and blue towels in an intricate diaper-like wrap. The center man began muscle-toning exercises to the music. Tempo slid from one paradiddle to another and the athletes moved with it through a series of squirming push-ups, legs positioned in a full split, shoulders and hips rippling in a sensuous one-two roll, now straight down, now to one side and down on first one arm, then the other.

All the time the one-man orchestra continued his symphony of strength. His voice operatic; clear, strong and masculine, his song epic poetry chanted to music. He was reciting some of the sixty thousand rhymed couplets (all of which he had memorized) of Iran’s great epic history, the Shahnameh, the Book of Kings, written about the year 1000 by the national poet, Firdosi. He sang of battles and loves of Persian and Aryan heroes from the days of legend, through the exploits of the historical Xerxes and Darius and the blessed foreigner Iskander, our Alexander the Great. Here in meter that makes one’s pulse throb is the tragedy of Sohrab and Rustam, the duel to the death of father and son. As I watched the martial dancers, a picture of a Japanese temple came to my mind. In the gatehouses of most Buddhist temples flanking the main portal are two statues of guardian gods. Japanese call them nio or deva-kings—deva is an ancient Persian word for god, as Latin (feus. They are dressed in the sarong-pants of the zur khane’, of western features and wear the topknot as worn in ancient times by Iranian warriors.

Finally, the leader raised a great iron bow with “string” of chain above his head and broke into a fierce yet graceful dance, much as the sumo wrestler does in Japan at the end of the day’s bouts. Many of the dance calisthenics seemed familiar, similar to, but slightly less refined, than those I had myself learned in the aikido dojo, in Tokyo. Was this because seven hundred years ago the zur khane of Iran and Taoist shadow-boxing halls of China—and through perhaps expatriate Zen Chinese teachers, Japan—had formed one great world-wide undercover network?

Jay Gluck (1927-2000)

The next morning, as I sat down to get my observations down on paper before the dawn—I’d taken to the local schedule of early rising and afternoon siesta—I heard a song outside my window that suddenly was familiar. On previous mornings I thought it was the muezzin’s call to prayer from a nearby minaret. Now I realize it to be many of the radios of the neighborhood turned up full volume to allow the exotic sensuous rhythms of the zur khane broadcast to rise over the city and greet the morning sun. I see the shadow of my host on the balcony; the silhouette of a neighbor on his roof, bread delivery boy and household servants are in the courtyard. The bread boy’s donkey brays a downbeat and shadow, silhouette and courtyard forms begin the movements of the dance of strength.

Excuse me. I think I’ll step out onto the balcony and stretch.

To be continued

Wikipedia entry on Jay Gluck

“O-Sensei was as solid as a rock but also very relaxed, and that combination made him extremely strong. He had mastered relaxation by completely integrating it into his body.”

Koichi Tohei at Ki Society Headquarters in Tokyo, c. 1996

Mind-Body Unification (Shin Shin Toitsu) and Ueshiba Sensei

Ueshiba Sensei was an individual who showed what it means to exist in a relaxed state, to possess true ki, and to have a unified mind and body. His posture was as solid as a rock and you couldn’t budge him no matter how you pushed or pulled; yet he would toss me effortlessly without ever letting me feel that he was using any strength at all. I was astounded that such a person should actually exist in the world.

More than anything, what Ueshiba Sensei taught me was that a relaxed state is the most powerful. He himself was living proof of that.

I don’t think there is anyone these days who can truly demonstrate this the way he could. This truly wonderful quality that he took such great pains to develop— not stories about him pulling pine trees out of the ground and other nonsense—is what we should try to leave to future generations.

Why Ueshiba Sensei forbade shiai (matches)

Ueshiba Sensei did not allow shiai. In a real shiai the goal is to deprive your opponent of his power utterly and completely; failing to do that, you can’t claim victory. On the other hand, modern shiai are governed by rules that have been established for the sake of safety and to preserve the lives of the combatants, and it is within these rules that victory and defeat are determined.

Such contests, however, are actually sports, and therefore are not really shiai in the true sense of the word. Judo, for example, has been designed so that players can get up off the mat after being thrown any number of times. This is possible only because judo is a sport; in reality such a thing would not occur.

In the past, shiai meant that you either tried to kill or severely injure your opponent, or at least render him incapable of further resistance. Otherwise, the match would be considered unfinished and without a victor.

Koichi Tohei assisted by Terry Dobson, Tokyo, 1962

Budo, by its very nature does not involve competitive fighting. If you examine the Chinese characters you will find that they literally mean “the way of stopping the weapon.” You lay down your own weapon, and at the same time make your enemy lay down his. In other words, defeating people is not the goal; rather true budo is the completion and perfection of your own self. This is what Ueshiba Sensei always said.

To maintain our safety and preserve our lives we have to establish rules. But deciding victory and defeat within those rules automatically places us in the realm of sports. And Ueshiba Sensei was adamant all his life that aikido is a budo, not a sport.

What Ueshiba Sensei taught

“Although almost totally unknown to aikido practitioners, one of the most fascinating related forms of the art was created by Minoru Hirai. Hirai served as General Director of Morihei Ueshiba’s old Kobukan Dojo during World War II, and later taught his own unique form of jujutsu based on the principle of circular taisabaki. Aikido Journal recently visited Hirai Sensei, now 91 years of age, at this home in Shizuoka and recorded the highlights of his thought-provoking conversation about Korindo and martial arts theories…”

Minoru Hirai, founder of Korindo Aikido, demonstrates a technique on
Aikido Journal Editor Stanley Pranin during their 1994 interview

Contents

     ● Editorial – Aikido: A Legacy from the Past, a Vision for the Future, by Stanley Pranin
     ● Aikido Journal News
     ● Letters to the Editor
     ● Interview with Minoru Hirai, by Stanley Pranin
     ● Aiki is not Always Pretty, by Ellis Amdur
     ● Interview with Takefumi Takeno (1), by Stanley Pranin
     ● Coping in a Violent World, by Mike Mello
     ● The Omoto Religion and Aikido, by Yasuaki Deguchi
     ● Takemusu Aikido — Shomenuchi sankyo omotewaza, by Morihiro Saito
     ● Kobudo & Kobujutsu, by Meik Skoss
     ● Morihei Ueshiba & Gozo Shioda, by Stanley Pranin
     ● Interview with Mark Jones, by Meik Skoss
     ● Famous Swordsmen of Japan, by Takefumi Hiiragi
     ● Heard in the Dojo
     ● The Book Page, by Diane Skoss
     ● Events & Announcements

Download the pdf file of Aikido Journal Number 100 by right clicking on the link below:

Koichi Tohei at Ki Society Headquarters in Tokyo, c. 1996

“I was there and I was one of the multitude who admired — no idolized! — the man.”

From Aikido Journal #110 (1996)

Aikido Journal has, over the years, championed many causes. We have been both complimented and roundly criticized during our twenty-two years of publication for our unconventional views on Morihei Ueshiba, Aikikai Hombu Dojo, Iwama Aikido, Daito-ryu Aikijujutsu, Shin’ei Taido, and an assortment of other topics. Readers who have appreciated our efforts have praised us for our fairness and objectiveness in our presentation of the aiki arts. But alas, it is not true! We are neither fair nor objective. We are guilty of having as many biases as the next person. We can only confess that we have often focused on certain teachers and subjects of particular interest to the staff and neglected other topics which readers have clamored for. We are extremists to the extreme, independent to the end, and proud of it!

In recent issues we have had a new cause to champion. We are intent on restoring the good name and accomplishments of one of aikido’s greatest teachers who has too long been overlooked or forgotten in many aikido circles. The man of whom I speak is Koichi Tohei.

Koichi Tohei instructing in Hawaii c. 1965

Indulge me for a short while as we board together a time-machine to the golden years of aikido’s infancy in the USA in the mid-1960s. We see a totally different landscape when compared to the art of today. The name of Koichi Tohei is on everyone’s lips. He is now in his vigorous 40s, handsome, charming, and physically gifted. He is a fluent speaker of English, the author of best-selling books on the art. He is supremely confident, a wonderful teacher. He is the chief instructor of the World Headquarters Dojo, the Mecca of aikido, and he is the “ambassador of ki.” Yes, Koichi Tohei is the man every devotee wants to see in the flesh, the one whose techniques are to be emulated, the one who inspires. His interpretation of techniques represents “the” standard. His views on the principles of aikido and the “mysterious” concept of ki are unending topics of conversation. He is the motive power driving the spread of the art. Koichi Tohei IS aikido!

Yes, all of this is true. I know because I was there and I was one of the multitude who admired—no idolized!—the man. For those of us who fate brought to the doorsteps of aikido in the early years, the founder, Morihei Ueshiba, was but a symbol. He was aikido’s distant past while Tohei was its dynamic present. How is it that things have come to be so different nowadays? How could it come to pass that many practitioners today don’t even know who Koichi Tohei is? Perhaps, the answer lies partially in the success of the art itself. While other martial arts seem captive to the boom or bust cycle, the whims of the times, or the success of the latest martial arts movie, aikido has spread relentlessly to the point it has become a household word in the world’s major societies.

Minoru Mochizuki Sensei demonstrating tachidor at his Shizuoka Dojo in 1992

“The next step consists in applying the antidote to fear: familiarity. Little by
little, we become accustomed to the thought of the obstacle that bothers us.”

Patrick Auge Sensei

The point is to develop awareness, a by-product of concentration. Here, if we reflect on the fact that we are strongly attracted by some things and hate others, especially those that prevent us from getting the things that attract us, then we can look for the root of the cause. It may be associated with a strong emotion that arose sometime in the past. For example, our mother might have given us something at a moment when we were feeling happy and that became a favorite; or we might have received something after being scolded and we have hated it ever since; or we may face something that we don’t know and our conditioning, fear of the unknown, makes us reject it automatically.

If we force ourselves to behave according to what we think is expected from us (“If I don’t do it, I won’t get promoted!” Or “I will look stupid, ignorant, etc.!”), then we act out of obligation (rigidity). We bottle up all the frustration, and we set an internal time bomb that will detonate as rebellion, mental and/or physical disease, etc. If we force ourselves to do something out of fear, it will bring the same result as running away from it: unfinished business that will haunt us as long as we avoid managing what scares us.

The next step consists in applying the antidote to fear: familiarity. Familiarity implies moderation. Little by little, we become accustomed to the thought of the obstacle that bothers us. For example, we have a disagreement with our teacher. We sit down in a quiet place and do deep breathing meditation (shinkokyû mokusô) until our mind starts calming down. It may take several minutes and multiple start-overs, according to our training and the intensity of the emotion. However, the point here is not to eliminate the emotion (rigidity)—it acts as a signal of something that should be paid attention to and is also a reminder of our humanity—but to develop the skills to work with it (flexibility).

Once the mind is calm—and it will become calm—we can ask ourselves the following questions: “Am I here to learn or am I here to prove that I am right and that my teacher is wrong? Which is more important to me? Is my teacher teaching in order to continue his study and does he have his students’ best interest at heart; or is he just doing it for himself?” These are important questions that a serious student should ask himself. The teacher-student relationship is not a smooth path; it is paved with obstacles to overcome, such as greed, fear and doubt. Once our answers to those questions are clear, we develop understanding and wisdom (intelligence of the heart). We should contemplate this new understanding for some time in order to make sure it’s internalized and will be there when emotions arise again. The intensity of the emotions will depend on how long and to what degree we have let the chatter of the mind (the bat in the belfry) nourish them uncontrollably.

Then we are ready to go back to our teacher and confirm our will to continue our study under his guidance. This may be a humbling experience for us, but what better way is there to cultivate humility—an essential quality of a teacher—than humbling ourselves? On the other hand, if we look at it as humiliation, it’s an indication that our ego (the little dictator) stands in the way and that we have more reflecting to do.

The same process can be applied to relationships. We may have a broken relationship with a parent for example. One or both of us refuse to meet. But if I decide to apply the principle of flexibility and efficiency, I may think something along these lines: “He/she has been suffering as much as I have, or more, whatever the cause of the split. As his/her child, I am younger and his/her life will likely finish before mine. Who knows what he/she will face at the moment of his/her death? Once he/she is gone, it will be too late to do anything about it, and I will be haunted with that thought until the end of my life. Therefore, I will take the first step and I will let him/her know in an appropriate way—kindly, respectfully, truthfully, and in a timely manner (on his/her birthday, at Thanksgiving or at Christmas, for example)—that I wish for us to see each other. Once the seed has been planted, I will let it take care of itself.”

Mochizuki Sensei also said that Budô was forgiving. We forgive our enemy, but we do not forget his negative actions lest he repeat them. He still has to correct himself and repair the damage caused; it’s all part of his study and of the other students’ study, those who are mindful. That’s the meaning of shugyô.

Mochizuki Sensei had to expel some students due to their recurring negative behavior. However, he always kept his door open in order to make it possible for the student to go back to Sensei, apologize and correct his behavior. To Sensei, Budô was forgiving (yurusu), which means that expelling a student (hamon) was a wake-up call for the serious student to review his motivation and correct his behavior. It’s an aspect of the evolution of Bujutsu, in which hamon was final, into Budô.

Unfortunately, few took advantage of that opportunity to improve themselves and preferred to quit or start their own rônin organizations.

Minoru Mochizuki being interviewed at his home, c. 1987

“When I began teaching in the fifties and mentioning aiki jujutsu, Kotaro and Kenji Yoshida, and the Daito-ryu, everyone said that I was a phony and there are no such people and no such art as aiki jujutsu. Now aiki jujutsu is the new buzzword!”

This video captures an outstanding demonstration by one the unique martial artists of our time, Don Angier Sensei, Soke of Yanagi-ryu Aiki Jiu Jitsu. The tale of how he came to learn his incredible martial arts skills is really something out of a storybook. You can read all about it here on the Aikido Journal Members Site. This is a rare video by an outstanding budoka.

Yanagi-ryu is influenced by Daito-ryu Jujutsu and the Yoshida family arts. Angier Sensei was trained as a teenager by Kenji Yoshida, son of Kotaro Yoshida, who was, incidentally, the person who introduced Morihei Ueshiba to Sokaku Takeda way back in 1915.

This demonstration of Angier Sensei took place at Aiki Expo 2002 held in Las Vegas, Nevada. He performs a number of knife disarming techniques, multiple-attacker throws, and soft-touch aiki techniques. His poise and execution are superlative.

Duration: 4:32
Please log in to view the video of Don Angier Sensei’s demonstration at Aiki Expo 2002

“One of the most interesting things about the All-Japan demonstrations is that you can see an entire range of aikidoka from hobbyists to the world’s finest teachers in a single venue, in a single afternoon.”

Aikido Journal #118 (Fall/Winter 1999)

I recently attended the All-Japan Aikido Demonstration sponsored by the Aikikai Hombu Dojo for perhaps the 20th time. The 1999 event was held on May 22 at the Nippon Budokan in commemoration of the late Aikido Doshu Kisshomaru Ueshiba (1921-1999). There was a huge portrait of Kisshomaru Sensei hanging above a flower display behind the shomen. An impressive sight, indeed, and a constant reminder of his legacy! I think this year’s demonstration was especially important in a psychological sense in that, among many things, it represented a strong show of support for the new Doshu Moriteru Ueshiba. Moriteru Sensei is now 48 years of age and, coincidentally, the same age as his father when he assumed the title of Doshu.

For many years now, I have received permission to go down on the floor where the demonstrations take place to shoot pictures from close range for this magazine. It is from this vantage point that I have not only been able to see the numerous performances close up, but also visit with the many teachers and guests who are regularly on hand. It’s always a pleasure to see the same faces year after year and a few new ones as well.

I’ll never forget the first time I attended the event in 1973 when it was held at the old Hibiya Hall (Hibiya Kokaido). That year’s demonstration turned out to be significant in several regards as it marked the last All-Japan performance by 10th dan Koichi Tohei before his departure from the Aikikai. It was also the last time that Sadateru Arikawa, now 9th dan, gave a public exhibition and, on that occasion, it was a veritable tour de force. I clearly recall—I can indeed say “clearly” because I shot several rolls of 8mm film—a fascinating performance by Mitsugi Saotome who did a scary randori against five or six attackers armed with knives! It was quite breathtaking to watch him duck and dodge while avoiding engaging a single opponent for more than a split second! That year there were also fine demonstrations by several top teachers who have since left us like Kisaburo Osawa, Bansen Tanaka, Seigo Yamaguchi, and the late Doshu Kisshomaru Ueshiba. If I’m not mistaken, Gozo Shioda Sensei of Yoshinkan Aikido was also in the audience.

It occurs to me that few people other than the old-timers of the Aikikai will remember the beginnings of this famous event. It all started back on May 5, 1960 when the first All-Japan Demonstration was held at the Yamano Hall in Tokyo. This was of course well before my time, but recently I came across a pamphlet which lists the dates and locations of all of the demonstrations since the inception of the event. Two years later in 1962, the second demonstration was held at the Asahi News Hall, after which the site was moved to the Hibiya Hall. Except for the demonstration of 1969 at the Budokan, the yearly All-Japan Demonstration was held at the Hibiya Hall through 1977. This is an old facilty built about 70 years ago that seats around 2,000 people. Incidentally, the Hibiya Hall was the site of the 1935 Kobudo Demonstration in which Admiral Isamu Takeshita demonstrated Daito-ryu Aikijujutsu techniques as the representative of the Kobukan dojo of Morihei Ueshiba! Starting in 1978, the Aikikai event was moved to the Nippon Budokan, the famous martial arts arena in downtown Tokyo that was built in 1964 and served as the site for the Judo competition at the Tokyo Olympics of that year. For those of you who have never seen this magnificent structure, it is octagonal in shape and seats some 14,000 people. The acoustics are excellent, too, and it is also used for concerts. I remember hearing the late John Denver sing there in the early 1980s.

The 1978 demonstration was my second one and the first I attended after relocating to Japan. I recall Morihiro Saito Sensei’s thrilling kokyunage demonstration using Shigemi Inagaki and Bruce Klickstein as ukes. Saito Sensei moved with the power of a freight train and Inagaki-san ended up with a separated shoulder on that occasion! I also have a vivid recollection of Hiroshi Isoyama wowing the audience with his spectacular technique which included a finale where he lifts his opponent up over his head before sending him crashing to the mat. Parenthetically, Isoyama Sensei suffered a serious hip injury a number of years ago but is again in top form. We will have a fascinating interview with him in our spring in which he describes how he overcame his injury by devising his own therapy against his doctor’s advice.!

Calligraphic works of Morihei Ueshiba O-Sensei displayed in the Abe dojo for the interview

Seiseki Abe Sensei c. 1995

Editor: Abe Sensei, I think it was during a period of misogi training, before the war, that you first met Ueshiba Sensei. Is that right?

Abe Sensei: Yes, I met Ueshiba Sensei before the war. Before World War II, a professor of medicine at Tokyo University, Kenzo Futaki Sensei, had organized a “Misogi-Kai” (a group for the practice of purification exercises). Down in Ise (site of the Imperial Family’s shrine to their ancestor, Ameratsu Omikami, the Sun Goddess), there was a “misogi dojo” and a wonderfully equipped dojo it was. After the defeat though, shrines and everything associated with the kami (gods) were suppressed and, of course, the Misogi Dojo went with all the rest. I’m afraid the offices of some sort of religious organization now occupy the site. That’s really a shame. Really too bad…

Futaki Sensei started Aikido after he was already over sixty years old and he was greatly respected by O-Sensei. He was, at that time, 65 years of age. I was just 25, then. Of course, Futaki Sensei was very healthy.

I recall a misogi-kai in 1941. The purification practices required us to eat three meals a day totaling about 4 cups of thin gruel made of brown rice and to perform cold water douches to wash away impurities of both the body and the mind. We were working to achieve “chinkon” (tranquility of the soul). In the middle of the exhausting week there was supposed to be some entertainment. At that time, a certain sensei got up and said, “You youngsters have no discipline nowadays…” and then continued, “Anyone among the young guys who thinks he can (take me on) just step up here.” With that three people pushed their way to the front and immediately jumped to the attack. How it happened, I don’t know, but they all ended up being thrown. This time they took jo (fighting sticks) and were told to come from any angle they wanted… This time they were thinking, “This old grandpa sure talks big.” But again with no indication of how it was done, look to the left, look to the right, and all you could see were those three fellows flying through the air. Everyone was impressed by what wonderful techniques they were. We were terribly surprised by it all. Later we were told that some wonder-man named Morihei Ueshiba was teaching something called “Ueshiba Ryu Taijutsu” (body arts), and if we should ever run across this name we must, by all means, study the art.

That was all back in 1941. I felt that I really would like to try it, but at that time, no one had any idea where this Ueshiba Sensei was.

Standing: Seiseki Abe, Yoshitaka Inoue (nephew of Morihei), and the Founder at Kumano Juku Dojo in Shingu c. 1954

I first met Ueshiba Sensei at the Osaka Dojo of Bansen Tanaka Sensei. At that time I had no idea that it was the opening ceremony for the dojo. I was just passing by when I suddenly noticed a sign that read Morihei Ueshiba. I guess that it was some kind of (mysterious) guidance from O-Sensei; anyway, I went right in. That’s when I realized that the dojo had been open only the day before, and that the display, at the misogi-kai, was given by the same Ueshiba Sensei. When I mentioned it, I was immediately taken upstairs. There I asked Ueshiba Sensei, “How did you ever learn such a wonderful budo?” He answered, “Through misogi” Now, I had been doing misogi since 1941 and when I heard that Aikido came from misogi, suddenly, “snap” the two came together. Then and there, I made up my mind that I had to dedicate myself to learning Aikido and stick with O-Sensei to the bitter end.

Sensei told me about the misogi he did during his stay in Hokkaido as one of the pioneer settlers of Shirataki Village.

Up there in the winter, in the middle of all that snow, even when there were 20 or 30 centimeters of ice on the river, I did misogi. I did “chinkon” in the snow, too. Every morning I went to the river and scooped up water with a large dipper and so even though the ice was this deep everywhere else, it was thin at my misogi spot.

Just listening to him gave me the chills.

So, O-Sensei practiced misogi even before he entered the Omoto religion. I wonder when it was that Ueshiba Sensei actually began this practice.

Well, I have never heard that exactly, but I have been with him on occasions when genuine misogi had taken place. There was a time when O-Sensei and I were invited to the place of a certain Shinto priest who lives deep in the mountains, up behind the city of Yokkaichi. This priest became a kyoshi (licensed instructor) when Sensei died. Anyway, there is a waterfall there. I have a picture of O-Sensei doing chinkon under the falls, which I still have at my home. Since he was nude, it was a little inappropriate to snap the picture, so I keep it displayed in a dark corner. (laughter)

O-Sensei at about 75 years of age

Wasn’t Sensei somewhere around 75 years old at that time?

That’s right, and extremely healthy. His body had the flexibility of someone seventeen or eighteen years old. Even so, he had gradually lost weight (over the years) and he complained about how much his muscles were sagging. But, when he put his ki into them, “pop,” they became hard as steel.

Do you think that there was a significant difference between the techniques of that period and those of O-Sensei’s later years?

As far as the Aikido he practiced in his later years, even young girls, old people and children could do it. That is a big difference. I suppose you could say that it was a difference in the severity or the strictness of the training. Before the war, it was severity and strong technique, as opposed to the (kind of) techniques that invigorate our partners as we have now. In other words, those powerful techniques, at least in O-Sensei’s case, embraced more than just the power to injure someone. He had a realization (satori) of superb technique that gave life to his training partner. I think this is something truly splendid.

I believe that the reason that Aikido has become so popular today is precisely because it is not simply another martial technique. It goes beyond, and gives life. It is, in fact, a harmonious unification with the Great Universe – a really wonderful thing.

To what extent do you think that Ueshiba Sensei was influenced by the Omoto religion?

Do you mean influenced religiously by Omoto? That is hard to say. The greatest influences from this source are (the concept of) kotodama and the Kojiki. The brilliant Kojiki and the techniques that O-Sensei created were inseparably connected. When O-Sensei spoke about Kojiki, he was not speaking in terms of literary or scholastic explanations. For him, the Kojiki was read in terms of kotodama (the science of the intrinsic power of the spoken word).

In fact, the first time I ever spoke to Seagal Sensei, we discussed the Kojiki. He asked me various questions that pinpointed some of the Kojiki’s most pertinent parts – the kind of questions that most Japanese don’t know enough to ask about. I respect him for that. If one were to follow this kind of thought a little further, I think that it would tie in with Omoto.

“O-Sensei taught mostly the nobility and people connected with the military. So, of course, someone like myself was not qualified to participate!”

This interview was conducted in San Francisco in 1975 and appeared in the November 1975 issue of Aiki News.

Kisaburo Osawa (1910-1991)

Sensei, would you explain how you first became involved in aikido? I understand you first did judo?

When I was young I wanted to become strong, and perhaps all young people feel the same. But when I actually attempted to achieve this goal, I began to understand the idea of strength differently.

Where were you born?

Kumagaya in Saitama Prefecture, where I was born, was a village of only about 300 or 400 houses. It was a poor village and our house was among the poorest, but it was well-known because I was one of three young men who loved to get into fights! That was the environment I grew up in. When I was 15 I went to Tokyo and, since my family was poor, I didn’t receive any allowance from my parents, so I had to work for a living.

Was that during the Meiji Period (1866-1912)?

It was at the beginning of the Showa Period, around 1928. I left home with nothing. Many people were unemployed and salaries were low. If you didn’t work in the same place for at least five years, people would say you were a coward, and that type of character was mistrusted. At the end of the five-year period even though you still weren’t independent, you were at least half way there. When I joined the workforce I was faced with the decision of whether or not to learn judo. The company director said, “You know, judo is old-fashioned; why don’t you study English?”

But I didn’t have a good head for languages and besides, English and judo were quite different. It was then that, fortunately or unfortunately, I came down with pleurisy. I went to a clinic at Tokyo University, and then to a hospital in downtown Tokyo. All the doctors I went to told me I would have to take it easy, so I decided it would be best to return home. There, everyday I would walk along mountain paths to and from medical examinations, until the village doctor finally told me rather bluntly that I was all right! It seems funny now, but I really worked hard even though I was pretty sick.

Would you mind telling us your age?

I’m 67. When I was back in the village I was looked after by a wholesaler who bought from Saitama merchants. He showed me many books on socialism, philosophy and so forth. Nothing much was happening in the village, and I had been back from Tokyo for less than a year when I decided to help this man out, come hell or high water, even though my parents objected. At the wholesaler’s I had no time to myself, since I had to work from 8:00 in the morning until 10:00 at night. But I still had a strong desire to learn judo. The teacher said it was impossible because my body was still weak, but I knew if I kept thinking that way I would never be able to practice, so I started setting my alarm clock for early in the morning, so I could practice judo before my chores.

How old were you at that time?

I was still only 17 or 18. Not being far from the dojo I was able to practice every morning, and I continued until the age of about 25 when I earned the rank of shodan. In those days, it was harder to get shodan than it is now. I was impatient and wanted to become strong quickly, but even after making shodan I was dissatisfied. Was judo the right thing for me? I decided to try something else and began practicing a little boxing but ended up being dissatisfied with that too, and started playing around. This was about 1939. I had a friend at the Army Reserve school in Ichigaya (present site of the Self-Defense Force headquarters) and through him I joined a horse riding club, and came down with hemorrhoids! Fortunately, the doctor who treated me was an acquaintance of O-Sensei and I received an introduction, even though O-Sensei was teaching martial arts mostly to famous people.

Aikido Founder Morihei Ueshiba c. 1938

What kind of people do you mean?

O-Sensei taught mostly the nobility and people connected with the military. So, of course, someone like myself was not qualified to participate, but somehow I was able to join under false pretenses! Up until then, when I saw people being thrown around easily in the old action movies I thought such things were not possible. In judo it was quite hard enough for me to deal with one person. That was how I started aikido. But even then I still wanted to become strong. However, as I continue to improve my aikido and grow older the meaning of the word “strong” has changed for me.

Did anything occur to change your spiritual viewpoint?

Sokaku Takeda demonstrating at the Asahi News dojo in August 1936

“Sokaku’s concern for Morihei was like a father for his son.”

Aiki News would like to express its gratitude to Tokimune Takeda Sensei for granting permission to reprint this summary of an article which appeared in No. 39 of the newsletter published by the Daitokan Dojo.

Tokimune Takeda (1916-1993)

Here I would like to record the relationship between Sokaku Takeda and the city of Osaka. This relationship also has a deep connection with both Morihei Ueshiba and Takuma Hisa who were the most outstanding disciples of Sokaku Takeda. First, I would like to describe how it was that Sokaku came to teach Daito-ryu in Osaka.

In 1929, Admiral Isamu Takeshita, who studied Daito-ryu with Sokaku Takeda, published an article in the magazine entitled “The Story of the Bravery of Sokaku Takeda.” In this article, he described how Sokaku became a budo instructor serving in the capacity of a bodyguard for Marquis Tsugumichi Saigo, an army general, and how he performed acts of bravery in various places. This article came to the attention of the Tokyo Asahi Newspaper Company which sent a journalist to Hokkaido in 1930 to interview Sokaku who was travelling around the northern island teaching.

In 1930 Sokaku was teaching a number of prominent persons in the area of the town of Abashiri. In July of the same year, Sokaku, then 72 years old, went to Koshimizu village in Kitami no kuni accompanied by Taiso Horikawa where he taught Daito-ryu to various leading citizens. It was at this time that Yoichi Ozaka, a reporter of the Tokyo Asahi Newspaper Company followed Sokaku Takeda and went to the Daito-ryu master who was staying at an inn in Koshimizu for the purpose of interviewing the subject of the above-mentioned article written by Admiral Takeshita. He hoped to gather information on Daito-ryu techniques, famous disciples and materials concerning the art.

Sokaku prohibited Daito-ryu from being transmitted to the general public and taught it secretly as a police tactics method and self-defense techniques for prominent people. Consequently, Sokaku would turn away reporters commenting that the art was “not a show.” But this time Sokaku took into account the fact that the Tokyo Asahi newspaperman had come from a great distance to follow him around in order to see him, and the Daito-ryu master willingly agreed to be interviewed. Mr. Ozaka was very impressed by the list of names of top martial artists and noted personages recorded as students of Daito-ryu. As soon as he returned to his office he wrote an article entitled “Ima Bokuden” (reference to Bokuden Tsukahara (1489-1571), founder of Bokuden-ryu tactics and known as a great swordsman) about Sokaku that included a photo. This article became known to martial artists all over Japan and Sokaku’s fame spread far and wide.

Makoto Saito (1858-1936), Japanese prime minister

In February of 1936, Sokaku went to Sendai with the author (Tokimune) accompanying him through the introduction of an Army officer, Mr. Umezu (at that time a member of the city council). He taught Daito-ryu to some 20 prominent persons including those connected with the military and police. During the time Sokaku was instructing leading members of the Sendai Police Department, an incident took place on February 26 where the Lord Keeper of the Privy Seal, Navy Admiral Viscount Makoto Saito was assassinated. Makoto Saito was a member of the Mizusawa Clan of Iwate Prefecture and became a Vice-Minister of the Navy with the support of Tsugumichi Saigo in 1898. In 1906, he became Minister of the Navy and in 1918 he rose to the office of Minister of Foreign Affairs and Minister of Education. He was elected Prime Minister in 1935 and was assassinated on February 26, 1936. During the Meiji period, when supported by Makoto Saito, Sokaku, together with his student Kiichi Umezu, attended the Prime Minister’s funeral held in Saito’s parents’ home in Mizusawa.

In April, Sokaku was engaged in teaching a Mr. Takahashi, Department Chief of the Saitama Police Office and also head of the Police Officers’ Training School, a local police superintendent and nine other officers. Moreover, he held seminars on Daito-ryu at the Urawa Police Department and the Police Officers’ Training School in Saitama. I personally witnessed some of the students who were holding the article entitled “Ima Bokuden” (see AN #68) cut out from the newspaper as if it were really valuable.

In May of 1936, Sokaku taught Daito-ryu to the Chief of the Omiya Police Department in Saitama Prefecture and some 17 others. While in Tokyo he instructed the head of the Tokyo Asahi News together with 16 other persons.

The interest generated by the “Bokuden” article reached even Osaka and in June Sokaku received an invitation from the Osaka Asahi Newspaper. While he was staying upstairs in the house of his student, a Mr. Nagatani, some ten judo and sword experts and Mr. Takuma Hisa, chief of the business section of the Asahi News came to visit him having heard that the subject of the article in question had come to Osaka. [This version of the first meeting of Sokaku Takeda and Takuma Hisa is at variance with the version told by Hisa repeatedly after the war. For information on this version, please see my article Remembering Takuma Hisa. –Ed.]

When these men came to visit Sokaku they found a small, thin old man bent with age with no teeth and clad in long drawers. They were shocked by his appearance and doubted that he was really the famous martial artist. They exchanged disappointed glances because of the trouble they had taken to visit this little old man.

Noting their dismay, Sokaku changed into his street clothes. He then arranged the floor cushions for the visitors in order starting from the seat of honor to the lowest position. Next, he pointed to each person one after the other beginning with the highest ranking member of the newspaper company and had them take their appropriate seats. After this, Sokaku exchanged name cards with each person again according to their rank.

“When I tried to do koshinage on some of the taller men I found that they could just step over me; no matter how I tried the technique, I couldn’t manage to throw them because the height difference…”

Aikido Journal Number 119, Spring 2000

Contents

     ● Editorial – Aikido: A Restatement of Universal Truths, by Stanley Pranin
     ● Letters and Threads
     ● Interview with Hiroshi Isoyama, 8th dan, by Stanley Pranin
     ● My Career in Yanagi-ryu Aiki Jiu Jitsu, by Don Angier
     ● Takemusu Aiki (4), by Morihei Ueshiba
     ● Interview with Mariye Takahashi (1), by Stanley Pranin
     ● Everything in Black and White, by David Lynch
     ● Interview with Walther von Krenner, by Stanley Pranin
     ● Aikido and Independence, by Peter Goldsbury
     ● Takemusu Aikido — Yokomenuchi yonkyo omotewaza, by Morihiro Saito
     ● Daito-ryu Aikijujutsu Takumakai — Hijinobashi Aiki, by Takeshi Kawabe & Hakaru Mori
     ● O-Sensei’s Songs of the Way, by Seiseki Abe
     ● Virtue of the Sword, by James Williams
     ● Heard in the Dojo

Download the pdf file of Aikido Journal Number 119 by right clicking on the link below:

“The control, positioning, perfect balance, attention to detail, and many other subtleties revealed in the Noma Dojo photos reflect a deep mastery of Daito-ryu.”

In 1936, an historic event took place that provides a clear snapshot of the techniques of Aikido Founder Morihei Ueshiba at this stage of his career. The Founder, together with his devoted uchideshi Shigemi Yonekawa, were photographed performing hundreds of Aiki Budo techniques, running the gamut from basic to advanced. The Noma photos are full of complex joint-locks and pins and retain many of the characteristics of Daito-ryu aikijujutsu techniques. These images capture the Morihei Ueshiba during a transition phase on his path toward the development of modern aikido.

Those who have described Morihei’s study of Daito-ryu aikijujutsu as brief and superficial are left with the task of explaining how he could have such a profound knowledge of Daito-ryu techniques. The control, positioning, perfect balance, attention to detail, and many other subtleties revealed in the Noma Dojo photos reflect a deep mastery of Daito-ryu.

“When I faced O-Sensei, his eyes appeared large and his ‘ki’ came towards me with great energy. When facing him, all my ‘ki’ would be absorbed and my power ended up amounting to nothing.”

Dreamlike Days

A scroll hung smooth and quiet in the altar of the Kobukan Dojo. There were kamisama there and a bamboo blind neatly screened it off. Every morning the uchideshi, Rinjiro Shirata, thought, “Ueshiba Sensei’s being is exactly the same!” But when facing his teacher in the dojo, it wasn’t like that at all.

Morihei Ueshiba started advancing slowly from a long distance, yet there was still a separation of two mats. While Morihei moved another step forward, he slowly raised the arms that had been hanging down naturally to in front of his chest.

Thinking, “He’s driving into me,” Rinjiro let out a shout, “Ii eh ii!”, from the bottom of his core, readied his hand blade and shortening the distance himself, moved to strike preemptively. Mind, spirit and body were unified. Certain victory with a single stroke… He expected his hand to strike the top of Morihei’s head, but instantly Morihei moved his body and slipped behind him. He earnestly launched another cut and a fist, but all of them cut the air as if it had been prearranged. Morihei, who was weaving his way around, wasn’t hit at all; Rinjiro couldn’t even lay a hand on him.

“It’s… it’s no good!”

Even though he was the “Kobukan Prodigy,” this teacher was the only one with whom he could do nothing.

In later years, Rinjiro recalled what it was like to face Morihei, in the following way.

“When I faced O-Sensei, his eyes appeared large and his “ki” came towards me with great energy. When facing him, all my “ki” would be absorbed and my power ended up amounting to nothing. The more earnestly you faced him, the greater the effect of the “ki” from Ueshiba Sensei. It isn’t comprehensible, if one hasn’t experienced this kind of confrontation.”

Morihei was reading Rinjiro’s intentions as if they were an open book. As soon as Morihei felt the faint signals, he immediately stopped those movements, and in the next moment, he bent Rinjiro’s body like a large bow, immobilizing him. Afterwards, the finish was said to be like yonkyo, but Rinjiro didn’t even have a chance to confirm that; all he could do was endure the intense pain and struggle to somehow slip out of the technique even though he knew it was useless. Contrary to the struggle in his mind, his body didn’t even twitch.

“What terribly amazing breath power!”

Proud of the strength that could lift two bales of rice, Rinjiro shook his head as he answered an interview question, “Was (the Founder’s technique) painful?”

“Yes, really sharp. I couldn’t move. That’s the kind of thing I couldn’t understand! I still don’t understand. Even though I had confidence in my physical strength, whenever I faced Sensei, inevitably my body would end up floating in empty air, and I couldn’t do a thing. No matter what, he took everything away. Everything was completely absorbed by Sensei. That sort of ability isn’t comprehended by the practice of technique alone.”

Similarly, Rinjiro was completely puzzled by joint techniques.

“Having joint techniques applied was really painful. Sometimes nikyo was applied, and you couldn’t hold chopsticks! When it comes to something like yonkyo, it would swell up purple, over and over again, it would swell up purple. By doing that, you would reach the point where it wouldn’t swell and you wouldn’t feel the pain. Being in pain means that you have not yet had enough severe training. (ha ha ha) Well, it was that kind of time, wasn’t it!”

Rinjiro said that, not only was he captured by Morihei’s techniques, every single time he experienced intense pain.

He wondered if he’d become really strong. He was doubtful, but when Morihei went to places like the Military Staff College, the Military Police Corps, the Torpedo School and the Gunnery School to conduct training, he was always chosen as Morihei’s assistant. He never once experienced defeat in challenge matches, either. He could almost always defeat an opponent with his first strike.

With good reason, even at the Kobukan of that time, atemi was not actually used during training.

“Atemi was only explained to a certain point and we never really included it. But after all, being hit in the face and stopping a fist in front of the eyes are different, aren’t they? So suddenly when a fist comes, that thing called awareness goes in a different direction, doesn’t it! Power falls away immediately! That is the point.”

Reading poem in praise of Morihei Ueshiba
at All-Japan Aikido Demonstration, c. 1990

In nearly six years of training at the Kobukan from the end of 1931 to the end of 1937–with only about a year and a half spent on foundation training–Rinjiro began the Okayama branch of the Budo Senyokai [c. 1934] discussed previously, traveled throughout the country for outside training and when in Tokyo, went around serving as Morihei’s assistant.

“The last two years, I was residing in Osaka”

According to what Rinjiro said after the war, he took charge of the dojo, replacing Tsutomu Yukawa who was the senior student in Osaka. Yukawa came from Wakayama and is a hero of aikido history. At any rate, he had tremendous physical strength. Not only could he casually bend and straighten a long six inch nail, but he was also known to grab a bale of rice in each hand, lift them up, and hit them together like wooden clappers.

“I want considerate people to listen to the voice of Aikido. It is
not for correcting others; it is for correcting your own mind”

One of the first aikido books published in English appeared in 1963. It was authored by Morihei Ueshiba’s son, Kisshomaru Ueshiba, who later became the Second Doshu. This book contained a short section titled “Memoir of the Master.” It is a collection of aphorisms attributed to Morihei that encapsulates the essence and principles of Aikido.

The text of “Memoir of the Master” was very influential among early aikidoka, being widely disseminated in the aikido community, and translated into many different languages. I recall a small printed booklet available in some aikido dojos that contained the “Memoir of the Master” text. Like my fellow practitioners, I read these maxims over and over again. They formed the basis of my early understanding of the philosophical principles underlying aikido.

I ran across the text again recently and slowly re-read the passages. Now, nearly 50 years later, I find that the impact of “Memoir of the Master” has not been diminished with time. With a lifetime of experiences behind me, I have a different level of understanding, but remain in total awe of the innovative thinking of the Founder.

I would like to share these wonderful passages to readers who may be encountering them for the first time. I have added some thoughts of my own which appear italicized in the text.

————————————–

As ai (harmony) is common with ai (love), I decided to name my unique budo “Aikido,” although the word “aiki” is an old one. The word which was used by the warriors in the past is fundamentally different from that of mine.

Although Morihei did not actually choose the name “Aikido,” he embraced its use after the name was selected. He would refer to his art mostly as “Aiki” in conversation. The key distinction here is that Morihei was using the term in a different sense than that employed historically in a martial arts context. The older meaning of “aiki” relates to tactical matters of neutralizing and controling an opponent. Morihei expands the meaning of “aiki” to include a loving and harmonious mindset in applying Aikido’s techniques. This is an innovative concept.

Aiki is not a technique to fight with or defeat the enemy. It is the way to reconcile the world and make human beings one family.

“You are going to be required to absorb the application of numerous, painful techniques which, lest we forget, were originally intended for maiming and killing.”

From Aiki News #65 (December 1984)

The AIKI NEWS staff recently returned from a long, highly successful trip to the west coast of the United States during which 13 Aikido film presentations were given, each in a different city. A total of some 800 appreciative persons viewed the seven films we had selected from our collection of O-Sensei movies plus a beautiful color film shot primarily in Iwama which was kindly provided by Saito Sensei especially for our trip. The number of impressions and experiences collected during those 34 event-filled days would no doubt fill a small book if I were to have the time to record them. But as that is not possible here, let me relate to you one incident which did occur, not once but several times, that left me feeling extremely awkward and has presented me with quite a challenge in order to find a suitable response.

“This is nonsense, the attackers are all cooperating with the old man!”

Several of the viewers of the O-Sensei films, one of them in fact being my father, had the following reaction upon seeing the movies: “This is nonsense, the attackers are all cooperating with the old man!” Well, how would you respond to that sort of deflating comment directed at the founder of Aikido, one of your life’s heroes? This especially when a careful viewing of many sections of the films indeed reveals what appears to be half-hearted, weak attacks often delivered late after O-Sensei has already begun to move. I assure you that this is the case since I have without doubt watched O-Sensei movies more times than any other mortal in the history of mankind! Having I hope duly established my credentials and by way of a response to the above comment, I think it might be fruitful to probe a little into the psychology of the attack in Aikido.

“The harder your attack, the harder your fall!”

First, assume that you are an advanced student in your dojo and will be taking falls for your teacher during a demonstration. Your instructor is an accomplished martial artist and has long since earned your respect for his/her technical expertise and, no doubt, for other reasons as well. I presume this to be the case, else why would you be training with this particular teacher in the first place? Now, you are standing before an audience and are ready to attack your teacher. What attitude do you adopt? I would imagine you would attack in very nearly the same manner as you do in the dojo under normal circumstances, except that you might be a little more intense because of the adrenalin flow in your body. After all, you have been training for a number of years and certain habits have surely become ingrained. But then, on the other hand, what have you learned from past experiences when you have attempted to test how your teacher responds by attacking more strongly than usual? Probably you will have discovered that your fall becomes more difficult. Or, put in plain and simple terms, the harder your attack, the harder your fall. You moreover recognize that for the exhibition you may be called upon to take not one, but many falls, that is, a long series of “harder” falls. What is likely to be the cumulative effect of this repeated pounding on your body? Quite a beating, indeed! Fatigue, too, must definitely be factored into the equation. What do your attacks look like when you are tired?

“Some extraordinary demands are going to be placed on your body”

Then, there is also the other side of the coin. Your teacher, too, is likely to be stimulated under the circumstances and may be putting a little more “ki” into his throws than usual. In short, you have a special situation in which some extraordinary demands are going to be placed on your body. You are going to be required to absorb the application of numerous, painful techniques which, lest we forget, were originally intended for maiming and killing. Not exactly a Sunday afternoon picnic!

“Martial artists discover that their discipline and effort has paid off handsomely and, in the bargain, provided benefits which spill over into other areas of their lives.”

Aikido Journal #103 (1995)

Self-defense can be defined as the protection of one’s life and/or property against an attack. In cases where people take active steps to safeguard themselves and their possessions, fear is often the strongest motivating factor. Take the example of a young man who decides to join a martial arts school or self-defense course. Most likely he is driven by apprehension due to some perceived vulnerability such as small physical size or weakness. Perhaps he has recently been the victim of an attack at the hands of a bully that has left him injured and humiliated in the eyes of his friends. As a teenager, I personally witnessed one such violent incident. Even though I was not the victim, the fear I felt at seeing the perpetration of violence at close hand proved to be the deciding factor in getting me to join an aikido dojo.

Or consider the distraught young woman who has been the victim of physical abuse at the hands of a male, who sets out to learn self-defense in an attempt to eliminate the fear of a possible future act of aggression. In such instances as these, the victims are galvanized into action by deep-seated feelings of fear. Their responses are motivated by an instinct for self-preservation perhaps tinged with a desire for revenge and their victimizers are villainized as enemies. It is a familiar psychological model involving the duality of victim and aggressor.

Over the long run, however, training in these martial disciplines can produce several unanticipated results. In addition to acquiring self-defense skills, practitioners improve their physical conditioning and mental alertness. Their newly-acquired abilities go hand in hand with a psychological change that transforms their initial motivations into something other than fear or a desire for revenge. They may take the first steps in assuming full responsibility for their lives by realizing that they have the power to prevent such situations from recurring. They discover that their discipline and effort has paid off handsomely and, in the bargain, provided benefits which spill over into other areas of their lives.

Although the notion of self-defense first brings to mind the protection of life and property, it is sometimes used metaphorically to describe courses of action against “victimization” in other areas of one’s life. Fear born out of physical threat has psychological parallels in numerous areas where we feel our security is threatened.

Take “financial” self-defense, for example. There is even a best-selling book bearing this title. Virtually everyone at some time or other find themselves in a financial pinch. I can remember the days when I was trying to operate a dojo as a business in a small town. It was a draining effort month after month to attempt to make ends meet. The psychological pressure that financial insecurity generates can have a devastating effect in all areas of one’s life. People who find themselves in financial straits may seek a way out of their dilemmas by practicing monetary discipline. They learn to analyze how they spend their income in minute detail, where they can reduce expenditures, and how to save and invest successfully. As they begin to realize their financial goals one by one, their fear of poverty or insolvency recedes and is replaced by increasing degrees of self-confidence. Their freedom from anxiety opens the door to greater happiness and the resultant psychological “leeway” may even lead them to engage in charitable activities. People who through persistence and willpower achieve financial security and consequently have little fear of “financial” attacks are the psychological equivalents of black belts in martial arts who feel confident of their ability to defend themselves against a physical attack.

This expanded concept of self-defense is obviously applicable to the area of “verbal” self-defense as well. Everyone has at some time been victimized by an aggressive interlocutor in a social context. It might be a parent, teacher, friend, or anyone who fires these “word” salvos. Whether intentionally or not, these perpetrators of verbal attacks inflict psychological wounds that cause suffering every bit as real as a physical wound. Victims who accumulate psychological damage from this kind of interpersonal abuse have various options as well. They can, for example, begin work with a skilled therapist and find out why they are vulnerable to such verbal attacks and how to cope with them in the future. Besides coming to appreciate their own worth and strengths—which is necessary to promote confidence in a social context—an understanding of semantics and verbal presuppositions can lead to the development of techniques useful for dealing with speech attacks.

“The skills and technology of True Self Defense are simply an extension of
those developed for survival over hundreds of thousands of years.”

Let us look at the nature of “Self Defense”. There are two kinds of self defense and one is merely a distortion of the other. The first Self Defense is authentic. It is the evolutionary, biological right of any animal to defend its life and those of its family or social group. With humans this involves the development of certain skills coupled with the addition of technical development. The skills and technology of True Self Defense are simply an extension of those developed for survival over hundreds of thousands of years. So True Self Defense is the defense of the physical body when under some threat.

The distorted form of Self Defense is not authentic and is the result of illusion. It is based on the instinct for self preservation on which authentic Self Defense is founded but it is distorted by the illusion of self identity under which most people operate. In other words from the time of our birth we develop a series of self images which we put forward as “who we are.” These self images or “primary selves” are who we consciously believe we are and reflect the ways in which we have learned through our personal experience to exist in the world.

The problem is that this is not really who we are. There is a whole series of “disowned selves” who from infancy we have learned to put away from our consciousness. The more we identify with these “primary selves” the more energy it takes to maintain that incomplete self image, that illusion of who we are.

So what we do as human beings is to devote most of our energy to trying to maintain our false, conditioned construction of ourselves. Anything that threatens that sense of identity feels like a threat to our very survival (whereas it is only a threat to the survival of the false identity). We seek out companions and experiences that support our false sense of self and yet at the same time there is a counter drive for us to look inward towards our deeper nature.

All aggressive behavior that is not True Self Defense is the result of this false identification with the mental constructs that create our “primary selves” and the fundamental reluctance and fear we have to recognizing that we are not who we maintain we are. We will distance from, attack, divorce, etc. anyone who threatens our fundamental sense of who we are and we tend to seek out people and activities that reinforce the identity we put forth to the world (and ourselves). To have this sense of self threatened is experienced as a survival issue by the conditioned self.

“I believe that Saito Sensei is capable of seeing
the hearts of people directly on a spiritual level.”

“Aikido’s technical debt to Daito-ryu is immense. It is difficult to find a movement in aikido which does not originate in Takeda’s jujutsu form.”

Contents of Aiki News Number 94

• Editorial – “Daito-ryu and Omoto: The Two Pillars of Aikido,” by Stanley Pranin
• Editorial – “Significant doings at Aiki News English Editorial Office,” by Diane Skoss
• Letters to the Editor
• Readers’ Forum: “Bullies in the Dojo”
• Interview with Paolo Corallini, by Stanley Pranin
• Yoshinkan Aikido Techniques — Shomenuchi udegaraminage, by Gozo Shioda
• Interview with Katsuaki Asai, by Stanley Pranin
• Weapons Training and Aikido, by Larry Bieri and Patrick Augé
• Aiki News Videotape Catalog
• Morihei Ueshiba and Sokaku Takeda, by Stanley Pranin
• Aikido Techniques Compared — Yokomenuchi Yonkyo Urawaza / Yokomenuchi Yonkyo Osae, by Gozo Shioda, Seiseki Abe, Kyoichi Inoue, Yasuo Kobayashi, Kiyoyuki Terada
• Heard in the Dojo: “In Memoriam — Terry Dobson (1937-1992)

Morihiro Saito with Paolo Corallini, c. 1990

Download the pdf file of Aiki News Number 94 by right clicking on the link below:

“You have to relax and still hold the shape of the exercise
properly. It has to have rigidity to it, but it can’t be stiff.”

Recently Tim Fong made a trip out to Japan and was able to catch up with Akuzawa-sensei (he often tells westerners to call him “Ark”) over drinks. With the assistance of Robert John, he prodded him on his views on training, his perspective on how the body should be used and how he undertook his journey through the martial arts.

So I’m going to come right out and say it – what do you consider to be the most important basic exercise? And does this exercise give you conditioning to do the skill, or is it the other way round?

It’s not really conditioning. The way I see it, I think it’s more about deepening your understanding (awareness) of the body and how it works. This includes asking questions such as “how do you place a load on the body, how do you handle it and how do you control it?” Basically, the exercises I formulated – you know them as Tenchi, Maho, Shiko form a single group. You need all of them since the exercises emphasize different aspects of the same skill.

For instance, Tenchi teaches you how to use the legs and middle connected to the spine to move up and down. Maho is about fine-tuning the body so that the joints take the load off the major muscle groups, and the load is balanced between the front and back of the middle/core, removing any effort from the upper body to hold up the arms.

Shiko takes the elements from Tenchi and Mabu, but now you move the middle from side to side without breaking any of the elements of the previous two exercises – I think you get the general picture. But, doing solo training is only half the work. They’re important, but you still need feedback, which is where a partner comes in. If he/she pushes your fist while in Mabu, where do you feel the load? Is it the back? Is it the middle? Is it the feet? Do I feel it catch in the shoulder? These questions are hard to answer by yourself – well with a little ingenuity you could use a wall to get feedback, but still the feedback provided by something static is completely different from feedback provided by a person. This process is absolutely critical if you want to understand how to load the joints, use the spine and subsequently connect the body as one unit.

So what do you think about the spine? I know there’s lots of talk about it on various forums but what is your take on its role?

The spine is what connects the entire body. I used to do gymnastics competitively and competed in Sanda fairly intensively once – and in my experience many of the top athletes I used to work with didn’t focus much on how the spine functions. You can use it like a bow to store a force, and it must be aligned properly within the pelvis in order to connect the upper body with the middle – which of course is where the exercises come in , but I’m getting away from the main point.

Here’s another way to look at it, think of a four legged animal walking. It uses its spine to walk, the spine is suspended and the middle is used to operate the spine which in turn operates the extremities. Take the four legged model, now apply it to a bipedal motion. This alignment and suspension, is the most effective way to use the body and deal with forces or generate forces.

You’ve demonstrated a skill where your body looks and feels rock solid, but still remains flexible at the same time – I believe you coined this as the “Gou” or “hard” way to use the body, how did you realize it? When did you realize it, and was it shown to you?

Well, no one ever taught me anything in particular. I guess the best answer is that there were two individuals that influenced me martially. One was a CQC combat instructor for the JSDF, and the other was a person who was exceptional at several sword styles including Yagyu Shinkage.

But the first thing that struck me was that both of these individuals were small, but felt “connected.” They felt substantial, certainly they felt “larger” than they looked, and they were never stiff. They could move quickly and still retain this substantial feeling to their body while still retaining softness.

My experience with these individuals was a major influence in how I shaped my training. Over the course of my training – at some point, maybe my late twenties, I realized that the more I brought a load into my body and loaded my joints and brought the force low within me, the more a force would manifest itself outside externally. Externally the force would feel solid, but still allow me to remain mobile. Since the force was “hard” I coined the term “Go.”

Does this mean that you’re just using structure and alignment to create this?

Alignment is important, don’t get me wrong, but if you hold the alignment rigidly, you reduce your ability to move. The real question is, can you use it when you’re moving around freely? It takes time to link the practice you do (the slow training), increase the solidity of your connections, and then merge it with real applications, fighting, what have you. There’s a lot of people that can perform some aspects correctly in a set exercise, but ask them to move randomly and it all disappears. It takes diligence and consistent training to make this a default way to move.

So you mean there’s more than just “structure”? And I bring this up since the term has been thrown around a lot with reference to your explanations.

That’s a good point. But let’s back up a bit – I think the main problem lies in the fact that my understanding of what is “structure” and what most people think of “structure” are two different animals.

So what do you mean?

Well, if I were to guess, and again I could be wrong, when people refer to structure, they’re referring to holding a general shape of the body, (straight back, head held upright, knees slightly bowed out etc), and as long as they hold it they have good “structure. ” But I’d say that’s getting away from the real concept. In Japanese, the nuance is that I’m referring to a specific way of holding the body that has little to do with the shape. The posture creates a connection throughout the body. This posture needs to be held in a very relaxed manner. But it can’t be limp. This explanation can be frustrating because the second I tell people to relax, they go limp. You have to relax and still hold the shape of the exercise properly. It has to have rigidity to it, but it can’t be stiff. If I were to use a car as a model, you wouldn’t want to have too much play in the rear wheels when you take a turn, otherwise you’d be thrown off the curve. But if you have a certain amount of rigidity in the suspension, then the car turns as a unit. Rigidity is fine, but you need softness as well, otherwise you brace and lock out.

So would it be fair to say that by loading the joints you mean relaxing and opening the joints?

That’s part of it. My idea of structure is twofold. One is that the joints open, this gives you a stretch throughout the body that handles incoming loads. Now you have to stack the skeleton using an alignment that drops the body weight directly down. Initially when you do this it makes the feet heavy – and when you think about it physically that’s what should happen if the weight of your upper body is carried by your legs and middle. So when I punch, like how I showed you earlier – you should feel no feedback in your upper-body when you connect. The recoil on impact should feel like it bypasses the upper-body entirely.

What about breath power and the dantien? Aren’t they important?

They are important. I think people get the idea that I don’t use the Dantien. If your alignment is correct, that is where the load must settle, especially in basic exercises like Mabu. You must move that part in order to move the rest of the body. A lot of people mention the tanden, and when they do they most often refer to the lower tanden. But in reality all parts are important. For me the tanden is the ENTIRE belt area. It is hooked up to the chest tanden etc. So when I say that I move it when I walk in say, the walking mabu exercise, in reality I move everything at once.

This is a bit of a detour, but can you talk about Bojutsu and why you place a lot of emphasis on it?

During my thirties I spent a lot of time training with a 6 foot bo staff. The rigidity of the bo required me to soften and align my body to the bo itself. The bo wouldn’t algin to me. When I did this, I realized I had to move my whole body to operate it efficiently, and that the mechanics that drove a weapon were fundamentally different from the Sanda training I’d done earlier in my life. As far as I’ve experienced, Chinese spear training has a similar goal for those that understand it. Getting back on point though, as I practiced, I realized that the more I relaxed and held a specific alignment, the more I could hold the weight of the bo “inside me.” By that I mean, I would feel the “weight” of the Bo within me, but my upper body, and the bo itself would feel light. So I realized I could integrate an external weight into myself. The way normal athletes work with weights they may partially load the weight into themselves if they’re smart, but they would still fight the weight to lift it.

So I would work out with my friends using the bo, and they’d try and fling me around. I realized that I could integrate their force into my body much like the bo, and then manipulate them through this integrated force.

Most people took this to mean that I was really strong – they just didn’t understand that I was using a fundamentally different principle. This lead me to focus on solely transmitting forces. As long as I could transmit a power created by a force being placed on me, I figured it was more correct. This is as I see it, part of the essence of exercises like Agete.

Let’s look at it another way– so if someone applies a force to me, we have an incoming force “A.” I combine it with my own body weight “B”, so in reality the force the other party would feel is my own body weight combined with their own incoming force. When that happens, I feel the force in my feet and pelvis. At least understanding this aspect is crucial if you want to progress.

Thank you very much for your time, I know it’s getting late, but I do have one last question, and that is – what is your opinion on the state of internal/bujutsu training in Japan?

I think most of them are turning into ways (michi) and the real pursuit of actually obtaining these skills, is on the downturn. I think it will be extinct soon in Japan. There are some people that say they are researching bujutsu, but that doesn’t mean they are actually practicing bujutsu.

AUNKAI SEMINAR with Akuzawa Minoru, September 21-22 in Orange, California

“A nuboko adorned with jewels was used by Izanami and Izanagi
while standing on the Ame no Ukihashi to ‘stir’ the sea!”

This series of photos shows Morihei Ueshiba O-Sensei performing misogi jo movements inside the old Aikikai Hombu Dojo, c. 1965. If you look closely, you will see that he is actually using two separate weapons. One is the familiar jo — a stick a little over four feet long — and the other a pointed weapon of similar length called the “nuboko.” Mention of this nuboko, literally the “swamp spear,” will be new to many aikidoka. Its name comes right out of the Kojiki, the so-called “Record of Ancient Matters,” that contains the mythological creation stories of Japan.

Izanami and Izanagi, charged with creating the first land, stood on the “Ame no Ukihashi” (the floating bridge of heaven). This bridge connects heaven and earth. O-Sensei used this term often in his speech. It represents the sacred place where one performs purification practices, and absorbs the energy of heaven. Aikido itself is misogi and a means to achieve enlightenment.

A nuboko adorned with jewels was used by Izanami and Izanagi while standing on the Ame no Ukihashi to “stir” the sea, and the drops of salt water that fell from its tip formed the first land mass of the Japanese islands. So goes the legend.

Briefly then, this type of misogi practice performed by O-Sensei reflects his Shinto beliefs, the lens through which the Founder viewed the world, and his mission in creating and spreading aikido.