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.