I’ve been training for nearly 25 years in Aikido and spent the last decade as the chief instructor of a dojo. In my time, I’ve noticed some things about the way people tend to progress through their practice—or not—and thought I’d take a moment to share what I’ve observed.
In the Japanese martial arts, there are different models of how one should make their way through the stages of training from beginner to master. Fundamental to traditional Japanese martial arts is the concept of kata or forms. There are three stages associated with this model: shu (to obey the form), ha (to break the form), and ri (to transcend the form). In my piece here, you’ll see some crossover with this model, though I don’t intend for to give a detailed explanation. For an in-depth discussion, I’d recommend Kazuo Chiba Shihan’s article, “Structure of Shu, Ha, Ri, and Penetration of Shoshin.”
A different approach is to consider how one develops their body as they practice. Morihei Ueshiba O-Sensei talked about this aspect of our training via the four stages of kotai (‘solid’ body), jutai (‘flexible’ body), ryutai (‘flowing’ body), and kitai (ki or ‘energy’ body). A detailed discussion of this approach can be found in William Gleason Shihan’s book Aikido and Words of Power.
But this article is not a scholarly explanation of the way things should be. This is what I’ve observed, along with some caveats and suggestions.
Getting Started
Any martial artist can tell you the story of how they found their way onto the mat. For me, the short version is that I was walking down an alley one day and saw a flyer for Aikido classes at the local YMCA. I called, showed up, and never looked back.
The longer version is that each of us has a broader narrative of what drew us to our art. This perspective isn’t always apparent until one has spent years training, at which point it tends to become more clear.
For me, my kikkake, or ‘opportunity to begin’ was that I came to Aikido from a place of spiritual/philosophical searching. In high school, for a period, I was depressed and suicidal, and one day I happened to find a copy of Zen Flesh, Zen Bones in my hands. As I read, with each successive parable I forgot my worries and my eyes opened to the incredible possibility of here and now.
From there, I continued to read more on Zen, Taoism, and Buddhism. As I made my way, each new book would stress the importance of proper practice. It sounded great, but the problem was I didn’t have a practice. I spent some time frustrated, spinning my wheels, but soon enough found my way onto the mat.
This sort of origin story, as it were, can be a useful reference point along the way. Though our motives for why we train may change, it can be helpful to know what initially brought you onto the mat to help reorient yourself further down the road.
The Stages of Training
When first starting their practice, people tend to enjoy the visceral, physical aspects of training. It’s fun and challenging to gain the new skills of rolling, throwing, and pinning, which tends to be sufficiently stimulating for people to come back for more.
This lasts for a while, and at some point a student will start to accrue technical knowledge. Though those not familiar with the martial arts tend to think of a black belt as one who has reached a level of mastery, quite to the contrary, the first level of blackbelt in Japanese is shodan, meaning ‘beginning level.’ On the way to shodan, one generally focuses on learning technique and establishing proper form.
Once an aikidoka has earned her hakama, she can then begin to explore what’s inside the techniques. In fact, I find the biggest stumbling block at this stage is an overly-narrow focus on technical form. I see a lot of second- and third-dan practitioners who stay fixated on form and eventually end up bored and frustrated, and who often quit around this stage. They become disillusioned because they can’t let go of the rigid structures they have learned. It’s like they’ve mastered the rules of grammar, but find themselves with nothing to say.
To break through this barrier, I find it’s necessary to concede some degree of technical proficiency—not unlike the ha stage of kata-based training. It is common at this point, if not necessary, to wonder what you’re doing and not really have a good answer. If one is patient and can sustain a consistent level of training at this time, he can begin to discover what’s contained in those forms and come to understand the principles they embody.
Though revelatory, this realization isn’t primarily intellectual. One way to say it is that at this point the techniques simply become a part of you. The Japanese might describe this as mi ni tsuku, literally the techniques ‘stick to your body’ and your actions start to fall in line with the principles contained within the forms, much like the ri stage of shu ha ri.
Add a Dash of Complexity
Sounds great, right? Sign me up! Well, it never goes that smoothly, and this is where things get interesting.
In my experience, each student tends to have some challenge or blockage that prevents them from making progress—sometimes multiple barriers stand in their way. Maybe they previously experienced some trauma and now struggle to assert themselves. Others are fixated on winning, and can’t let go of strength enough to discover the finer details of the art.
These barriers manifest themselves in many ways. Of course, the ego looms large here, and whatever patterns we have gotten comfortable with, what we have come to know of as our self, actually stands in our way.
You don’t walk out the same person as you walked in. That is the nature of a transformative practice. A good teacher can spot a student’s intrapersonal hindrances and help him move through them. Some teachers—Kazuo Chiba Shihan comes to mind here!—approach this barrier quite aggressively, trying to smash through that inflexible concept of self. Others are more gentle. Let’s hope you found the right teacher!
At the end of class once, William Gleason Shihan said, “A good teacher doesn't give it to you; a good teacher helps you find it.” Aikido offers us the opportunity to discover something. This discovery is both of the practice and within ourselves. It sounds complicated to say in words, but simply put the thing that seems to stand most in our way holds the greatest potential for growth.
The Next Step
At first we train to roll and throw and pin, but later on our training becomes deeper, more amorphous. I have walked part of this road and know I have much further to go, my path blazed by those before me. It’s not always easy, and the direction not always clear, but I seem to enjoy it well enough to keep moving forward.
I would encourage you to take a moment now to look within and ask what might be standing in your way. Your teacher and those who know you best have probably already tried to tell you about it, though it is the thing we’re least likely to really hear.
Enjoy where you are now, even when it’s hard. Also know that over there, on the other side, is something great, that you are something great.