Learning reishiki (礼式), the etiquette that regulates interactions on the tatami, is not that complicated.

Those who observe as visitors an Aikido class are usually very impressed: you can feel commitment, you can see order. From the outside, a Dojo appears to be a world as we would like, especially outside the tatami.

Reishiki and respect are two very distinct universes. One is the manifestation of the other, however the etiquette can be observed down to the smallest detail, without being based on a crumb of respect.

It concerns all cultures, starting from our western etiquette, which is capable of clouding empty relationships with form inside. Remaining in a Japanese dimension, reishiki is that element that we admire in the measured harmony of a society capable of great cleanliness, efficient organization, aesthetic rigor and that generates immense solitudes compressed into the immutable daily routine.

The form, which keiko after keiko envelopes the practitioner is a great ally of personal growth. Rhythms and dynamics give structure, to the body as well as to the mind. From the very beginning, a practitioner feels a clear improvement: one feels calmer, more focused. The body slowly wakes up, becoming more capable of increasingly complex and integrated movements.

If one is not careful, however, the practice becomes, for the life of the practitioner, the embodied representation of the Japanese society just described above: efficient and closed in on itself at the same time.

It is obvious that it would already be a great achievement to become people capable of punctuality, cleanliness, commitment, silent attention. And it would be the forbidden dream of every teacher to have students who arrive, each in their own time, at the geometrically impeccable execution of the techniques.

But what do we do with arriving exclusively at this? What’s the point of becoming expert hakama folders, knowing what Yoroku Ueshiba’s favorite Friday night dish was, quoting the Hagakure by heart, being available to put our face where a second before there were the sweaty feet of a stranger…

…If over time we don’t become capable of that minimum of empathy that makes us capable of opening our eyes to ourselves and others?

No moralizing speeches. No chief world’s systems. Small, concrete things: giving an extra smile. Dedicating a good 20 seconds of our precious existence to ask a companion: “How are you?“, maybe even with a message. Recognizing that the sensei has his human side and that he also has his needs. And that maybe he doesn’t have to chase us, because maybe the classes started months ago and we didn’t even bother to warn him…

A good tamer is someone who can train an animal without using the whip.

Form, reishiki, technical program, keiko… They are all tools that we use to tame ourselves. And we all know how difficult it is to tame our body.

But there is a wild beast, which hides in the darkest parts of us and which sometimes becomes more ferocious the more the form consolidates in its technical expressions.

The ego is the opponent for which Budo was created. An opponent that forcefully demands respect from others, without granting it in turn.

Also because, by its nature, respect is the ability to know how to mirror oneself in others. Seeing that we are capable of applying thousands of techniques but that deep down we are often incapable of recognizing our limits and seeing the needs of others, hurts.

It hurts so much that we often prefer to be little martial robots, shining on the outside but withered on the inside.

The good news is that we can choose not to end up like this. And you, who do you want to become?

Disclaimer: picture by Cemrecan Yurtman from Unsplash