The motto of Novum Experience is: Understand, Transform, Improve.

We have always believed, yesterday as today, that the practice of a discipline should always be experienced in three dimensions.

The first is to enable ourselves to expand our ability to absorb the experiences we go through. Literally: being able to stand in the midst of life. Both cognitively and physically.

The second is to be open to listening to the transformations that constant practice brings with it. Physically, posture changes, flexibility improves, and skills increase. On an attitudinal level, one generally becomes more capable of focusing, relaxation improves, and handling a greater workload-usually in a more functional way-becomes easier. Relationships change.

The third is the natural consequence of the first two: once the direction indicated by change becomes clear, improvement becomes possible. We realize that the time dedicated to cultivating ourselves gives back a more authentic version of who we are. A truer one. Genuinely better than yesterday.

Today, we talk about transformation because it is the pillar around which every journey of personal growth is structured—not just Aikido or, more generally, a Martial Art.

In the technical jargon of teaching programs, we are familiar with the terms henka/henko.

Generally (and correctly), we translate them as “variation”. Along with the classic joke:
“When a student gets a technique wrong, it’s a mistake. When a teacher gets it wrong, it’s a henka.”

It’s funny because it’s true. (That is, it is simultaneously true that teachers make mistakes and that a good 90% of them won’t admit it.) But let’s get back to the point.

In Japanese, to say “to change one’s life/to transform one’s existence” one says:
生活を変化させる (seikatsu wo henka saseru): to make life undergo a henka.

How many henka, how many transformations, has our existence seen?

We didn’t exist-and we were born.

We couldn’t take care of ourselves-and someone looked after us, guiding our growth.

We progressively made our own choices-often defining ourselves more through many “no” than through a few “yes”.

We met people-and our relationships with them altered our trajectories.

Each of us could list a long series of pivotal moments when our path changed, allowing us to access a higher level of understanding, wholeness, and potential.

For us, discipline is transformative when it opens up a broader horizon, when it elevates our existence.

Of course, some events, instead of increasing our potential, may trigger regression: a toxic relationship dragged on for too long, decisions that proved counterproductive, people who turned away when we needed support. Losing our way is as easy as breathing. In fact, it may be one of the few universally shared human experiences.

Fortunately, there are places and paths where we can put down our masks, allowing our story to reveal who we are and who we can become. The Dojo is one of those places.

Within practice-especially through rank advancements-you always (not often: always) notice a gradual transformation. Not just a variation, but an evolution.

The tense person becomes less tense. The apathetic one more focused. The clumsy one less clumsy. The antisocial one more empathetic. And so on.

Adults aren’t that different from children. Children have fewer inhibitions, so they often ask in a whining voice, “Are we taking the test today?”-a martial version of “Are we there yet?” on a car trip.

Adults know they risk becoming beta testers for their sensei’s brand new katana techniques. But deep down, they arrive at the same request. If not with words, then with the obsessive reviewing of techniques that characterizes every group in the months leading up to a test.

If we only considered the “before,” the average teacher would approach an exam session with the same enthusiasm as retrieving a lost ball from a thorn bush.

Then comes that moment-made of techniques and free expression-and, inevitably, you witness transformation.

In the end, the same transformation that someone’s trust once managed to ignite in us.

It’s not a miracle-but it’s close.

That colored strip of fabric handed to a child, that stamped line on a certificate for an adult, becomes a point of no return. And that is one of the main reasons why engaging in practice and its dissemination is so worthwhile.

Let’s keep this in mind when, in executing technical programs, we see something different from the sacred texts emerge.

If it’s a properly executed, codified henka, does it keep the practice alive, making it a catalyst for the practitioner’s change? Or has it become just another kata, frozen in an elaborate performance?

If it’s a mistake, can we, together with the person making it, recognize its transformative potential-embracing it, understanding it, and taking a step forward?

Transformation, not perfection.

Discalimer: Picture by di Miguel Á. Padriñán from Pexels