Wingy is one of six sparrows living under the tiles of the roof of our office.

We call it that because it has a small white stripe on both wings, making it easily recognizable among the others.

In the photo, you can see the Dojo where Wingy and its companions practice—the balcony where they scatter the seeds we leave out for them.

We’ve noticed some similarities between a sparrow’s Dojo and that of humans.

Sparrows visit the balcony out of curiosity and linger when there’s food

Humans? The same. At first, curiosity runs high, matched only by the confusion and disorientation in the face of a new environment, new social rules, and Japanese terminology. But as evenings at the pub or pizzeria follow training sessions, and camaraderie develops on the tatami, the atmosphere becomes more relaxed.

From Wingy and its companions, we learn that conviviality is just as important as technical skills. We firmly believe that no harmonious growth can occur in a journey where group dynamics and the relationship with the teacher are confined solely to training hours.

Sparrows Move from Chaos to Ordered Chaos

The frenzy of feeding makes animals voracious and hasty. The cold makes sparrows ravenous, and hunger overcomes their wariness. Once their hesitation breaks, for the first quarter hour, sparrows abandon all rules. They pounce on the food, trying to chase off others who come near. Eventually, they realize there’s enough for everyone, and you can see the group self-regulate, with each bird accessing the food in a particular order without disrupting the others.

And humans? On the tatami, there are fundamentally three types of voraciousness: intellectual, performance-driven, and pre-test syndrome.

• The desire to know everything.
• The drive to master techniques.
• The urge to push the body to perform acrobatics.

These are desires we’ve all experienced, and they gradually reveal themselves to us. Intellectual knowledge is important, but it doesn’t exempt one from physical effort; in fact, it can sometimes hinder the fluid expression of movement. Technical expertise doesn’t turn a robot into a sentient being. The pursuit of acrobatics exposes the body’s structural limits, opening the door to frustration—a mediator between what one wants to do and what one can actually achieve.

The third type of voraciousness surfaces as tests approach. Rarely does one witness a balanced progression. More often, it’s a stressful buildup—a frantic, obsessive repetition of techniques.

Self-regulation in such cases is rarely spontaneous. Practitioners must literally hit their limits, realizing that not everything can be learned, not everything is useful, and that preparation for a test—or even the test itself—begins the moment the previous one ends.

This process is nonlinear. In most cases, it requires feedback from the teacher, mates, or one’s own body. Feedback that is almost always unpleasant and often ignored or misunderstood. These situations lead to a shift from one form of chaos to another—less apparent but perhaps more dangerous, as it’s cloaked in rules while continuing to drain individual energy. If one survives this phase, they eventually achieve a more structured path.

In conclusion: Sparrows take far less time to self-regulate.

Sparrows Make a Mess

Since bird toilets and diapers haven’t been invented yet, it’s obvious that the sparrows’ Dojo is dotted with their droppings—everywhere.

A traditional Dojo typically includes cleaning duties after every training session—a way to take care of oneself through what should be fundamental for everyone: cleanliness, hygiene, and a sense of hospitality.

Reality, however, tells us that most training venues are hosted in facilities where sanitizing tatami mats, common areas, and changing rooms is an impossible dream. Reality also shows that, given a mop and bucket, many—especially men, though increasingly women too—don’t know where to start or simply spread the dirt around without cleaning it.

Learning or learning again how to truly keep a space clean is no small matter but just as important as memorizing the technical curriculum.

If we extend this idea from the tangible to the intangible and talk about ethical and moral cleanliness… Well, such considerations would either be impossible—because the human heart has unfathomable depths—or painfully obvious.

In conclusion: Sparrows make a mess, but they haven’t invented soap. Humans make a mess, and often the few clean up after the many—in every sense.

Sparrows Are Whole

Like all animals, really. They eat when hungry and when they find food. They fly when there’s a need to fly. They chirp with all their might. And when they’ve had enough, they close their eyes and sleep.

And so it goes, every day, as long as there’s a spark of life within them.

What about oursleves? We’ve learned through experience to save for a future that sometimes never comes. Deferring gratification is essential for enjoying it consistently. But sometimes, we live with the handbrake permanently on.

So even on the tatami—which could and should become that safe space where we see what happens if, for a couple of hours, we too chirp with all our might, as we did as children—there’s room for discovery. And perhaps something might change in our perpetually postponed lives.

In Conclusion

Who knows? Perhaps sparrows instinctively know the truth in this verse:

“Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not worth much more than they?” (Matthew 6:26).

During these winter days, it is our hands that feed them, scattering crumbs and grains into a small dish.

Let us rediscover the practice of caring for ourselves by caring for others.

Becoming the visible hands of an invisible yet real order.

Soaring through life’s skies in the here and now—with a task to be completed, a technique to refine, a companion to smile at.

Merry Christmas!
Andrea and Sara