The Aiki Academy

By Ralph Pettman

Takeda sensei is arguably the greatest living exponent of the art of aikido. I once asked him what it was like to attack O-Sensei. He said that it was like being hit by lightning, but that there was nothing there. That is how I would describe attacking Takeda sensei!

A while ago Takeda Sensei was perilously ill. He recovered quickly, but he remained for a while weaker than before. Then his strength returned. It did more than return, however. It was a new strength, a more powerful and more dramatic strength that he began to explore in a more spirited, and I believe, more spiritual way.

I happened to arrive at the dojo in September 2001 as this was just beginning. I watched Takeda Sensei’s in-class research become progressively more profound as I watched. It was a fascinating experience to be able to train with him as he explored his new way. I left with great reluctance, knowing that the research would go on without me. As a consequence, I recommend anyone who could get to Yokohama to go and train with Takeda Sensei NOW. It must have been something like this in the 1940’s and 50’s when O-Sensei was developing the art of aikido itself. There must have been the same kind of tough love in the air, the same charge, and intense concentration, the same sense of innovative excitement, the same opening-out feeling, the same rapidly growing awareness of possibilities without limit and without end, and a similar sense of the universal significance of what was going on.

Every class that Takeda Sensei takes is now a master class. All the boats are being lifted together. The beginners taking part are catching on, just like everyone else.

I have the feeling that Takeda Sensei is “going for gold” now, and in a big way. Perhaps his brush with death heightened his resolve to extend his awareness of what life allows, rather than wait for such an awareness to come somewhere down the line. I didn’t ask, and Takeda Sensei probably wouldn’t have told. Just like the time I asked him to tell me in English what he had just said in Japanese while demonstrating a technique, and he said: “I forget”. Perhaps there was another clue, too, in a comment he made over a cup of tea one afternoon, a comment that brought me up short, with a real mental jolt. Takeda Sensei does this to me every few years. The conversation had turned to the topic of fortune-telling. I said I had no desire to have my fortune told. I didn’t want to know what fate held in store for me. At which point Takeda Sensei looked at me and said: “You know what your future is”. Some hours later I realised what he meant. Of course I know what my future is. I’m going to die. We are all going to die. So, what is to be done? Sit around and wait? Or live life while we still have the chance? After that little chat I tried even harder to understand what was happening. I knew I only had a few weeks in which to catch as much as possible of Sensei’s new way before I had to return to my own club in Wellington, New Zealand. Every moment became much too valuable to lose, and I tried to waste none of them. I followed what he was doing as closely as I could.

Takeda Sensei’s classes each had the same format. He came in and took the long sword. He squatted down in front of the dojo’s scroll, rolled up his sleeves, and focused on a point in front of him. Sometimes he rubbed his hand over his head, or relaxed his shoulders. Then he stood, never taking his eyes off the point of focus. Then he widened his stance and sank down a little. Then he started to cut, yokomen, with a long ki-ai. After a number of cuts he stopped, relaxed his legs and arms, and cut again in the opposite stance. The students followed along in their own time. After a few right-left cutting periods, he put away the long sword, and took up the short one, choosing a student to do randori with. The attack was always shomen-tsuki. Again, the students followed, pairing off and training in their own time. After a while he stopped the class and started to teach short sword techniques in a formal fashion. After that, he put away the short sword and taught open hand techniques. And after that, he brought the class to a close, usually doing ryote-tori tenchi nage or suwari waza ryote-tori kokyu ho first. Then the randori began.

The progression was clear. The first movements with the big sword were spiritually huge. They cut through the whole cosmos. The short sword movements, both in randori and in the more formal training, retained the same huge feeling, but applied it to opening the body and the mind. Because the open hand techniques only came after that, something of the sword feeling was retained, and whether the technique was a long, following one or a short moving-in one, it was still possible to keep and to research the sense of universal expansion.

As far as we can tell our universe is expanding. Since aikido is ultimately about becoming one with the universe, that means expanding too. The progression above seemed designed to maximise the chance to let go. Opening out tends to be done horizontally. It doesn’t have to be, and often it is not, but that tends to be the case. There is also a vertical space, however, that opens up if we start in sumo stance. Then we can stand up, rather than bump along under the ceiling set by our full height. Or we can kneel down on one or more knees, as Takeda Sensei always does when the movement is a coming-together one. (When the movement is a going-apart one, he keeps standing. Up, though he sometimes kneels. It seems to be optional then.)

For all students of Takeda Sensei, these are very exciting times. Training with him has always been an inspiration. His economy of movement has always been poetic. His artistry has always been sublime. Now it is something else. I can only call it divine.