Writings & Reflections
Becoming Strong
We seek a martial art, many of us, because we want to become strong.
This is an honest and worthy desire. There is nothing shameful in it. To be strong is to be capable, to be present, to meet the world rather than retreat from it. We want to feel that we can handle things — the physical things, yes; but also the harder things: uncertainty, loss, the friction of being alive with others in a difficult world.
So we practice. And the art, quietly and persistently, begins to trouble our assumptions.
The image of strength we carry into the dojo is usually some version of invulnerability — the person who cannot be moved, cannot be harmed, cannot be overcome. It is the same fantasy the pop-culture martial artist embodies: impervious, dominant, sovereign over any threat. It is the same fantasy we see on internet videos that promise to reveal which martial art "works" or is most "real". It is the fantasy that we can arrive at a place where nothing can touch us.
But the mat insists otherwise.
Aikido is difficult. It is difficult physically: the falls, the repetitions, the body asked to move in ways it has never moved. It is difficult mentally: to read another's movement, to respond rather than react, to remain calm when instinct says to seize up or flee. And there is a difficulty that lives somewhere beneath these, a difficulty that is harder to name — perhaps spiritual is the right word (though that term carries its own complications). It is the difficulty of facing oneself. Of noticing, again and again, how tightly we grip, how eagerly we force, how quickly we abandon attention for sheer will when the situation feels urgent or uncertain.
These difficulties do not diminish as we advance. They deepen. They become more textured, more particular to who we are.
And here the art offers us something the fantasy never could: not invulnerability, but resilience. Not dominance, but responsiveness. Not the hardness of a wall, but the more demanding quality of water—which finds its way not by force but by faithful attention to what is actually there.
Real strength, our practice suggests, is not about what cannot touch us. It is about what we are willing to touch–deliberately, consciously, with full presence. It is about what we are willing to do–even when it is hard. Especially when it is hard. To take the ukemi we did not expect. To return to a technique we find perplexing. To train on a day when the body is tired and the mind resists. These small acts of faithful showing up are not incidental to strength—they are its substance.
This kind of strength does not promise immunity. It promises something richer: a life that has grown through difficulty rather than around it. A self that has been tested by the art and found, not invincible, but capable. Capable of learning. Capable of falling and rising. Capable of meeting another person on the mat and anywhere else—honestly, with real attention, without needing to overwhelm them.
We practice Aikido to become strong. And the art, if we let it, will teach us what that means.
Heath Atchley
Finding Ground and Rising
I am thinking about how we rise. How we find the ground. And rise from it.
This is a regular experience in our art. So much so that we might hardly notice it. We receive a technique; we fall; we get up and receive another. We perform a technique; witness our partner fall; see them get up; and perform another. It forms the rhythm of our practice. Yet this fundamental and physical phenomenon can resonate within our larger lives.
With sincere, focused, and consistent practice, it is possible to rise through Aikido; to higher rank certainly; but also to higher life; a life with less fear and less anxiety; a life with more openness, more energy, and more connection; a life that can be affirmed with all the suffering it might face.
We do it together every time we practice. It is simple but deep. We find the ground. And then we rise.
Heath Atchley
This Fractious Time
We live in an all-too-fractious time. Yet I have a strong intuition that our art can somehow contribute to struggles for dignity, justice and peace.
The presupposition of any martial art is that the human species (though not all human beings) has a propensity to violence and that there can be thoughtful ways of responding to this tendency. The deeper presupposition of Aikido is that a thoughtful response is moral and mindful, not just methodical and effective.
In the face of the continuing possibility of violence, our art compels us to connect--to each other, to the world, to the dangers and injustices that face everyone. Such connection is neither sentimental nor easy. It requires hard attention and persistent practice. It does not bring about a world we wish for, but it can help us improve and affirm the one that we have.
In the midst of our ongoing tumult, my mind returns to the central term of Aikido. One of the many meanings of the Japanese word ki is breath. Now is certainly a time when breath cannot be taken for granted. It can too easily be taken away by a stealthy virus or callous injustice. Our art tasks us to acknowledge a breath beyond our own.
Heath Atchley
Responding to the Call: Reflections on Attaining a Black Belt
What does it mean to attain a dan (black belt) rank in Aikido? It can, of course, mean many things to many different aikidoka.
A common image we receive from pop-culture representations of martial practice is that a black belt indicates mastery, and with mastery comes invulnerability: a martial arts master, as so often portrayed in movies and television, defeats all foes. Such an image, of course, is a fantasy. Nothing can erase our basic human vulnerabilities. Nothing can protect us completely from all dangers. Furthermore, a thoughtful Aikido practice acknowledges our vulnerabilities and helps us to grow with them; it brings us to a vitality that incorporates vulnerability rather than denying it.
Another common thought is that attaining a dan rank is the result of discipline and commitment. Certainly these qualities play a role in achieving anything desired over a course of time. Yet I think the effectiveness of these qualities is often overstated. Willpower drives discipline and commitment. Over time willpower tends to fade. Moving through life in a willful and driven way is more often exhausting than vitalizing.
At a deeper level, I believe attaining a dan rank is about awareness and response. An advanced aikidoka is one who becomes vividly aware that the art brings something valuable and supportive to their life and actively responds to this awareness with presence and intention. Consistent practice, which is the key to growth, comes not so much from driven discipline but from being faithful to what the art gives (which is also a way of being faithful to oneself and to what is more than oneself). It can feel like a call, like what the art gives calls out to one and waits for a response.
Our students who have entered the dan ranks practice powerful and beautiful Aikido. They work hard. They bring a lot to our dojo community. They have heard the call. And they have responded.
Heath Atchley