In its most traditional structure, there is no Aikido training that does not begin with tai no henko (体の変更). We have already wrote about this technique in the past. This time, we will look at the technique and its terminology in an attempt to grasp nuances that may offer a more complete meaning and a slightly deeper understanding of the various didactic approaches.

From East to West

First, however, an important observation. Practicing Aikido in Japan and in the West is an essential experience to understand a point that is as simple as it is difficult to define. In our Countries, we have excellent and skilled teachers. Some have undertaken remarkable experimentation based on solid expertise. Others have undoubtedly preserved and transmitted the teachings they themselves received, trying to alter them as little as possible. Almost all of them received both technical and oral teachings.

As instruction transitioned from native Japanese speakers to Western teachers, a kind of double standard emerged. On one hand, terminology-sometimes even doka, the teachings of the Founder or of some of his key students-became crystallized, repeated like an axiom delivered in an arcane language. On the other, their translations-or rather, their interpretations-have been passed down in a manner that is almost dogmatic and rarely empirical.

In Japan, none of this is necessary: terminology embodies the soul of the technique and the teaching, and vice versa, the technique is the living expression of the principles and value framework of Japanese culture. As with many other aspects of their culture, in Budo too, the Japanese spirit floats in a balance between what is said and what is left unsaid.

It becomes clear, then, how this condition can often lead the practice and its understanding toward a widening gap between terminology, technique, principle, concept, and purpose.

Understanding the inner meaning

Tai no henko, then. That single technique which, when performed in front of someone like Morihiro Saito Sensei, was enough to assess one’s rank-without the need of checking whether the candidate could perform sannin dori in ki no nagare mode…

体, tai. The same kanji can also be read as karada. However, while karada refers to the tangible, physical aspect of the body, tai is used in a more abstract, almost immaterial and general sense. A body understood as a structure, a system -therefore something not merely physical.

変更, henko. The first kanji contains 変 (hen), with graphical elements suggesting a head and movement-a concept of mutation that, from the Eastern perspective of inherent order, also conveys the idea of strangeness.

The second component, 更 (ko or sara), contains the elements of a speaking mouth and a hand that is changing something. Over time, this led to the meaning of change, renewal, or shift. And because guard shifts also took place at night, it eventually acquired the additional meaning of late night.

All this to say that when a Japanese person, within a martial discipline, speaks of tai no henko, is actually referring to a real, planned, and systemic change.

Not by chance, from the perspective of combat, tai no henko is completely useless. But in terms of attitude, it is everything. It brings about change, modification-something intentional and therefore profoundly impactful on the psychophysical system of the person who chooses it (and, ultimately, on their practice partner as well).

As one progresses, practice introduces the so-called henka 変化 (or more accurately, henka waza 変化技). These are usually translated as “technical variations“-a correct but semantically incomplete translation.

Henka: the evolution

Looking at the term henka 変化, we see that the first component is the same.

The second, 化 (ka), contains graphic elements of a person and a motion of transformation, and it has come to mean a change in form -in this sense, transformation. This helps us better understand some Japanese words. The transformation of sentence structures 文 (bun) becomes 文化 (bunka), culture. The change brought about by wind 風 (kaze) becomes erosion or fading of memories, 風化 (fuka).

We can therefore say that, from a didactic and pedagogical standpoint, it makes sense to structure a technical progression in which one first chooses and plans a concrete and systemic change (tai no henko) as a prerequisite to learning the geometry and forms of techniques, and then, as a natural evolution, becomes capable of transforming those forms (henka waza).

Breaking through

A Japanese logic. A perspective that one must learn to grasp beyond hasty translations that end up assigning to henko and henka a generic meaning of “change” or “variation.”

It’s a perspective that also reveals an intrinsic limitation: if transformation -the evolution of form- is “strange” from the very beginning, then the evolution itself can only end in a form.

A fractal practice, then. One that on the one hand seems endless but on the other, at least within its framework, allows no experience other than kata. One experiences this when visiting Japan’s superb gardens- perfect in their apparent naturalness and ultimate expressions of planning and the domination of form over nature.

Every gardener, after all, knows that pure anarchy leads to an overgrown, unusable forest. So the solution to a fractal practice is certainly not the mere destruction (or ignorance) of forms.

We strongly believe that jiyu waza-free expression through technical language- the point of convergence between henko and henka and the progression from henko to henka: the acted desire for change and the natural evolution from practitioner to artist.

Photo Courtesy Silvia Volpato