Of all the techniques, nikyo ura is the easiest to understand and apply straight away.

Take two people who have never practiced Martial Ats, have them stand facing each other, and ask one to grab the other’s wrist with a cross-grab. Show the person being grabbed how to wrap their hand around the other person’s wrist: the little finger, ring finger and middle finger coil around the wrist in a spiral. Then show them how the index finger moves in to “cut” towards the armpit.

In less than five minutes you will see a mixture of disbelief and delight on their faces.

Letting people experience the effectiveness of a principle that is as simple as it is powerful is usually one of the decisive factors in demonstrating to anyone that the method being taught is not built on sand.

It works in a Dojo, and it works even better when you are standing in front of an audience of people who attend initiatives promoting a culture of responsible self-defence and rights. Such audiences are usually predominantly female and, as a result, particularly alert to spotting charlatans from a distance and -rightly-keeping their distance from them.

During a person’s journey through a martial discipline, there is a significant phase in which the practitioner moves and acts -and often treats their training partners-as though they were a puppet. This is neither a negative nor a positive quality. It is a necessary condition for learning to move according to the geometries characteristic of the discipline itself, which, from a teaching perspective, open the way to understanding the principles underlying its techniques.

In The Adventures of Pinocchio, Carlo Collodi gave the world a timeless masterpiece: the story of Pinocchio’s transformation from a wooden puppet to boy, through a thousand wonderfully entertaining yet profound experiences. It is a journey from an existence governed by momentary impulses to a life guided by awareness, responsibility and love.

The average Aikido practitioner, whether a white belt or a black belt, is not so different. To give this character a name that fits the more illustrious comparison, we shall call him Pinikyo.

Pinikyo’s adventures begin a little before he (or she) ever steps onto the tatami. They begin when he decides to enroll in an Aikido class. The reasons that first bring someone to the dojo almost never coincide with the reasons that keep them there in the present. As the years go by, perspectives change, shedding some things and gaining others, just as nature does through the changing seasons.

In the beginning, Pinikyo moves like a log of wood, yet, despite -or perhaps precisely because o- this, he is lively and curious. He asks a great many questions. Sometimes he launches into long, complicated explanations for his training partners, especially if he has already passed one or two belt tests.

This is because Pinikyo is impulsive. He is drawn to what he does and sincerely wants to get to the bottom of it, but he is not particularly keen on holding himself back or accepting the hard work involved. He is irresistibly attracted to the freedom that practice reveals to him: he discovers that it is possible to carry on with a working life and relationships while still setting aside a few hours for himself, beyond the routines society demands of him.

At the same time, Pinikyo confuses freedom with the ability to do whatever he wants and desires. Fortunately, Pinikyo has a body, which he gradually discovers is made not only of wood, metaphorically speaking, but also of joints, flesh and bones. It is a body that cannot withstand his anarchic impulses and his lack of attention. And so, every now and then, because Pinikyo is busy “thinking” while receiving a technique, his body sends him unmistakable messages: real warning lights signalling that something is missing. Presence is missing. Awareness is missing. The movement has not been sufficiently trained.

Inevitably -and teachers know this all too well- Pinikyo allows himself to be seduced by endless distractions. More than openly disobeying, he often runs away from his responsibilities towards himself and others.

This happens in countless ways, but behavioural patterns are not all that varied. Some glimpse the possibility of changing their habits but are afraid of having to change. Some freeze just before an examination because, deep down, failure is an experience they already know, while success opens up new scenarios in which new responsibilities emerge.

Some tell you that after two years they have already taken everything there is to take from the experience, then set off on a journey of experiential tourism that takes them through endless combat sports and pseudo-spiritual experiences. Others simply say nothing and leave. This last behaviour, however, is statistically more common among the parents of children, who are shuttled from one activity to another, becoming little more than part of a herd. The implicit lesson is obvious: every experience is interchangeable with every other, and all are readily available -as in a mall, provided you have a credit card with no spending limit.

We are all Pinikyo. The acts of rebellion and escape that take place while we remain within the group are no less powerful or consequential than those of someone who eventually picks up and leaves.

Our dear Pinikyo believes he goes to training to complete a journey of technical learning. And he is right. Practice is indeed part of that. But even under the best circumstances, it accounts for only ten per cent of the discipline.

Through technical and interpersonal mistakes, through encounters and the various difficulties he faces, Pinikyo embarks on a journey of inner growth. He does not know quite how it happens, and it certainly does not come without effort, but he gradually learns to listen and to discern.

By learning to attack, he learns the value of a promise. By applying a technique decisively while respecting both his own integrity and that of his training partners, he learns the value of choice -and, with it, the value of care.

This transformation does not happen through magic, nor does it come from attending a single seminar led by the guru of the moment. It comes through experience, combined with the ability and the willingness to change.

Pinocchio finally becomes a real kid when he begins making a concrete effort to help Geppetto. His willingness to make sacrifices, to work, to recognise Geppetto’s love and to respond to it with a son’s love transforms a puppet into a boy who has matured through experience and has therefore become capable of truly being a child.

To stop being Pinikyo and become a practitioner who can enjoy practice and grow like a child, the average Aikidoka must do more or less the same. And this is precisely why, deep down, so many people choose to remain in the comfortable condition of puppets, both in Aikido and in life. After all, being manipulated by more or less visible strings affords us the luxury of never having to discover whether another dimension exists.

Not a dimension in which the puppet, driven by more or less anarchic impulses, cuts its strings. For it remains a puppet all the same, convinced that it is moving while it lies motionless on the floor in its corner.

But a new dimension in which we discover that, all along, we have had a heart of flesh beating beneath a shell that we have allowed to become wooden.

Disclaimer: Picture by Florencio Rojas from Pexels