When we encounter any experience, what are the criteria we use to assign value to what is being offered to us?

There is an aesthetic dimension, involving what we see, hear and perceive through our senses. Then there is the realm of emotions and the sense of well-being that an experience generates. Finally, functionality – or the lack of it – puts the seal on the judgements we make every day about relationships, products, situations and experiences.

If we think about our habits as consumers, we have to honestly admit that our choices are driven very little by how well the things we buy meet our functional needs, and much more by aesthetic considerations and the sense of well-being that a particular piece of clothing, accessory or smartphone gives us.

This is simply human nature. In fact, it is nature itself. From the courtship dance of the smallest sparrow, to the sea urchin adorning itself with fragments of shells, to the overwhelming beauty of the natural world, and finally to the countless forms of expression found in human art.

Including martial arts.

Against this backdrop, it is always worth reflecting on the so-called modern Budo.

Without attempting to deliver a crash course in Japanese history or a superficial overview of sports marketing, the brilliant “invention” of a martial code designed to convey the ideals and aspirations of Japan was a remarkable exercise in storytelling, long before the term became fashionable.

Faced with the need to rebuild Japan’s image from the overlapping ashes of two and a half centuries of civil war and its traumatic opening to the outside world, the reworking of martial skills and traditions, distilled into Karate, Judo and Aikido, became a language that constantly moved in two directions at once.

Promoting martial arts beyond Japan therefore also served an internal purpose. It allowed Japan to show the world that its culture and values had something to offer: a standard of excellence, if not quite a product, that humanity could not afford to do without.

The biography of Morihei Ueshiba, together with his writings, provides an example of this narrative and practical reconfiguration.

To put it bluntly, and in a nutshell: we realised that conquering the world militarily was impossible and, ultimately, madness. So why not create a gentle revolution that could win the world over through our values?

This is one explanation – though certainly not the only one – for the enthusiasm and extraordinary drive with which a small group of O-Sensei’s students helped spread Aikido during its early years.

After all, if we are here talking about Aikido today, it is because, a few decades ago, some people met a charismatic teacher, witnessed what he did, how he did it and how he communicated it. They were captivated, and felt compelled to devote their energy to spreading his teachings.

What does Aikido have at its disposal today to continue growing? What tools are available to teachers and organisations?

We certainly no longer have Morihei Ueshiba himself. We do, however, have his descendants, who in their own way continue to keep alive the embers of what O-Sensei set in motion.

Here and there, we still encounter an approach to practice and organisational affiliation that, from the outside, seems to belong more to the world of historical samurai dramas than to contemporary Japan. This is a sign that the narrative-building process has been remarkably successful, surviving across generations, cultures and continents.

There is, however, something we need to think about.

If it is true that a Morihei Ueshiba comes along only once every hundred years, it is equally true that his legacy cannot afford to rest on its laurels.

We are not talking about his bloodline. His direct descendants oversee the dissemination of Aikido in a systematic and remarkably well-structured way.

His wider lineage is all of us. Especially those of us who hold recognised teaching qualifications.

Managing a group, a sports association, an organisation, or an Aikido department within a larger body or federation is an extremely complex undertaking.

Sometimes, simply keeping things running can feel like a minor miracle in itself.

But that is precisely the point. Had Morihei Ueshiba confined himself to looking after his own dojo, none of this would exist today.

Carrying out our duties, however carefully and painstakingly, does not automatically guarantee that we will pass the torch on. Nor does it ensure that others will have access to what we ourselves have received and continue to benefit from.

And when we add to this the typically Western tendency to delegate responsibility to vaguely defined “institutions”, expecting them to somehow make this transmission happen, almost as if through the magical intervention of an invisible hand, we begin to understand just how great the risk is of severing the thread connecting our origins to our future.

Rediscovering the aesthetic dimension and allowing harmony to emerge from the rigour of dedicated study is a primary responsibility for every practitioner, and especially for every teacher.

Equally essential is the ability to communicate consciously through the channels of culture and emotion, speaking a language that resonates with the times and with the sensibilities of today’s society – not those of Ueshiba’s era.

Creating the conditions that make Aikido relevant and functional in meeting the needs of contemporary society is just as important.

These last two objectives can – and, in our opinion and experience, must – be supported and facilitated by the organisational structures of the Aikido community. This is precisely what is being pursued within the Federation.

More broadly, however, these ingredients can help bring about a new phase of growth when we begin to recognise the need to take action in pursuit of something greater than ourselves. Something that does not reject the dojo or the teacher we look up to, but goes beyond them.

Building the future means rediscovering, in the past, what made the present we enjoy today possible.