Seishiro Endo was born in 1942 in Nagano Prefecture. He graduated from Gakushuin University. He began practicing aikido as a university student and joined the Aikikai in 1967. He is now an 8th dan Aikikai and shihan of the Aikikai Hombu dojo.
When Seishiro Endo first encountered aikido at university, he decided not to enter the world of Japanese (civil) employees with the certainty of a regular income, but instead joined the Aikikai and became a professional instructor. He now uses his extensive skills to continue cultivating his own unique and mature style of aikido, which is completely non-forceful, and shares everything he has discovered “on his own” with students around the world.
Aikido Journal: How did you get started in aikido?
Endo Sensei: When I first started, I knew nothing about the art. It was in April 1963, shortly after I entered Gakushuin University. I was just hanging around the university grounds when one of my sempai (seniors) asked me if I wanted to come and see the university’s aikido club. We went to the dojo together and I immediately decided to start practicing that very day. I was instructed to do shikko (knee walking) and also to do about two hundred squats. I had done a little judo in high school, so I wasn’t completely out of shape, but I was certainly not ready for two hundred squats. I vividly remember my legs refusing to let me up the stairs at the train station a little later.
Was the local aikido club recognized by the university as an official sports club at the time?
No, at that time it was seen as an informal interest group. Gakushuin University is a relatively old school with a strong sense of tradition, and it has always been difficult for newly formed clubs to gain official recognition. First, they had to prove their seriousness and their prospects for long-term existence. The club was not even recognized as semi-formal until three years after I became its fourth captain, and it took another ten years before it could become an official sports club. In short, it took about twenty years to progress from an informal interest group to a club with full status.
Which instructors were working there at that time?
The very first shihan to teach us at that time was Hiroshi Tada, but in September, when I was in my second year of college, he left for Italy. He was replaced by Mitsunari Kanai, who taught us for about a year, and after him came Yasuo Kobayashi for about six months. Soon after graduating from college and joining the Aikikai, I was sent back to teach here myself.
I know that after four years of practice as a university student, you decided not to get a job but to become a professional aikidoka.
Students at Japanese universities usually start their job search process in June of their fourth year (the school year in Japan starts in April). By the beginning of July, most people have already decided on their job. When this time came for me, I had very mixed feelings about what I wanted to do. I remember the first day I arrived in Tokyo from my hometown of Nagano. I was riding the Yamanote Line from Ueno around the city and from the train window I could watch the tall office buildings passing by as they passed between Tokyo, Yurakucho and Shimbashi stations. I remember thinking back then that one day I would work in one of these buildings. But the more I practiced aikido, the more I was fascinated by it, so when it came time to find a job, I really had a hard time deciding what I wanted to do with my life. I received an informal job offer at the time, but after a little thought, I decided that I still wanted to continue practicing aikido.
Giving up a promising career must require a considerable amount of courage from a recent graduate, especially in Japan.
You may remember the period around 1960, when the Japanese economy was just starting to pick up. I graduated sometime in the middle of this boom period in 1967, and that meant plenty of job opportunities at big companies, even for someone like me. I must admit that I didn’t study much at university, although I became an avid reader while I was trying to prepare for the entrance exams. Even though I managed to get to class, I started falling asleep after about ten minutes (laughs). I think I actually slept through most of the lectures. The rest of the time I spent reading in the library. During lunch, I went to the vending machine for something to eat and then went back to the library. I slipped out at two o’clock so I could practice at the Hombu dojo at three, and then I went back to the university to practice at the local aikido club.
It seems like you spent a lot of time in school, but it’s a bit difficult for me to judge whether or not you were a really serious student (laughs)!
Maybe I spent so much time there because I had nowhere else to go (laughs)! In my first year, I decided that if I was successful in at least eight of my fourteen subjects, then I would focus more on my studies. I only got one “A” so I chose to give up right away. I knew that in order to get a decent job later on, I had to have pretty good grades, but I imagined that if I practiced aikido as hard as I could, I would be able to use it to appeal to my future employers. It was a very naive and overconfident way of looking at things.
It seems that you had things arranged your way and that you had your own ambitions…
I guess you could say that I was looking at it with my own eyes and that it was all based on my own illusions. People often called me a dreamer. They asked me why I had chosen something so seemingly useless and incomparable as aikido, when I had such perfect prospects of getting a so-called “serious” job. But I thought that working tirelessly at aikido was something commendable in itself. I saw no reason why I shouldn’t be able to take care of myself (financially), but I imagined that even if everything didn’t work out 100 percent, I would still be able to make the effort to improve myself even a little, so I put my heart and soul into the practice. To give myself courage, I sang songs about youth, individuality, and self-realization. You know, “my clothes may be modest, but my heart is made of gold,” kind of attitude (laughter)!
I think that a lot may have changed in the thirty years that have passed since then, and that many of your university colleagues today look at your position with envy.
It’s understandable. Today I’m sure that if I had accepted a position at one of those big companies I watched from the train window, I would have been “laid off” to some dark corner of the office or sent to a smaller, subsidiary company. Some of my classmates, with whom I’m still in touch, have confided in me that while life in the company brought them some good times, especially during the “bubble economy”, they themselves feel that it would have been better for them to have pursued something they really enjoyed.
You probably had at least ten times more freedom than they did!
Undoubtedly.
How did O-sensei impress you when you met him?
Okay, but it’s a bit more difficult to describe. I can’t say that I got the impression of any great strength or anything like that. Of course, his eyes were piercing when he was performing the techniques, but overall he seemed more like a cute and friendly old man, a bit of a fatherly type. He didn’t really throw me in any particular way during the exercises, or do anything like that.
Were you still a student when you met him?
I first saw him in my second year of university, when I began to train regularly every day at the Hombu dojo. But I didn’t actually have the opportunity to talk to him until July, when I was in my fourth year and decided to join the Aikikai. My father accompanied me to the dojo to formally introduce me to Kisshomaru sensei, and that was when I first got to talk to O-sensei.
I remember one time O-sensei was standing in the dojo, explaining something, and telling me to try to push on his knees from the side. I was amazed at how soft they were. But they were soft in the sense that they seemed to resist the pressure completely and that if I tried to push any further I would fall into some kind of void. This strange softness made a particularly strong impression on me.
And another time, when everyone else was out of the dojo, I had the opportunity to do uke to an ō-sensei who was demonstrating for reporters. He was showing some technique similar to kokyūho in suwariwaze, but when I moved towards him to try to fix his arms, I suddenly felt like I had hit a rock and “flew” away from it.
What was it like when you trained at Hombu dojo to become a professional aikido practitioner?
Well, there’s really not much to say about that (laughs). We practiced in the morning from 6:30 to 9:00, and then I usually went to the beach in Enoshima with the other students who had participated in the practice. Back then, we didn’t have that many places to teach, so it gave us quite a bit of freedom to do things like that.
You must have wonderful memories of those days!
Yes, it was great! Today, university training camps are limited to a few days, but back then they often lasted a whole week. Otherwise we wouldn’t have anything to do. I think there was a bit more freedom back then for that kind of initiative. I certainly did my share of real practice. One important part of that was also cleaning the dojo “top to bottom” every morning after practice. No one had to tell me. I felt I had to do it. Every day I cleaned the toilets so thoroughly that there was no sign of dirt in the bottom of the bowls. They were sparkling white and so clean you could practically eat out of them. The dojo is getting a bit old now, so it inevitably gets a bit “shabby”, but the toilets are still something you can keep in order if you are conscientious and take a little time to clean them. It amazes me that such things are looked upon less today than the practice on the mat. However, for me it remains a wonderful experience. We have an expression for this, “gathering hidden virtue” (intoku wo cumu), which corresponds to improving oneself by consciously accepting tasks that other people normally try to avoid. I believe that this rigor was an important point of my practice.
You mentioned that you are an avid reader. Do you have a particular favorite work, or one that has particularly benefited you in some way?
There are many books that I really like, so it is difficult for me to choose just one. When I was younger, in my twenties, I remember reading many books on Zen Buddhism, especially the Rinzai sect. Later I also started reading about the Soto sect. However, I must admit that although my reading has covered a fairly wide range of topics, I cannot claim to be very versed in any one of them. “Broadly, but not deeply,” as they say. I have completely fallen into reading. When I don’t have something to read with me, I don’t feel quite right. I always carry a book with me, even if it is heavy or I don’t have time to read it. At the moment I am reading something by Tenpu Nakamura.
When did you first become interested in Tenpa Nakamura? Was it when you were twenty?
I heard about it from my sempai who visited Tenpukai. Otherwise, I didn’t know much about it at the time.
When you joined Aikikai, did any of the shihan particularly impress you?
The one who probably made the biggest impression on me was Koichi Tohei. Apart from being the oldest, he was also a very special and strong personality. Then there was Osawa sensei. He took me in right after I joined the Aikikai, and we talked a lot about aikido and life in general. I owe a lot to Osawa sensei for becoming who I am today.
The teachers at Hombu dojo were all relatively young, and both students and teachers practiced very actively and with determination, so it would be very difficult to single out one particular person who influenced my practice more than the others.
How did Tohei sensei teach?
I think he simplified things to make them easier to understand and learn. Although, when I think about it now, I realize that his teaching methods were largely influenced by Tempu Nakamura. For example, he would say, “Think of the center of gravity of your hand as if it were under it,” and so on. I tried my best to follow such instructions, but it certainly wasn’t always that easy. Sensei Tohei kept correcting me over and over again, until he would eventually say, “Oh, you’ve improved…” The problem was that I couldn’t remember what change had happened in me that would merit such an assessment. Why was he telling me I had improved when I hadn’t noticed the slightest change myself? It happened all the time, and sometimes it got a little frustrating. Sensei Tohei had so much to offer that I sometimes wondered if it wouldn’t be better if I had adopted some other teaching methods.
I know that when you were around thirty, your aikido underwent a certain change…
When I was thirty, I dislocated my right shoulder. This event made me change my approach to aikido. When this happened to me, Seigo Yamaguchi said to me, “You’ve been doing aikido for ten years, but now you can only use your left hand. What are you going to do?” Up until then, I hadn’t trained much under Yamaguchi Sensei, but when he told me this, I decided to take his classes as much as I could. It was at that time that I began to realize how much I depended on the strength of my upper limbs and upper body to practice. I began to ask myself if I could continue doing aikido in this way for the rest of my life. With what I had in mind, Yamaguchi Sensei’s question was like a push that pushed me to the next level of practice that I needed to continue. I seized the opportunity to turn my thinking and approach to aikido 180 degrees.
I am sure everyone remembers being told at least once to “remove the power from your shoulders.” Yamaguchi Sensei talked about this too (about practicing Aikido without relying on physical strength). Obviously, this is much easier said than done. When you remove the power from your shoulders, you often lose your ki with it! This is to be expected. You can draw an analogy here with learning to ski. When you watch and try your best to imitate an experienced teacher, you feel like you are improving very quickly and you start to slide down the slopes smoothly and gracefully. But everything starts to fall apart the moment you try to ski on your own, without the teacher’s supervision. I experienced something similar when I was trying to get rid of my Aikido dependence on strength. I could work like that when Yamaguchi Sensei was around, but as soon as I was somewhere else, I was immediately unable to do it. It was very frustrating and I always ended up falling back into using force in my techniques. I struggled with this problem for almost half a year.
I think it was the founder of the Yodoshin sect (from “Pure Land Buddhism”) Shinran (1173 – 1263) who said: “Even if what my teacher Honen told me seems wrong and if it seems like I am being misled too, I have absolute faith in what I have done, and so I will follow my master’s path even if it leads to hell.” I thought: “Why not? If what I learn from Yamaguchi Sensei is wrong, so be it!”
I was told the same thing by Yamaguchi Sensei himself. Something like this: “Even if you don’t understand it, listen to what I say and do it. Give it about ten years…” And that’s what I did. I decided that rather than trying to get rid of power and then returning to it when the techniques didn’t work, I would exclusively discover the path without power, no matter how.
But even though I had my own idea, the conditions of the practice did not change. It didn’t take me long to realize that my partners in practice simply weren’t falling into the techniques when I tried to throw them without using force. I couldn’t help but say to them, “Look, I’m not really able to do these techniques properly right now, but I’d like to ask you to fall into them anyway?” It was very unusual for a fourth dan to ask for such a thing. People were a bit surprised by this. However, that’s how I started my changed approach to practice. I was very careful not to get frustrated or irritated, because I knew that if something like that happened, it would throw me back into relying on force.
When I was doing uke to Yamaguchi sensei, I would mumble under my breath something like, “The more you let go of your power, the more you concentrate your ki…” and “Concentrate your power in your lower abdomen…” I tried to be clearly aware of what was happening while I was working as uke, regardless of what sensei was doing to me, and after a few years I began to feel that I understood what he was talking about and doing. I knew that I had finally found an approach to practice that worked for me.
From that moment on, I started to work on intensifying that feeling, and I would focus exclusively on a single technique for a period of time. For example, for half a year I would do nothing but shomenuchi ikkyo, regardless of which dojo I was training in. This kind of practice allowed me to understand each individual technique more deeply. It helped me realize how to approach each technique in different situations and also how the principles in one technique can be used in the techniques of others.
When I teach today, I often say things like, “Watch yourself carefully and try to feel what you are doing” or “Sense your partner and be aware of the relationship between you and your partner.” When I say “you,” I mean both your state of mind and the physical balance of your body and the relationship between them. There is an expression “mind, technique and body as one” (shingitai ichi). When the mind is out of balance, the body cannot move effectively and efficiently. Similarly, an “unbalanced” body can disturb the mind to the point that you are unable to properly understand the relationship between you and your partner, and this prevents you from doing the technique you need to do. Once you have reached the initial encounter (deai), put your body in an advantageous position (taisabaki), and thrown your partner off balance (kuzushi), it is essential to immediately perceive what technique naturally arises from the conditions that arise between the two of you. O-sensei spoke of “becoming one with the universe,” or “being one with nature.” One way to put it is that rather than simply insisting on completing a particular technique of your choosing, and rather than performing techniques in a forced manner that is governed by your own, unilateral will, you should rather perceive which techniques arise naturally, that is, arise from the natural relationship between you and your partner. We learn Aikido by going through the techniques one after the other, repeatedly practicing everything the teacher shows us. This means that we should engage with the individual technique, no matter what it is, even if it requires a certain amount of undue or excessive effort from us, in other words, even if it involves movements that do not arise completely naturally. It is important to be able to observe yourself and recognize where such effort arises. For example, to be able to say, “My last technique was good, but the meeting (deai) between me and my partner is not working very well,” you need to be perceptive and objective enough. It is important to constantly check yourself and make sure that you maintain awareness of whether your movements are actually natural or not.
I myself could only allow myself to react by immediately changing the technique I was doing to another technique when I started practicing without using force. Of course, this makes sense, because the less unnecessary effort is “in play”, the easier it is to come up with something else. When I was working on this concept, I remembered that O-sensei often talked about concepts like: “If it’s like this, do it like that. If it’s like that in another way, do it as another thing…” and he never did the same thing twice. I thought, “Oh, I think I know what he meant!” With this approach, you can never end up over-exerting effort, because one thing just flows into another as it needs to.
Imagine a river with rocks in it. When the water meets smaller rocks, it flows over them. When it meets larger rocks, it flows around them. Even if you dam a river, the water does not actually stop. There is still potential energy swirling and rising behind the dam, trying to break through or overflow the top. Aikido is the same path. It cannot be a “living” path when you limit yourself to fighting with a partial technique. It is important to be able to change and continue with something else when conditions change and what you are doing is no longer having the desired effect. It is not just a matter of swimming into something different when you are blocked. It is also necessary to find a way to “store (accumulate) energy”. We all also contain potentials that we are not aware of, so we must think about how to develop, strengthen and use this hidden energy.
In the Tora no Maki, which contains the essence of the secrets of martial arts and strategy, it is said: “What comes will meet; that which goes is sent on its journey; that which is in conflict is harmonized. Five and five are ten; two and eight are ten; one and nine are ten. In this way things should come to harmony. Distinguish between appearance and reality, understanding both, the true intention and the hidden strategies and deceptions; know the unseen sources and the hidden consequences. Understand what belongs to the grand plan, and go into the details and particulars as necessary. When the decision is between life and death, be ready to respond to the myriad changes that are taking place, and face the situation with a mind free from restlessness.” This very short passage gave me much food for thought.
These words are apparently applicable not only in the actual practice of aikido, but also in many other areas of everyday life.
Sure. We learn these things through aikido practice, but realistically most of us spend more time outside the dojo than inside it, so it would be a bit strange to resist the idea that what we learn in the dojo also affects other areas of our lives. When we talk about aikido, it is not at all appropriate to mention winning or losing, but I still think that the best kind of “winning” is when you have managed to achieve harmony with your opponent and when both you and your opponent have had the opportunity to feel this harmony. From my point of view, the best technique is one in which neither side feels a sense of victory or defeat, but rather of a “successful encounter” (establishing contact).
Such a relationship is indeed possible to establish, even if it happens once in a million. Our goal in practice is to increase this probability (or success) to one such contact in half a million, and then in a hundred thousand, and so on. Whether someone has faith that such a moment will come and, if it does, that they will be able to see it, depends primarily on how seriously they approach their own practice. I attach great importance to this.
A practitioner who is careful about his practice and is aware of his own personality will be able to recognize when that moment in question occurs…
Exactly. With the right kind of awareness, you can examine yourself and feel your connection to your partner. When a given technique is done absolutely “perfectly,” it is perfect only for that moment. But if your encounter with your partner has some flaw or flaw, the execution (of the technique) will not be perfect. When such a situation arises, you should not try to avoid it at all costs, but rather accept such imperfection and consider how you can revive what you and your partner “have” (what you are working on together). In other words, think about how to improve your relationship as much as possible.
Do you feel that ki no nagare (smooth technique) is an important element in your aikido?
If you mean performing techniques before I am grabbed, or throwing my opponents without touching them, then no, that is not part of my aikido. When I talk about how to free myself from (excessive) use of physical force, I do not mean smoothly flowing through techniques at the moment when my opponent is about to grab me. What I am talking about has less to do with the physical side of things, but much more to do with the mind and spirit (kokoro) than with the body. Soft movements will not be an effective response to a strong attack if your mind is unstable or you cannot use it effectively. For example, in practice I often say that when your opponent tries to grab you hard, you must first focus your mind on the fact that your whole being is entering (penetrating) into his grip.
“If you mean performing techniques before I am grabbed, or throwing my opponents without touching them, then no, that is not part of my aikido. When I talk about how to free myself from (excessive) use of physical force, I do not mean smoothly flowing through techniques at the moment when my opponent is about to grab me.”
The stronger the grip, the more you enter into it. It is not good to try to perform a technique using only your fingers, wrist or arm. You have to hit your partner’s center from your own center, which is a kind of natural interaction that allows you to perceive the orientation of the force and the energy coming from your partner. A European aikido student once told me: “All the shihans always tell us to get rid of the use of force, but in the end it seems like they put a lot of force into their own techniques. You are the only one who performs techniques without using any apparent force.” I was pleased to hear this, because I could once again be sure that my approach was not wrong.
What do you think about sword training?
Not long ago I thought that it was at least necessary to practice suburi, even if you don’t get far enough to cross swords with your partner. For myself, however, there are still many questions regarding taijutsu (unarmed techniques). I still have a lot of work to do to improve my taijutsu, so I’m not too inclined to work with the sword for now. I would rather wait until I’m a little older and practice something closer to “joyful dancing” with jo and ken – something that O-sensei practiced in his later years. That’s the state I like to start from when thinking about how to react when my partner attacks me, or what it means to face the use of weapons.
When did you start traveling abroad?
On my first trip abroad, I accompanied Doshu on a visit to Southeast Asia. I must have been about twenty-nine or thirty. Fifteen or sixteen years ago I began to travel regularly to France, and eleven years ago to Finland and Sweden. Some time ago, a European practitioner attended one of my classes at the Hombu dojo and joined my way of practicing because he seemed to find it unusual. He wanted to invite me to Europe to teach there, but he felt that it might be inappropriate when he himself was training under a different teacher in his own country. After about a year of consideration, however, he decided that it probably wouldn’t do any harm in the end. Then, when I gave a seminar there, more and more people came to attend. They even raised funds to build their own dojo, and I was personally invited by them.
Of course, traveling abroad is not always easy. For example, the language barrier is always a challenge for me. Trying to understand English is always like taking a test for me. Once, when I was staying at home, I was literally bombarded with so many questions that when I finally got to bed, I couldn’t tell if I was asleep or awake because my head was full of English (laughs)! I know that I need to learn English better, so I started studying little by little. I like to travel abroad, and if I could improve my English a little, I would probably travel more.
When you travel abroad, have you ever encountered people who want to “try out” your gentle approach to aikido?
Such incidents do not only happen abroad, but also in Japan. I always allow people who want to test me to grab me firmly before I start doing anything. My arms are not very big or strong, and my technique does not use any obvious physical force, so many people think that if they grab me firmly, I will not be able to react. They are often somewhat surprised to find out otherwise.
During practice, we have many opportunities to study many different techniques, but I feel that it is not absolutely necessary to learn so many. In fact, I would go so far as to say that the techniques tested at the fifth kyu level – shomenuchi ikkyo, shomenuchi iriminage, katatedori shihonage, and suwariwaza kokyuhō – can teach you everything you need to know about deai, maai, sabaki, kuzushi, and the way you should use your body and mind. Many people are not satisfied even though they learn a large number of techniques, but the fact remains that what you are learning or have learned is still just what someone taught you, and nothing more. It does not truly belong to you until you fully embrace it through your own efforts.
How would you compare exercising in Japan and abroad?
I hate to say it, but I feel that aikido practitioners in Japan are not so good at being a bit stiff. Part of the problem may be lack of practice, but Japanese people don’t have much time to relax in the dojo. People abroad tend to be softer and more open. I think it’s very important to maintain a soft and relaxed state throughout your practice. I don’t think it detracts from the power of the martial art, at least not if you practice with serious intent.
There is a famous story about the third Tokugawa shogun, Iemitsu (1604-51; ruled 1623-51). He is said to have received a tiger as a gift from Chosen (Korea). He put various kinds of animals in the tiger cage because he was curious to see how they would do there. Naturally, none of them did very well there. Not finding this interesting enough, Iemitsu finally decided to send Iagyu Tajima no Kami, a skilled and trained swordsman who was also Iemitsu’s swordsmanship instructor, into the cage. Iagyu entered armed with only a wooden sword – a bokuto – but he failed to do more than defend his own life, and came out of the cage exhausted and sweaty. Iemitsu then decided to send the Zen monk Takuan inside. They had had a quarrel and Iemitsu intended to punish him. However, when Takuan entered the cage, the tiger cautiously approached him and curled up at his feet!
The story is a good example of how to maintain a sense of ordinary, everyday peace. It doesn’t matter whether your enemy is a tiger or another person, if you approach a situation with the intention of harming or hurting, then you naturally expose yourself to a possible counterattack. When you don’t hold such an intention and allow yourself to be permeated by normal and everyday calm, you will achieve a state of calm mind (heijoshin).
Even if aikido were nothing more than a practice of pure forms (kata), your job would be to execute the techniques precisely and correctly, and your partner’s job would be to simply let you fall into them. But aikido kata are rarely so flawless. In your attempt to execute a particular technique very well, you will often find yourself putting in unnecessary effort. When you find yourself doing this, it is an opportunity for you to take a step back and think about what went wrong. Is the problem in the way you are initiating an encounter with a higher partner? Are you unbalancing your partner correctly? Are you mishandling your timing and distance (maai)? Are you using your breath effectively (kokyuryoku)? Is the problem with your overall practice style? One important reason for practicing is also to learn to find and label what you are doing wrong and to develop ways to do what you were not able to do before. The first step, of course, is to be able to recognize the feeling of “I should stop” when these limitations arise. Not being able to recognize when something involves excessive effort is the same as being so attached to something that you cannot do anything else, and that is a static mentality, no different from simply “waiting to die.” There is no development, no forward progress. I am talking here about the importance of various and separate concepts such as changeability (henka), flow or flow (nagare), and the ability to avoid excessive effort, but each of these concepts touches on something deeper, which can be expressed in the teachings of the Jigen-ryu school of swordsmanship: “There is no second sword in Jigen-ryu.” And if my interpretation is correct, I believe it reflects what I consider to be the essence and fundamental goal of my practice, which can be summarized in the words: “There is only forward movement.”
What hopes do you have for the future?
It seems to me that very few dojos in Japan today have the atmosphere that truly deserves the name “dojo.” Many are simply rented spaces in large public gymnasiums and cultural centers. Unfortunately, such places rarely lead to the formation of truly cordial training relationships between students and teachers. I have been fortunate to have been able to train with many different people in Japan and abroad and to talk to them about O-sensei and aikido, and it has always made me reconsider my relative immaturity in the art. Therefore, for a long time I have also wanted to create a dojo with an environment that would allow for more stable and serious practice. Thanks to the support of the dojo and many others, I was finally able to open my own dojo in this spirit this April. I am deeply grateful to the doshu for allowing me, with such generous forbearance, to pursue and continue my own aikido for over thirty years, and I look forward to making the new dojo a place where people with a genuine interest in aikido can freely gather to practice.
Sensei Endo, thank you very much for sharing your thoughts and experiences with us.
The original interview comes from the magazine Aikido Journal (1996, vol. 23, No. 1) and translated with Google Translate.