More About Preset Forms (Kata) Work

Performing of the role of uke is known as ukemi. Ukemi is not a single skill but a collection of related capacities, commonly understood to include three aspects:

1. the ability to fall or roll safely,

2. the ability to contribute to the successful completion of a technique, and

3. the ability to offer a sincere and appropriate attack.

 

For those new to aikido, this way of practicing can feel puzzling. Traditional martial arts forms—including aikido, one of the best-known examples—rely on a high degree of cooperation. This is sometimes described, critically, as “collusion.” Many people initially struggle to see the value of emphasizing pre-set roles and forms as the main method of practice, or to understand how challenge, refinement, and depth can emerge from such cooperation.

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One question that often arises in this context is whether “doing” or “taking” ukemi—by not resisting or thwarting one’s partner—is somehow mentally or spiritually beneficial. Is ukemi meant to reduce or purify the ego?

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This question can lead to an extreme interpretation: that uke should attack with the attitude, “I am entirely at the service of tori. I will not assert myself. Do with me whatever you need for your practice.” While this may sound generous or selfless, it can carry unintended consequences. Taken too far, it becomes over-accommodation or over-subservience. Rather than supporting practice, this stance can undermine uke’s own balance, integrity, and agency, leading to self-sabotage or a fragile, easily manipulated state.

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In reaction to this, many people leap to the opposite extreme: uke should be combative, resistant, and “honest” by acting independently of—or even against—tori’s intentions. To a limited degree, encountering such partners is important. It helps students shed the assumption that their partners will always be cooperative, skilled, or predictable. This exposure builds realism and discernment. The main risk lies in misjudging how much of this kind of practice is actually helpful, especially early on.

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If the core of our practice emphasizes cooperation rather than constant thwarting, the question becomes: how do we make that cooperation genuinely productive?

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One useful way to approach this is to look at human relationships more broadly. In what kinds of relationships do we actually grow and thrive? Most of us can sense the difference between superficial interaction and more authentic communication. Which feels more nourishing? Which creates enough trust and openness that honesty—even difficult feedback—can be given and received? Which supports our own willingness to look inward and engage with something challenging?

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Some may argue that strictness, harshness, authority, or control are necessary for growth. And again, the same question returns: just as a certain amount of resistance or opposition can be valuable in practice, how much of one’s overall experience needs to consist of that in order to feel healthy, capable, empowered, and engaged?

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At the same time, the opposite extreme is also unhelpful. A practice environment defined by complete comfort, safety, and predictability does not reflect the aims of aikido. Our training is about sensing, adapting, and refining ourselves in response to changing conditions. Our partners—each with their own variability, and even internal variability from moment to moment—provide the living challenge against which we polish our technique and discover reward.

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At the beginning of a student’s journey, practice can feel like a kind of role-play. This is not a flaw; it is a starting point. Over time, the question becomes how that role-play deepens and becomes more genuine. When we take ukemi, we practice offering ourselves fully and sincerely—not by disappearing, but by being present. Both tori and uke observe themselves, not only what is happening to the other person.

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Early on, uke’s primary aim may simply be to help complete the agreed-upon form together with tori. Even this is a meaningful and worthwhile challenge, and one that many traditional arts emphasize strongly. But alongside it arises an ongoing, constructive questioning: Is that all there is? How did that work? Did I do just enough—or too much—to make that happen? Why did that feel the way it did? What is actually going on here?

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These questions cultivate an inquiry-oriented, curiosity-based mind. This inquiry is not distant or academic; it is embodied, participatory, and engaged—much like a healthy relationship. In this way, ukemi becomes not an act of submission or resistance, but a living practice of attention, honesty, and mutual growth.