The Anatomy of Learning – How I Learn

9 August 2026.
Ferenc Nemeth

Familiar feeling? When we see a technique demonstrated on the tatami, it often seems crystal clear and completely understandable. The person showing it does it so naturally and effortlessly that we get the impression it couldn't possibly be done any other way. Then comes the moment during pair practice when we have to do it... and boom, suddenly we can't even remember the very first movement.

It is a common and completely natural phenomenon that during our first attempts, we can only remember tiny details, while the majority of the essential elements seem to simply vanish into thin air by the next session.

But what is learning, really?
If I had to define it briefly: learning is not just the mere accumulation of theoretical information and data. In this context, learning is a deep, neurological, and physical transformation. It is the process through which an external, unfamiliar pattern (what we see) becomes an internal, lived experience, and ultimately an automatic skill that can be recalled without thinking. Essentially, it's the journey from conscious effort to unconscious competence.

But why do we seemingly forget obvious movements, and how can we reach the point where our body provides the perfect response almost instantly? The answer lies in how our internal focus works and in the conscious gathering of experience.

I. Internal bandwidth and the dynamics of forgetting

When we first encounter a new movement or task, 100% of our attention is consumed by tracking the external form—the geometry, the directions, the steps. Essentially, we overload our short-term memory, as if we were trying to juggle five balls at once while never having done it before.

This cramp of external copying simply hides the essence from us. Because our internal "bandwidth"—our attention capacity—is completely filled with interpreting the external framework of the movement, we have no energy left for the finer, internal connections. This is why they disappear the first time.

However, as the external form slowly transfers into muscle memory through extensive practice, our attention frees up. This is when the magic happens: suddenly, the deeper details emerge, clean angles and pinpoint-accurate initiations become visible. At this point, you are no longer trying to copy as an outside observer; you experience and sense every vibration of the technique from within.

The accelerating recall of memory traces
Therefore, the temporary loss of details during learning is a fundamental characteristic. But as our practice grows, the time it takes for these seemingly lost memories to return is radically reduced. What took years—or, I dare say, decades—of relearning and frustration as a beginner, later pops into mind faster and faster.

To this day, I feel it myself: when I show a technique at training, I don't immediately remember every single detail about every technique. Instead, as we practice and I execute it more often, I get a clearer picture of it, my previous experiences come to mind, and the increasingly "finer" details surface much sooner. I often talk with my students after training, and they also say how good it was to review these things. Because while it's true they had practiced and remembered it, now that we brought it up again, they understand the whole thing even more clearly and deeply.

The ultimate goal is to achieve an immediate, delay-free response. Mastery is nothing more than minimizing reaction time: reaching the point where you no longer analyze or think at the moment of contact, but the perfect, completely refined technique appears and runs its course on its own.

II. The sculptor's analogy: Complicating vs. Refining

I've been working as a software developer for decades, so I often see the world in systems and optimization, but to understand martial arts progression, we just need to reach for a much more ancient example: sculpture.

Let's look at the style of a beginner practitioner: they tend to overcomplicate everything. They add extra force to the movement, throw in an unnecessary loop; they "add" instead of taking away. It's like a beginner potter slapping more and more clay onto their work to give it shape, which only makes the whole thing heavier and more shapeless.

In contrast, what does a master do? They refine and shape. The essence of progress is never adding, but ruthlessly carving away unnecessary movements and tension. According to Michelangelo's famous saying, the statue is already inside the block of stone; he only needs to remove the excess from it. We refine the technique until only the perfectly efficient structure remains. Through practice, our goal is essentially to be able to create the perfect statue from this large block of stone with fewer and fewer hammer strikes.

I clearly remember from my beginner days, for example with shiho nage, that we were constantly looking for solutions as to why the damn technique wasn't working. We pondered how we should twist the attacker's arm even more so they'd be willing to "suffer through" the sequence with us. Yet in many cases, the technique presents itself, we just tend to skip crucial parts at the beginning, like unbalancing (kuzushi) or distracting their attention. Then we try to make up for these shortcomings later with other unnecessary, forced solutions—ones that in most cases only cause pain to the uke. From then on, however, force takes over, and the technique is doomed.

If the first touch, the moment of entry, isn't perfect, the instinctive compensation is always a large, forceful movement to try and fix the mistake. For me, however, refinement is exactly the goal: I believe that the perfection of the initiation and clean biomechanics inherently bring about a tension-free finish, without the need for extra force.

III. Cultural differences in education

Mastering a refined, systemic, and precise approach can often be daunting. If someone has already built a stable routine and confidence in a given movement system, it's understandable that they find it hard to embark on something that requires them to relearn things almost from scratch—for example, integrated weapons work. Letting go of an acquired routine and opening up to a completely new perspective is a serious mental challenge.

This difficulty is compounded by cultural educational models. The essence of the traditional Japanese model (Mitori geiko) is "stealing" the movement silently with the eyes. The master only demonstrates, the student does it a thousand times, and asking for an explanation is considered almost disrespectful.

The European mind (especially the rational type), however, likes and demands the understanding of cause-and-effect relationships. If a movement is supported by clear, logical explanations, the student is immediately freed from the compulsion of tense copying, because they finally understand what they are doing and why.

IV. The four-legged stool of knowledge

For acquired knowledge to be truly stable, we need a well-structured pedagogical model. This knowledge consists of four interconnected pillars:

1st leg (The visual pattern):
The student sees the technique, absorbing the external form and geometry. By itself, this is still a highly unstable state.
2nd leg (The intellectual understanding):
The teacher gives a clear, biomechanical explanation. The student's mind logically understands the "why."
3rd leg (Personal experience):
Through practice, the movement slowly integrates into the body and the nervous system. The external information becomes an internal, lived experience.
4th leg (Mastery):
The point where the student is able to logically and clearly explain and pass the technique on to another person in their own words.

V. Principles instead of crutches for sub-movements

In teaching, there are many methods to deepen understanding. A common pedagogical trick, for example, is to look for everyday movement patterns that visually resemble aikido techniques. Such a parallel could be opening a door, drinking a glass of water, or a twisting motion.

While these crutches can bring quick recognition and are by no means bad, they have their limits: they can only substitute for partial movements.

Stable knowledge cannot be built on superficial analogies. The task is teaching the principles. If someone understands the physical and biomechanical principle behind a movement, they can pull it out and apply it anytime from then on. They become capable of independently examining their own position, recognizing mistakes, and adjusting everything to the correct principle. Principles provide the universal knowledge that always guides the way, even when details are forgotten.

VI. Conscious recording of experiences: Anchor the knowledge!

Progress, however, is not an automatic consequence of time passing. An essential condition is retaining and consciously integrating the acquired drops of knowledge. I am also certain that true learning requires more than just training twice a week. Anyone who doesn't retrospectively think about what happened at practice, what little things caught their attention, or doesn't at least make a small note about them, will remember and elevate these to a skill level much later. Because what is still a clear, visceral experience after training is merely a faint memory two weeks later.

When on the tatami—or in our work—a movement suddenly comes together and pure understanding is born, that "Aha!" moment must be consciously grasped. These deep, internal experiences are very hard to come by, which is exactly why they are invaluable. You shouldn't let them just vanish into thin air at the end of the training or workday.

In the modern world, we are surrounded by a massive amount of information that can easily trick us into believing we are learning. In reality, however, if personal experiences are not recorded, nothing remains of the mere informational noise.

We often see people encountering tons of potential experiences, but because they don't make them conscious, it all gets lost. If we don't save these tiny insights into our memory, we'll have to start building from scratch again next time. That is why I encourage everyone to take notes, think about what happened at home, and mentally practice what they learned in the dojo. True progress—stable, cumulative knowledge—is based exclusively on the conscious preservation of experiences.

VII. The matrix of attitude: Problem or solution?

Freeing up attention and practicing steps, however, isn't worth much if our internal engine is calibrated poorly. Perhaps the deepest impact on the learning process comes from how we approach the things ahead of us.

Basically, we can observe two types, two mindsets.
One type experiences a new or difficult task as a problem. For them, a complex technique is an obstacle, a mistake is a frustration, and the unknown is a threat. This mindset blocks progress because the mind focuses on defense and making excuses.

The other type, however, wants to find a solution. They don't see an obstacle in front of them, but an exciting puzzle. If something doesn't work, they don't experience it as a failure, but as feedback: "Alright, this isn't good this way, how could it be done differently?" This curiosity- and solution-based attitude keeps progress in motion, and ultimately, this is what transforms sweaty practice into true, profound learning.

VIII. Adults vs. Children: The magic of movement-based learning

It is important to note that what has been described so far focuses primarily on the learning processes of adults—their integration, intellectual pitfalls, and need for understanding. However, there is another, equally extensive area of learning that operates under completely different laws: teaching children.

Children's learning is closely and inseparably intertwined with natural motor development. They are not looking for rational cause-and-effect relationships (the "2nd leg" of knowledge), and they don't crave biomechanical explanations if something isn't working. For them, the primary language of learning is pure movement, play, and direct physical experience.

While adults tend to overthink the movement, freeze up in analyzing details, and approach the problem intellectually, children instinctively copy. They learn through their bodies, from the joy of movement. For them, the tatami is not an analytical laboratory, but a playground for motor coordination. The rolls, falls, crawls, and playful pair exercises don't primarily teach them specific aikido techniques; instead, they develop their body awareness, sense of balance, and nervous system, thereby laying the groundwork for absorbing finer movements later on.

IX. Aikido as a language: From communication to art

The ultimate goal of learning is perhaps most beautifully described by Master Nishio's concept. He stated that aikido is actually like a language. It is built from components in the same way: postures and basic movements are the letters, from these words are formed, words make expressions, and expressions become coherent sentences—that is, the techniques themselves.

However, just knowing the words and being able to communicate with each other (meaning physically executing a movement so that it works) doesn't in itself mean we are creating art. Just as in spoken language, we can all form sentences, but only exceptional talents—like Shakespeare or Petőfi—are capable of elevating this communication to a masterful level that is poetry.

The same is true for aikido. The true path of learning begins when we are no longer just "putting words next to each other" for survival or a successful throw, but weaving the components together with such harmony and refinement that the technique turns from mere communication into true, tension-free art.

X. Dictionary and improvisation: The art of reacting

On the other hand, a highly exciting, almost paradoxical question might arise: if aikido is essentially pure reaction to another person's movements, why do we need to practice pre-learned, fixed techniques at all?

The answer again lies in the language analogy. What we learn at training are actually building blocks. We are building ourselves a vast and multifaceted "dictionary" from which we can select in a fraction of a second when reacting. Just as in spoken language everyone phrases things differently and uses different words to express the same thought, in aikido, everyone tailors their response to their own physical attributes, rhythm, and the given moment.

In reality, there are never two completely identical attacks, so every single attack gives birth to a completely unique, unrepeatable response. Form exercises, therefore, are not rigid rules to be mechanically repeated in a live situation, but rather they represent the rich vocabulary that allows for a free, creative response perfectly tailored to the given situation.

XI. The invisible teachers: The role of the Uke and the plateaus of learning

Although we have explored the individual, internal anatomy of learning so far, aikido is a partner art, so the picture can never be complete without our partner. It is important to briefly mention that our progress has another, equally critical dimension: the role of the Uke. We learn a tremendous amount simply from being thrown. During ukemi (falling and receiving), our partner's physical feedback, resistance, or even softness continuously polish our own reactions, so the other person's body and movement become our most honest teacher.

At the same time, it is essential to emphasize: just as the Uke can greatly aid learning, they can also hinder it. If the attack is incorrect, weak, or inaccurate, it can be specifically misleading. An attack coming from the wrong direction or with unrealistic intent can completely derail the essence of the practice, as the technique is then reacting to an artificial, faulty stimulus rather than reality. An honest attack is the foundation for the reaction to be clean and honest as well.

At the same time, we must prepare for another inevitable aspect of learning: progress plateaus. The curve of learning never rises evenly. No matter how conscious we are, there will be times when, despite much practice, we feel we aren't moving an inch forward, or are even regressing. This stagnation is a particularly frustrating mental state, but it is actually the natural antechamber to leveling up.