In Junomichi, teaching is not reserved solely for professors.
Every practitioner, regardless of their level of knowledge, is encouraged to share their understanding through the exchange of sensations. Even a kyu, despite their limited experience, possesses a certain intelligence in what they do and is encouraged from the start not to develop a dependent relationship with their professor.
In a Junomichi dojo, there is a constant sharing of knowledge among practitioners of varying experience levels, independent of the person leading the class. This circulation of intelligence is the true source of practitioners’ emancipation.
Through this mutual teaching, all practitioners of a school, and more broadly, all practitioners of Junomichi, are shaped. It’s often said that an experienced practitioner learns as much from working with a beginner as they do from someone more experienced. This is because making oneself available, or explaining what one seeks and feels, is also a way of learning. It confronts practitioners with the discipline by teaching them that giving and receiving are reciprocal processes.
However, this important sharing of knowledge on the Junomichi tatamis should be accompanied by self-restraint. While one might wish to quickly impart acquired knowledge to a partner, it is often necessary to show restraint so that those who are searching are not overwhelmed with information that might limit their capacity for discovery. In other words, what we learn by transmitting should never replace what others discover through their own search.
The core of transmission is embodied rather than verbal. It’s through subtle work, making things felt beyond words, that the two partners learn the most. A practitioner, by how they move, can convey more effectively than with a thousand words, sculpting with their body as a sculptor does with their material. Before speaking and explaining what we think we know, we must exhaust everything that can be communicated through silence, sensation, and the body.
Autonomy in research is a legacy passed down by Igor Correa, mirroring his unique path in judo. This autonomy is rooted in the belief that one should never delegate their capacity to learn to anyone, not even a master. Each practitioner must discern what is necessary for themselves and take responsibility for their own progress. Thus, every practitioner is called to rationalise what they do, to put words to sensations, and thereby share them more broadly. This specific intelligence, always linked to action, helps avoid blindly following external pedagogies, no matter how appealing, allowing a direct connection with Jigoro Kano’s original work.
Paradoxically, this great autonomy acquired on the Junomichi tatamis should not foster a sense of independence or self-sufficiency in the practitioner. They should not believe that all experiences are equal or that they need no one to progress. This autonomy is closely linked to a strong trust in peers, especially those who have practised longer, so everyone can benefit from the work accomplished before them. True understanding also lies in knowing how to put oneself in the hands of an idea or someone more knowledgeable.
Progressing individually and collectively in practice can be summed up in a three-stranded braid: openness to what those before us have achieved, personal initiative, and unwavering commitment to Kano’s work.
Despite this mutual and horizontal teaching among practitioners of all experience levels, including the most accomplished form known as “free work,” there are still professors. These are practitioners who decide to create one or more Junomichi schools and take on the task of leading classes. However, teaching Junomichi differs from teaching other disciplines. A Junomichi professor never assumes the position of someone who knows, dispensing knowledge from a stable position to those who do not yet have it.
A professor is a practitioner in search, whose task is to inspire others, or students, to engage in their own search in Junomichi. Often, what motivates a professor to found a school is simply the desire for practice partners, to form a group of comrades for research. The quicker practitioners realise that the essential thing is to engage in autonomous research, the more likely there will be collective enthusiasm to explore all that Junomichi offers.
Thus, a professor is not someone who merely transmits knowledge or significant experience. Rather, they are someone who makes their own search and learning the very fabric of their teaching. On the tatamis where Junomichi is practised, the professor is one among others, practising just like everyone else. They may even practise more, moving among all practitioners to make the sense of movements and exercises felt through their actions and availability.
In our practice, there is no professor who, from a higher position, delivers a class vertically. The teaching always comes from within, engaging the professor’s whole being to transmit more than just knowledge—a passion for Junomichi.
This is why a professor does not deliver a class that has been entirely pre-planned. This would give them a fixed advantage over others and risk placing them in an inappropriate position of superiority. A professor should, of course, prepare in advance but must also leave room for uncertainty and improvisation. They should be attuned to what the moment and the place demand, adapting to what emerges during practice and transforming it into shared, lively propositions.
Therefore, the most important thing in a class is not the professor’s technical virtuosity or their skill as a pedagogue but their ability to create a creative thread that enables everyone present to practise with enthusiasm. However, a professor must remember that during a class, they are not the sole source of teaching. All practitioners on the tatamis are inventive relays that advance the research and show that learning is mutual and collective.
If this idea is well understood and embraced by all practitioners, the person responsible for a class is there only to aid this movement and encourage this capacity. It’s crucial to understand that reaching this understanding does not require practitioners to have a particular level of knowledge. What is needed is the professor’s deep trust in the practitioners’ ability to seek and find on their own, a confidence in their potential to liberate themselves through mutual aid and cooperation.
A Junomichi professor should always question whether their suggestions might hinder practitioners, potentially stopping their momentum. They must ensure that their eagerness to transmit does not interrupt the existing movement and that their proposals encourage practitioners to find things independently.
One of the most important qualities for a professor is self-restraint. This means not feeling compelled to stick rigidly to a pre-prepared programme or exhaustively impart everything that arises during a class. An experienced professor can improvise and generate numerous propositions, which can be thrilling, but this should not overshadow the collective emancipation that comes from everyone working together.
During a class, an effective method is to work through comparisons, bringing to the forefront the underlying work happening between practitioners. Seeing the research, observing the work, and watching peers practise may be more effective than a series of spectacular demonstrations.
A good practice session is one that stimulates each individual’s capacity to explore and discover through the demanding exchange created among different partners. A less effective session is one where practitioners never feel bored because they are always being guided by various proposals but where they do not experience that singular desire to understand what eludes them.
Teaching Junomichi reflects what Junomichi itself is—an endless movement. Teaching must balance on a tightrope, where acquired knowledge never becomes a way to maintain stable positions. Whether facing a partner or during a class we are responsible for, these moments must be seen as opportunities for sharing. Each person contributes to creating a common material, and it should never be about gaining dominance over another or a group. This sharing is likely why our practice endures—thanks to its simplicity and the generosity it evokes.
Teaching becomes a way to share what we lack, to bring together the unknown that gives us that unique feeling of existence.
—Rudolf di Stefano, August 2024