The Humbling Art of Teaching the Basics
I still remember the first time I attempted to teach a single-column tie in a group session. At the time, I was already performing on stage, suspending partners, and confidently transitioning through complex ties. I considered myself advanced—truly advanced. Teaching the basics? It should have been easy, right?
Wrong
It was during a new initiative my friend and I had started: regular rope jams, each beginning with a short class for beginners. That day, I stood in front of a small group, ready to demonstrate the single-column tie—the fundamental building block of so much in Shibari. Simple. Basic. Except, as I began teaching, I discovered something unexpected: I had no idea what I was doing.
Not really, anyway
Up until then, I’d been tying single-column ties on autopilot—fast, fluid, almost thoughtlessly. It was muscle memory, not a mindful technique. But as I slowed down to show each step, I realized I couldn’t explain the details. Why did I move the rope this way? Why did I adjust the tension there? When people asked questions, I was caught off guard. I couldn’t answer them. Worse, when I tried to replicate the tie at their pace, my hands stumbled. My movements felt clumsy.
It was humbling, to say the least. How could I be so advanced in my practice but so unprepared to teach the most “basic” tie?
That experience was a wake-up call. I realized that understanding something subconsciously isn’t the same as understanding it consciously. Teaching—truly teaching—requires conscious understanding. It demands that you slow down, dissect every movement, and articulate choices you might never have consciously considered before. It’s a skill in itself, one I wasn’t as advanced in as I thought.
Fast forward ten years, and I’m still learning how to teach the single-column tie. Every time I revisit it, I discover something new—a detail I missed, a way to explain it more clearly, a mistake I used to overlook. The basics are never really “basic.” They’re the foundation of everything, and they deserve the same respect and attention as the most complex transitions.
From Basics to Foundations: Building a Better Path for Beginners
After my humbling experience with the single-column tie, you’d think I’d have learned my lesson about teaching the “basics.” But a few years later, when I received my teaching certificate from Yagami-sensei for Yagami-ryu, I found myself facing another challenge: how to structure an entire course.
At the time, I was already familiar with Yagami-ryu. I knew the techniques, the fundamentals, and even some advanced elements. Teaching them seemed like a straightforward task: I’d simply arrange the techniques into a logical sequence and share them with my students. Easy, right? Except, it wasn’t.
What I quickly discovered was that my idea of “logical” didn’t always align with my students’ experiences. Techniques I considered easy turned out to be surprisingly difficult for them, while things I thought were complex seemed to come naturally to some beginners. Every class was a lesson—not just for my students, but for me. Their struggles, their questions, their feedback—it all showed me that my approach wasn’t as effective as I thought.
One technique, in particular, stood out.
I had always taught it as the starting point for beginners—a foundational skill. But as I watched student after student struggle, I realized something important: this wasn’t a beginner technique at all. It required a level of body awareness, rope control, and tension management that my students simply didn’t have yet. What I thought was “basic” was actually intermediate.
This revelation forced me to rethink everything. If this wasn’t the right starting point, then what was? How could I design a learning path that prepared students from zero experience to this “level one”?
Creating that beginner course—a true “Zero course“—wasn’t easy. It wasn’t something I finished and forgot about, either. Over the last five years, I’ve continuously refined it, adding new elements, breaking down complex skills into smaller steps, and adapting to the feedback from each new group of students. The process is much more fluid now, but it took years of trial, error, and reevaluation to get there.
What this journey taught me is that teaching isn’t just about sharing what you know. It’s about understanding what your students don’t know. It’s about meeting them where they are, not where you think they should be. And it’s about learning to see your own knowledge from a completely different perspective—one that’s often humbling, but always valuable.
The Endless Depths of Kanuki Shibari
One of the most iconic and sought-after techniques in Shibari is the TK or Takate Kote. Its structure is beautiful, functional, and versatile—a centerpiece in the art of rope. Within Yagami-ryu, we have a specific variation called Kanuki Shibari. At first glance, it may seem straightforward, even simple. Many people think, “Learn the single-column tie, then the TK, and you’re ready for everything.” But the reality? It’s anything but simple.
When I first began teaching Kanuki Shibari, I noticed this same misconception over and over. Beginners often believe it’s the next natural step after mastering the single-column tie. They assume they’ll learn it in a few lessons and move on. But Kanuki Shibari isn’t just a technique—it’s a journey, one that demands patience, dedication, and a willingness to revisit the basics time and time again.
In my teaching system, I don’t introduce Kanuki Shibari until Course Two, which is focused on the fundamentals of suspension. By this stage, students are transitioning to an upper-intermediate level. Why so late? Because Kanuki Shibari requires more than technical skill—it demands a deep understanding of rope tension, body dynamics, and the nuances of movement. Without these foundations, even the most technically perfect TK will lack the fluidity and control that make it truly effective.
Even for me, Kanuki Shibari has been an ongoing lesson.
I remember dedicating an entire year to mastering it—not as a beginner, but as an experienced practitioner who had already spent over eight years performing, suspending, and teaching. Despite all my experience, it still took daily practice, for an entire year, to reach a point where I felt I truly understood it.
But even now, after countless years of practice, I’m still learning. Every time I train with Yagami-sensei, he shows me something new about Kanuki Shibari. A subtle adjustment here, a new perspective there—it’s like peeling back layers of an onion. Just when I think I’ve reached the core, I discover there’s more beneath the surface.
Some students ask me, “Why are we still working on this? Can’t we move on to something new?” But the truth is, Kanuki Shibari is something new every time you approach it. Its complexity means that you never fully master it in one lesson, or even one year. Each time you revisit it, you see it with fresh eyes, uncovering details and depths you didn’t notice before.
This is why I place it so carefully in my teaching structure. It’s not just about learning the steps—it’s about developing the skills, mindset, and patience needed to understand it on a deeper level. Kanuki Shibari isn’t just a technique you check off a list. It’s a practice, a discipline, and ultimately, a reflection of your growth as a rope artist.
The Precision and Pressure of Suspension
For many people, suspension feels like the pinnacle of Shibari. There’s a certain allure to it—a sense of achievement, artistry, and, for some, the dream of becoming a Shibari rock star adored by everyone. But the reality? Suspension is where the art truly tests you, in every way.
Suspension isn’t just about tying someone in the air—it’s the first truly dangerous step in rope. Without the proper preparation, it can quickly lead to injury or worse. And here’s the thing: if you’re not preparing yourself to be a professional performer or teacher, suspension isn’t always necessary. You can practice and explore Shibari beautifully on the ground, safely, without ever needing to go airborne.
But let’s assume suspension is necessary for you
—whether for personal growth, artistic exploration, or deepening your skills. The first step is understanding that suspension is a pressure test. Everything you’ve learned so far—rope handling, tension, body positioning, balance—will be tested under new levels of intensity. And suspension introduces two new critical factors: speed and precision.
On the ground, there’s room for a margin of error. A slight misstep or uneven tension can often be corrected without significant consequences. But in suspension, that margin shrinks to nearly nothing. Sometimes, even a half-millimeter difference in tension can cause problems. Precision becomes paramount—every line and every movement must be deliberate and accurate.
Speed, too, takes on new importance.
In suspension, time is a factor—not just for safety, but for flow. Slowness or hesitation can create unnecessary strain on your partner or yourself. When teaching suspension, I often set benchmarks for my students. For example, an intermediate student should aim to tie Kanuki Shibari in under five minutes. As they progress, the goal becomes three minutes, then even faster.
The last time I timed myself, I completed a Kanuki Shibari in two and a half minutes, maybe less. Even now, after years of practice, I occasionally test my speed—not to rush, but to refine. Because true speed in Shibari isn’t about moving quickly; it’s about fluidity. It’s the average speed, the effortless flow, that matters. Every motion should be smooth, light, and precise, without interruptions or wasted energy.
This is what makes suspension so much more than just tying someone in the air. It’s a test of your ability to handle pressure, maintain precision, and move with grace under constraints. It challenges your rope handling, your understanding of balance, and your ability to adapt. And most importantly, it reminds you that mastery isn’t about doing it once—it’s about doing it consistently, safely, and beautifully, every single time.
Transitions: The Pinnacle of Suspension
If suspension is a pressure test for your precision, speed, and creativity, then transitions are its pinnacle. They are the art of transformation in Shibari—a shift from one position to another, breathing life into your suspension and introducing a dynamic flow that captivates the audience.
Transitions are not just about aesthetics. They serve a very practical purpose: no one can remain in a single suspension position indefinitely. The body, even with proper tying, has limits. Discomfort sets in after five or ten minutes, and continuing requires redistributing the pressure of the ropes across the body. This is where transitions come into play.
But transitions aren’t easy. They require you to untie and retie suspension lines, shift your partner’s body, and adjust the balance—all while ensuring safety, comfort, and fluidity. The challenge lies not only in knowing the positions but in understanding the movement between them. If you proceed in the wrong order, you risk destabilizing the suspension or creating discomfort—or worse, injury—for your partner.
The Risk of Rushing into Transitions
A common mistake I see is people diving into transitions during a full suspension without sufficient preparation. Transitions in suspension leave little room for error. Unlike tying on the ground, you have no time to stop and rethink. A single misstep can result in failure or even harm. And even if you avoid serious consequences, the failed attempt leaves you and your partner feeling frustrated.
The Importance of Floorwork
This is why I never start transitions in full suspension. Instead, I begin on the ground, without ropes. I’ll physically move my partner through the intended positions, lifting and supporting them with my hands or body. This allows me to test the flow of movement safely and check their comfort. Every person is different, with unique body preferences and limitations, and no transition should push them beyond what their body can handle.
Once we’ve refined the movement on the ground, I test each element of the transition separately. First on the floor, then in semi-suspension, and finally in full suspension. Gradually building up allows me to address any challenges or discomforts at each stage, ensuring the final performance is seamless and safe.
Facing the Challenge of the Body
Transitions teach you that the greatest challenge is not in manipulating the ropes—it’s in understanding the body. How does your partner move? What angles and adjustments keep them stable and comfortable? How do you support them during the transition? These are questions you must answer before you even touch a rope.
Rope is just a tool; the real skill lies in how you guide the body through space. When done correctly, transitions feel like a dance, a fluid conversation between you and your partner. But to reach that level, you must invest in practice, patience, and preparation.
The Rock Star Mentality
And, of course, we can’t forget about being rock stars. Transitions aren’t just practical—they’re captivating. They add drama, movement, and life to your suspension, drawing in the audience and leaving them breathless. But to achieve that effortless flow, you must first master the groundwork.
Transitions aren’t about rushing. They’re about precision, preparation, and connection. They represent the peak of Shibari not because they’re flashy, but because they challenge you to bring together every skill you’ve learned—rope handling, body manipulation, timing, and creativity—and elevate it to an art form.
Understanding the Body: The True Foundation of Shibari
For years, I thought the key to perfect suspensions, transitions, and performances was about mastering the ropes. I focused on my techniques, my speed, my precision—but something was always missing. It wasn’t until I began studying with Yagami-sensei that I realized the truth: All of it—the ropes, the suspensions, the transitions—was irrelevant if the body wasn’t properly understood and positioned.
The ropes are a tool, but the body is the true challenge. As rope artists, we tend to focus on our tools—the ropes, the knots, the tension. But no matter how beautifully we tie, if we don’t pay attention to the body, everything falls apart.
When I started my learning with Yagami-sensei, and then again after teaching for years, I began to see the problem more clearly. So many of the issues in my practice—the discomfort, the awkwardness, the failure of a tie to do what I wanted—came from not understanding how to properly position my partner’s body. The ropes weren’t the problem; I was the one failing to consider the human being in front of me.
It sounds simple now, but the realization was profound. The body is not an object. It has bones, joints, ligaments, muscles, nerves, and blood circulation. It has emotions, feelings, fears, pleasures, and psychological reactions. When we tie, we’re not just manipulating a passive entity—we’re engaging with a complex, living, feeling human being.
So, I went back to zero.
I revisited everything I had learned, but this time with a new focus: the body. I started to learn about anatomy, how different positions affect blood flow, how joints move, and how muscles contract and release. I learned to listen to my partner’s body—not just in the moment, but over time. What does their body tell me? How do they react to certain positions? How does their breathing change?
It wasn’t easy. It meant letting go of my previous mindset and rewiring my approach. I realized that the ropes are secondary; the body is what matters most. I had to approach every tie, every suspension, every transition, and every performance from the perspective of what is best for the body rather than what looks best with the ropes.
This shift was as transformative for me as it is for my students. When I teach now, I emphasize this: The ropes will follow the body. You can tie perfectly, but if the body is not aligned, the suspension will fail. If the body is uncomfortable, the experience will be flawed, no matter how precise your ties are.
Shibari is a conversation between rope and body—each must listen to and respect the other. The rope cannot be the focus. The body must come first.
Shibari as an Emotional Connection: A New Perspective
After years of focusing on technique, I arrived at another profound realization: everything we do with the ropes creates feelings and emotions. Shibari, at its core, is not merely a technical activity—it is an emotional one. It’s about connecting deeply with the person in front of you. It’s about creating a conversation through the ropes, a bond that goes beyond the physical act of tying.
Shibari, for me now, is about connection. It’s about the shared experience between the tie artist and the partner. It’s no longer just about achieving a perfect suspension or making the knots look beautiful. It’s about the emotional journey we take together. Every tie we make, every knot we tie, every transition, every suspension—it all creates a response in the body, mind, and heart.
In my early days, I would think about Shibari as something purely technical. I would focus on the knots, the tension, and the form. But now, I approach it from a completely different angle. I ask myself: What kind of emotions do I want to create during this session? What feelings do I want to evoke in my partner? How can I use the ropes to express that emotion?
It’s fascinating to realize that even similar-looking techniques can create vastly different feelings.
A tie might look identical in form, but the experience it creates can be worlds apart depending on how it’s done, the pace, the energy, and the intention behind it. Each technique has its own emotional signature, and choosing the right technique is about understanding what emotional experience you want to create.
This is where Shibari becomes a multi-layered art. It’s no longer about just mastering a set of techniques or reaching the next level. It’s about tuning into the emotions you want to elicit and using the ropes as a tool to create that experience. This adds depth and richness to the practice. Every knot, every rope, every tie is infused with emotion, and it’s up to the tie artist to decide which emotions to channel and how to best communicate them through their work.
Shibari is no longer one-dimensional. It’s a rich, emotional conversation, and every session becomes an opportunity to explore the depth of that connection.
The Next Level: Deepening the Connection Through the Ropes
At a certain point, you might think the next level of Shibari involves adding more ropes, more complexity, more transitions, and more speed. You might think that the more intricate the ties, the more powerful and impactful the session. But after all the transitions, all the emotions, all the challenges, I found myself returning to something simpler, something more profound: flow work with just one rope.
It’s fascinating, isn’t it? Flow work is often seen as the realm of beginners, just the basics. But after working with suspensions, transitions, and complex ties, when you return to flow work, it feels completely different. The focus isn’t on the technical aspects of the tie anymore; it’s about the connection, the psychological and emotional dynamics between you and your partner.
When you tie with one rope, you’re not just practicing technique. You’re actively engaging with your partner. You’re observing how they react, how they respond to the rope, how their body moves. These reactions are the key to understanding them better, to connecting more deeply. Every movement becomes a conversation. It’s like a dialogue where the ropes speak for you, and the body speaks for them.
With flow work, you can’t just rush to the next position.
You have to be flexible, attentive, and patient. You need to tune in to your partner’s needs, desires, and reactions. It’s no longer about just executing the next figure. The next rope, the next movement, depends entirely on how your partner responds.
This is where the true challenge lies: learning how to listen and connect through the ropes. Just like in a meaningful conversation, the goal isn’t just to speak—it’s to listen, to understand, and to respond. The ropes aren’t just tools for creating beautiful patterns—they’re tools for creating a deep, emotional connection. And that connection, that true communication, is what makes Shibari so powerful.
Shibari is no longer about complexity for complexity’s sake. It’s about going deeper into the connection, focusing on the nuances of the reactions, and adapting to the person you’re tying. In this way, the ropes become more than just something you manipulate—they become the language of your bond.
The Next Step: Tying with Body, Mind, and Time
So, after this realization, you might ask yourself, “Okay, what’s next? What’s the next step?” You start thinking about how to bring this approach into more complex ties—suspensions, transitions, flow work, semi-suspension, or even combining them all together.
Imagine starting with flow work, moving into semi-suspension, then full suspension, and adding transitions along the way. You can go back and forth between them, like a dance. Maybe you tie, then you release, then you re-tie, only to find the next flow in a new rhythm. The possibilities are endless, right?
But then, you think: what if it’s not just about ropes or positions anymore?
What if the next step is to tie with your body? Have you ever heard of tying with your body? It’s a concept that goes beyond holding the rope, and beyond controlling the shape. It’s about feeling the connection not just through your hands, but through every part of your own body. You’re not just manipulating the ropes—you’re becoming part of the tie itself, a living, breathing extension of the connection.
And then there’s the mind. Tying with your mind? What does that mean?
It’s a bit of a joke, right? But maybe not. Perhaps it’s about approaching the entire process with a mindfulness that transcends action. It’s about being present—not just in the physicality of what you’re doing, but in the intention behind it. The rope, the body, the emotions—they all blend into one, guided by awareness and intuition, rather than just technical proficiency.
Honestly, I’m not sure exactly how to describe it, but when I figure it out, I’ll tell you. Until then, let’s keep playing with these ideas. But one thing I do know: Shibari, at its core, is about connection. And as you evolve, you realize the ropes are only a part of that journey. The real challenge, the next step, is learning how to tie with your whole self.
The Ultimate Question: Who Are You?
So, after all this, you might ask yourself, “What’s the next step?” The answer, surprisingly, isn’t in more advanced techniques, more ropes, or more complex transitions. It’s in understanding who you are. Because without that self-awareness, you can’t truly connect—not with your partner, not with your ropes, and not with yourself.
You have to ask yourself: Who am I?
What do I like? What do I not like? What are my strengths and my weaknesses? What makes me tick? What is my personality, and how do I express it through my ropes, my body, and my connection? This is where everything shifts—from technique to understanding your inner self, your essence.
You realize it’s not just about the ropes or the ties anymore.
It’s not even just about connection, though that’s certainly part of it. It’s about something much bigger. It’s about life itself. Shibari, at its most profound level, becomes a part of this larger journey of self-expression. It’s about bringing who you are into everything you do—whether with ropes or without. The art becomes a mirror for your soul.
You might not have the answer to this question right away.
Who are you? is a question we can keep asking ourselves forever. Maybe we’ll never fully understand the answer. But what matters is the journey—the daily effort to get closer, to understand ourselves better, and by doing so, to understand the people around us more deeply.
When you start to understand yourself, your desires, your fears, and your boundaries, you begin to see the world differently. You understand your partner not just in terms of how they respond to ropes, but as a whole person. And that’s when a true connection can happen—not just in Shibari, but in every part of your life. Because at the heart of it all is the question of who we really are.