Only Today

In a world that measures everything—time, pulse, efficiency, the blink of an eye—it’s striking how rarely we measure what truly matters: the present moment and our actual emotions. And yet, the present moment (this very instant!) is the only stage on which we can live our lives. The past has already been, the future doesn’t yet exist—there is only this moment. And the best measure of this moment is not a clock, but awareness; not quantity, but the quality of presence. Reiki proposes something radically simple: it does not promise miracles, but teaches a miraculous way of seeing the ordinary—it is an invitation to discover the space we carry within ourselves. Not a religion. Not magic. Not medicine. Rather, a skill (a path) of all the nuances that dwell “in between.”

Kyo dake wa. Only today.

The practice of Reiki was born in Japan in the 1920s—during the Taishō era, a time of tensions, when traditional forms of spirituality collided with Western modernity, and old rituals stood silent before a new world. Mikao Usui, its founder, was neither a prophet nor a mystic—he was a man who sought simplicity rooted in silence, the rhythm of breath, and inner honesty. In a spirit akin to both Marcus Aurelius and Musashi, he created a practice that requires no temples—just intention and a moment of focus. Usui Reiki Ryōhō is not an esoteric healing technique but a map for returning to oneself: five principles, the gesture of gasshō, and the daily practice of presence. Miracles were not its goal (despite what the Western reimported pop-culture version might suggest decades later); the goal was to restore people’s connection to what is simplest and most authentic—to the body, the breath, and one’s own emotions. It was not about healing the world, but about learning how to live in it in a healthy way.

In today’s article, we will look at Reiki in its original, philosophical form—as an alphabet of presence—a system of characters and gestures that teach emotional literacy. We’ll break down its name into its two kanji: 霊 (rei)—a character composed of heavenly rain, invisible whisper, and spiritual thread; and 気 (ki)—the energy and dynamism of the “in-between.” We will decode what the message of the characters 霊気 (reiki) truly conveys. But above all, we will dwell on its heart: the principles of Gokai—five simple sentences that do not moralize, but invite. Perhaps we will not understand the world—but, as Miyamoto Musashi once suggested (to whom we shall return later today), we may learn to observe ourselves with lightness, and the world with depth—so we may walk through life gently and wisely.
Here and now.

Kyo dake wa. Only today.

霊
Rei

“spiritual,” “supernatural,” “mysterious”

The character of rain, whispers, and invisible threads

At first glance, the character 霊 (rei) may appear to be one of many enigmatic symbols found in Japanese (and Chinese) writing—dense with strokes, archaic in form, burdened with an ambiguous cargo of spirituality. But when we begin to untangle it, like a thread intricately knotted, it reveals not only the story of a single ideogram but also a fragment of the Japanese understanding of the world—a world where rain descends from the heavens like a divine message from the kami, where the mouth is the gate of spiritual utterance, and a thin thread symbolizes the subtlest aspects of reality.

At the top of the character 霊 we see 雨—“rain.” This is not merely a meteorological sign, but a symbol of a profound cultural tradition in which rain was not just weather, but a sign from above, a gift from heaven. In Chinese and Japanese tradition (and not only those), rain was considered a blessing—the water of life sent down by deities, bringing crops, purification, and transformation. Placed at the very top of the rei character, the rain does not merely fall to the earth—it flows downward through layers of meaning, like a cosmic message penetrating into the human heart.

Below the rain lies something more enigmatic: the element 巫—composed of two crossed “people” and the sign 𠂇, originally denoting “hand” or “gesture.” It is an ideogram meaning shaman or medium. In ancient China and Japan, the shaman 巫 was someone who bridged heaven and earth—a person between worlds, who, through ritual, dance, song, and trance, became a vessel for spiritual forces. In this context, rei no longer refers to spirit as such, but to the phenomenon of mediation between the visible and the invisible.

Just beneath 巫 is the character 口—“mouth.” In the shamanic context, it is not only the organ of speech, but the instrument of uttering words of power. Through the mouth, spirit speaks—manifesting in whispers, sounds, incantations. One could say that 口 here represents the act of communication itself—not ordinary, but transcending the limits of everyday language.

Lower still, we find 幺—a character resembling a fine thread. It symbolizes things small, subtle, barely perceptible. In ancient Chinese writing, it was associated with silk, but also with spiritual essence. In the kanji 霊, it may be understood as a symbol of the spiritual thread, the delicate connection between the material and immaterial worlds—a thread that may snap, but if caught, can lead us through the intricacies of existence.

The attentive reader might ask—what mouth, what thread—why are 巫, 口, and 幺 not visible in the character 霊? And they would be right to ask. The modern form of this character, known from the contemporary kaisho script, no longer reveals these elements clearly—they no longer resemble the familiar shapes of “shaman,” “mouth,” or “thread.” But they are still there, simplified by centuries of tradition. In older forms of the character—especially in seal script (tensho) and oracle bone inscriptions—霊 had a more pictographic quality. Back then, their presence could indeed be seen—not as complete characters, but as original semantic components. The modern form is a graphic abbreviation of what once expressed profound symbolism: a blend of heavenly gift (rain) and the subtle spiritual thread that links us to the invisible.

The entire character 霊—combining heavenly rain, the shaman-intermediary, the mouth, and the thread—is more than the sum of its parts. It is an image of ritual, revelation, a mysterious phenomenon that flows from above through a medium, is spoken aloud, and then connects with a human being like a thread. For this reason, it is impossible to translate rei with a single word. It means “spirit”—but it may equally mean “mystery,” “sacredness,” “wonder,” or “inspiration.” In a religious context, it might refer to the soul of the deceased (reikon 霊魂), but in philosophy, it can signify the subtle order of the universe—something that can sometimes be sensed, but rarely captured in words.

Interestingly, modern Japan struggles with this character. For many, it seems “weird,” “old-fashioned,” even “frightening.” Contemporary pop culture (particularly in the genre of shinrei mono films) has turned rei into a symbol of ghosts and curses. But in its original form, in the world of Usui Mikao and the spiritual therapies of the early 20th century, 霊 was not ominous—it was reimyō (霊妙): wondrous, subtle, full of mystery and potential.

In the context of Reiki, 霊 is not that which haunts—but that which inspires. Not a symbol of death, but of life—an invisible yet present force flowing through all things. The character 霊 reminds us that the world does not end at what can be measured, weighed, or named. There are still invisible rains, unspoken words, and threads waiting to guide us.

To sum up: in the character 霊 (rei), all these themes converge—rain as a gift from the heavens, the shaman as a mediator between worlds, the mouth as a vessel of expression, and the thread as a symbol of spiritual connection. It is not just a composition of graphic elements, but a poetic metaphor for spirituality: something flows from above, is received by a human, spoken aloud, passed on, and at the same time, binds us to something greater and deeper. 霊 (rei) is a character that tells us spirituality is not an abstraction—it is the subtle process of receiving, transforming, and transmitting that which is invisible, yet real.

気

(“ki”)

The Energy of KI

The Character of Energy, Invisible Relations, Flow

If there is one character about which even more could be written than 霊 (rei), it is undoubtedly: 気 (ki). Not only have entire articles been written about Ki (you can find one on our site here: The Kanji 気 (Ki) – What Can We Learn from the Japanese Concept of Energy in Human Relationships?), but also entire treatises, books, entire libraries. Ki 気 belongs to those concepts that defy single-sentence definitions. So today, we will describe it briefly—and for more, we invite you to explore the article mentioned above.

Although today we see 気 (ki) as just a few simple strokes, it is actually the simplified form of the traditional character: 氣. Its upper part, 气, means "steam" or "air"—something invisible, yet perceptible. The lower part, now written with simplified strokes, comes from the character 米 – "rice," an eternal symbol of life, nourishment, and essential human strength. Together, they form a character that literally depicts warm steam rising from cooking rice. It’s a remarkably apt image: ki as something intangible, yet born from something tangible; an energy that simultaneously rises above the physical world and arises from it.

But ki is much more than just steam and rice. In the Japanese language, this word has permeated nearly every aspect of daily life and spirituality. It can mean mood or will, attention or life force. Ki is something we feel in relationships—when someone has “good ki,” we feel safe around them. When “our ki doesn’t align,” we struggle to connect. It’s the energy that flows between people, that’s present in breath, in a glance, in gestures. It’s also something that can be cultivated—through martial arts, meditation, or a mindful lifestyle.

And what will be crucial to our continuing discussion of Reiki—気 (ki) is the energy "in between." Not just within us, not only around us—but in the space between bodies, minds, and emotions. It's something difficult to express in words, yet universally felt—when we enter a room and sense “something in the air,” when someone’s gaze soothes or disturbs us, when the presence of one person shifts the entire atmosphere. It is in this elusiveness that the power of ki lies—and that is precisely why, in Reiki philosophy, its role is so central.

霊気

Reiki

Duchowa energia życia

Let’s combine the two characters – “REIKI”

When we bring together the two characters – 霊 (rei) and 気 (ki) – we create a compound of particular significance: Reiki, or “spiritual life energy,” “supernatural force permeating the universe,” “subtle energy of harmony.” But it is not a mechanical energy measured in joules. It is rather something the Japanese feel instinctively—like a delicate stirring of air, the atmosphere in a room, an invisible thread connecting bodies, emotions, and souls (ki).

The character 霊 (rei) introduces the spiritual dimension—it refers to something that comes “from above”: mysterious, immaterial, often invisible, yet powerfully felt. It is a quality that inspires, cleanses, and guides—a nearly sacred presence that can be received and transmitted. Meanwhile, 気 (ki) is the energy of life, the breath, movement, and relationship. It is what circulates in the body, in nature, and between people. The union of these two ideas—spirituality and life force—expresses what, in Japanese thought, is the essence of existence: Reiki is the force that both arises from the depths of the universe and animates the smallest particles within us.

In literal terms, “Reiki” can be translated as “magnificent energy,” “inspired force,” or perhaps best: “divine breath.” But in spiritual practice—it is something even more complex. It is the openness to what is unseen. The readiness to receive a subtle presence that—like rain from the sky—can nourish the soul, calm the mind, and restore balance in the body. Reiki is not a religion or a dogma. It is a space in between—between word and silence, between touch and intention, between the physical and the spiritual. Let us look more closely…

First, let’s clarify the facts

Before we delve deeper into the world of Reiki—its symbolism, philosophy, and practice—it’s worth establishing a few facts. Without this, it's easy to fall into the trap of misunderstandings that have accumulated around this practice, especially in its Western interpretations. Reiki is neither a religion, nor magic, nor a “miraculously working” alternative to medicine. It is a subtle, yet profound practice of spiritual mindfulness, rooted in the specific history and culture of early 20th-century Japan. This is important—these are the facts. It’s worth remembering, because if you search “reiki” on Google, you’ll be met with a whole zoo of results—from philosophical essays, to pseudomedical gurus, to homeopathic trinket sellers. Many of those things have nothing to do with what Reiki truly is.

Its creator was Mikao Usui (1865–1926)—a man whose life unfolded during a period of dramatic transformation in Japan: modernization after centuries of isolation, fascination with the West, and intense spiritual searching amidst the chaos of modernity. It was in the 1920s, during the Taishō era, that Usui developed a method he called “Usui Reiki Ryōhō”—which translates as “Reiki therapy for the improvement of body and mind” (shinshin kaizen). This practice emerged from a broader Japanese phenomenon known as seishin ryōhō (psycho-spiritual therapies) and reijutsu (spiritual techniques)—then-popular approaches to health that combined meditation, autosuggestion, touch, energy, and spiritual seeking.

After Usui’s death, Reiki in Japan developed only briefly, mainly within the Usui Reiki Ryōhō Gakkai association. Later—overshadowed by war and growing skepticism toward forces that couldn’t be easily measured—the practice nearly vanished from the Japanese public sphere. And then, something paradoxical happened: Reiki survived and began to flourish… outside Japan. Passed on in Hawaii by Hawayo Takata, an American student of the Japanese master Hayashi, it grew in the United States and Europe as a form of alternative healing. By the 1980s and 1990s, it returned to Japan in a phenomenon known as “reverse importation”—a cultural re-import.

This context is crucial for distinguishing Reiki from many misconceptions. Reiki is not a religion—it requires no belief in particular deities, imposes no dogma, has no temples. While it uses spiritual language, it belongs to no specific cult. It is not magic—it doesn’t promise miracles, nor does it work by “force of will” or “spells.” And finally, Reiki is not medicine—it does not replace doctors or clinically treat disease. It is rather a practice of spiritual presence, which—through touch, intention, and mindfulness—allows a person to experience deeper harmony with themselves and the world. Its core is not “healing,” but connection—with one's own body, emotions, and perhaps something greater, which cannot be named, but can be felt.

The Philosophy of Reiki

Though in the Western world Reiki is often presented as a healing technique or “energy transmission,” its original meaning was quite different—and far deeper. For Mikao Usui, the creator of this practice, Reiki was not a method for “fixing bodies,” but a path anyone could take to approach the truth about themselves and the surrounding world. In his writings, the term shinshin kaizen—“improving body and spirit”—returns again and again. Healing was to be a byproduct, not a goal. The goal was self-knowledge, inner stillness, harmony—and attunement to life in its subtlest forms.

In Japanese philosophy—as well as in aesthetics and spirituality—the invisible, the unnamed, the in-between are of immense importance. This is precisely the space that Reiki symbolizes. It is not energy in the physics sense, but energy of relationship: between body and mind, person and nature, the mundane and the transcendent. Practicing Reiki, one does not “heal”—but learns to be present. It is the art of pausing in a world that races ahead; the art of listening to what is quiet, and sensing what is invisible.

In this sense, Reiki fits within the Japanese understanding of a spiritual path (what is a “path”? – see here: The Kanji “Path” (道, dō) – On the Road to Mastery, the Message is One: Patience)—akin to Zen practice, but also to concepts like shugyō (spiritual discipline) or kokoro (heart-mind). Usui used to say that the true essence of his teaching is acting with kindness toward others and gratitude toward life—virtues that are hard to attain without mindfulness and inner work. His approach resonates with the ideas of thinkers like Nitobe Inazō or Nishida Kitarō, who also tried to reconcile Eastern spirituality with modernity, without losing its depth.

Kotodama – The Spirit of Words

An exceptionally important role in the philosophy of Reiki is played by kotodama—the belief that words possess their own spiritual energy. When spoken with focus, words can stir something deep within both the individual and the world. This is why affirmations, symbolic signs, and principles hold such significance in Reiki. They are not merely techniques—they are tools for inner transformation. As Usui once wrote (paraphrased): “If your mind is calm and your heart pure, energy will flow naturally. You don’t need to do anything—except be present.”

Reiki, therefore, is a path. Not a system. Not a set of tools. A path of mindful living. A path of tenderness toward oneself and the world. A return to simple things: breath, hands, gratitude, kindness. In a world full of impersonal noise, Reiki reminds us that sometimes it is enough to be—to truly be—for everything to begin changing.

Perhaps such a description does not yet say much about Reiki, but in truth, its nature is rather elusive. Perhaps it will be easier to work with something more concrete—namely, the five fundamental principles of Reiki, known as:

靈氣五戒
Reiki Gokai

The Five Principles of Reiki

What are the Reiki Gokai principles?

The Five Reiki Principles, known as Gokai (五戒), were formulated by Mikao Usui as spiritual guidelines for daily practice. These are five simple sentences—short, yet immensely profound—which were meant to be recited morning and evening, with hands joined in the gesture of gasshō, as a form of meditation, mindfulness, and inner transformation.

Gokai grow from several deep streams of Japanese spiritual culture. Their language and form echo the ethical code of the samurai (bushidō)—rooted in self-discipline and virtue. At the same time, they are grounded in the Buddhist meditative practice, where emotional restraint and mindfulness are the path to awakening. Finally, one hears in them the echoes of the Confucian ideal of social harmony—gratitude, diligence, and respect for others.

But Gokai do not exist solely on an intellectual or rational level, within the logos—they are also kotodama, the “souls of words.” In Japanese tradition, every word carries energy. When repeated daily—not as a mechanical formula but as a mindful affirmation—the words of Gokai act as subtle spells: energetically transforming consciousness, purifying the mind, and shaping the heart. This practice is not about external rituals, but about the everyday alchemy of the inner world, which begins with language.

The Gokai principles are disarmingly simple sentences—and, unfortunately, very easy to misinterpret despite good intentions, especially if one tries to understand them through the lens of other (e.g., Western) cultural values.

0. 今日だけは

Kyo dake wa
Just for today

This phrase is the gateway to all the principles that follow. “Just for today” is not a request for temporary behavior. It is a point of focus—a reminder that life happens only now. In the spirit of Zen and the Japanese aesthetic that celebrates impermanence (mono no aware), the past no longer exists, and the future has not yet arrived. All that is real takes place in this one moment. The past, though it may linger in memory, is gone. The future may come, but it does not exist yet. We are left only with the present. This one, present sliver of time is all we have throughout our lives. And if we do not truly live the present moment—barely even notice it—what remains?

Thus, “Kyo dake wa” does not mean: “Try to be better just for today,” but rather: “Do not flee from life.” If you want to change—you can only do it now. If you want to love, forgive, let go, heal—you can only do so in this moment. It is a principle of radical presence that teaches that each day is a new beginning, regardless of what came before.

In a world overflowing with distractions, information overload, and projections of the future, the principle of “Kyo dake wa” is an act of spiritual resistance against the illusion of time. It is an invitation to return to the source—to the now, where the pulse of life beats. “Just for today” does not signify limitation. It means freedom: I don’t have to be perfect forever. It is enough that I am aware today.

1. 怒るな

Ikaru na
Do not be angry

Anger—怒 (ikari)—in Japanese writing combines 奴 (slave) and 心 (heart). To be in anger, therefore, means to be a slave to one’s emotions, to be dominated, to lose control. And that is precisely what anger is: at first it smolders beneath the surface, then it erupts, harming not only those caught in its flames but also the one who carries it—often in ways completely contrary to that person’s intentions or will, even against them.

But this principle does not say: “Do not feel anger.” That would be unrealistic and inhuman. It says: “Do not let anger rule you.” In the spirit of Zen—do not suppress emotions, but see them, acknowledge them, allow them to pass. Anger can be a sign of harm, pain, boundaries—it is worth listening to. But holding onto it, nurturing it—is like drinking poison hoping it will harm someone else. Zen teaches (very much like Marcus Aurelius did in another time and place) that often it is enough to rationally observe the emergence of an emotion—not to fight it, suppress it, or drown it out—but to dryly acknowledge its presence and observe it from a distance—and then it loses its grip on us.

In the Buddhist tradition—from which Usui also drew—one of the greatest obstacles on the spiritual path is dōshin (動心)—a disturbed heart. And anger is one of the most powerful disturbances. The antidote? Compassion. Jihi—gentleness toward oneself, understanding toward others. Expressed in entirely different words and from another angle—yet conveying the same truth—Miyamoto Musashi once wrote in the Dokkodō: “Think lightly of yourself and deeply of the world.” This is not a simplistic invitation to humility in the European, Christian sense. Far from it. It is much more closely related to the Ikaru na of the Reiki Gokai.

“Do not be angry” is not a prohibition—it is an invitation: not to feed the fire within, but to become water. Not to become passive in the face of harm—but to act with resolve, without hatred; to speak truth without violence; and to walk through life without the burden that burns the heart from within. For to think lightly of oneself is precisely to observe one’s emotions—accepting them, but through the strength of observation, stripping them of the power to control our actions.

2. 心配すな
Shinpai suna
Do not worry

Worry—shinpai—is the shadow cast by the future onto the present. In Japanese, the character 心 (kokoro – heart, mind) intertwined with 配 (haeru – to distribute, to scatter) creates an image of a heart scattered in all directions, a heart preoccupied with everything—except what is here and now. Shinpai is not care or concern—it is the endless circling of what we do not know, what we cannot control, and what may never even happen.

Usui wrote his principles during a time of great uncertainty in Japan: earthquakes, social upheaval, the collapse of old values. And yet, amid all this turbulence, he called for calm. Because shinpai suna is not a call to indifference—but to deep trust. Trust in oneself, in the world, in the idea that even if the future is unknown, we can live through it with an open heart, not a clenched fist.

In Zen Buddhism, there is the concept of mushin—“no-mind”—a state in which we do not cling to thoughts, fears, or expectations. In that state, we are not paralyzed by the future but are free to act in accordance with what the moment brings. That is shinpai suna—do not worry, do not feed the fear that has not yet come to pass.

And one more thing: to not worry is to trust. Not blindly—but wisely. To trust that life is bigger than our plans. That sometimes, when something cannot be controlled—it is best to stop trying to control it. Accepting uncertainty is not surrender—it is a step toward freedom. Toward ceasing to divide the heart (shinpai) into a million scenarios, and instead, simply being. Here. Now. Fully.

3. 感謝して
Kansha shite
Be grateful

Gratitude in Japanese thought is not something that arises from politeness or cultural obligation. In the context of Reiki and Usui’s philosophy, kansha is a deep practice—a way of seeing the world with an open heart, even when life gives us no reason to smile. Kansha shite does not mean “you must be grateful,” but rather: “practice gratitude so that you may learn to see more than just reasons to complain.” It is an act that does not necessarily change the world—but it changes how we see the world, and our own life.

Through gratitude, we begin to notice what we usually overlook: morning light, the warmth of tea, someone’s gaze. Even difficult things that once seemed to be nothing but suffering begin to reveal their meaning—like stones on a path that may wound the feet, but nonetheless lead us forward. Gratitude does not deny pain—but it allows us to see that life has more colors than just black and white. And that often the most precious things come quietly, unassumingly—like a breath we don’t notice until it is gone.

Perhaps in feeling gratitude for a fleeting moment, we may sense the melancholy of mono no aware? Gratitude teaches us to value the moment all the more for its transience. And that, in turn, helps us to live “Just for today” (Kyo dake wa)—as we can see, the Reiki Gokai principles work together—they are different aspects of the same philosophy.

業をはげめ
Gyō o hageme
Work diligently

In Japanese, the word gyō (業) does not refer solely to work in the occupational sense. It is a deeper concept—referring to both action and spiritual practice. In Buddhism, gyō is daily activity that serves to purify the mind, shape character, and cultivate spiritual maturity. Work—even the ordinary, everyday kind—is not merely a means of earning. It can be a path to inner harmony, when performed with mindfulness, dedication, and heart.

Usui does not say: “achieve success”—he says: “do your work diligently.” Whether you are a craftsman, a teacher, or a caregiver—what matters is the quality of attention you bring to what you do. In a world of distraction and haste, diligence becomes a form of meditation. In a world of expectations, quiet consistency becomes a virtue. This principle teaches not only action but presence in action.

人に親切に
Hito ni shinsetsu ni
Be kind to others

The last of the Gokai principles sounds simple—but its power lies in that very simplicity. Shinsetsu is not just politeness—it is empathy, understanding, and care. In the world of Reiki, it is the principle closest to the heart, because it pertains to our relationships with others—how ki flows between us.

To be kind not when others are watching, but when no one sees. Not only to those who are kind to us—but to those who suffer, who are unpleasant, who are lost. Such kindness is not weakness—it is a strength that eases tension, heals wounds, and forges connection. As Usui said: “True kindness is not found in grand gestures, but in how we treat those who are easy to ignore.”

It is also a revolution—quiet, modest, but profound. In a world full of fear, anger, and loneliness, kindness may be the purest form of spiritual practice.

The Zeroth Principle?

You may be wondering—it was said there would be five principles, and yet here there seem to be six. Where does this extra line come from: 今日だけは (Kyo dake wa – “just for today”), the so-called zeroth principle? Is it a separate principle? Or an introduction? The answer is: both. In the tradition of Reiki transmission, Kyo dake wa is not counted as the sixth principle—but as the gateway to the others. It is not so much a command as a key that opens the door. Now, place “just for today” before each of the following principles.

The five Gokai principles are five ways of being—but they only make sense when we apply them to the present moment. “Just for today, do not be angry. Just for today, do not worry. Just for today, be grateful…”—without this phrase, each principle might dissolve into a distant “someday.” But Usui reminds us: spirituality does not happen yesterday or tomorrow—it happens here and now. Today is the only thing we truly have. Today is the only stage on which we can live our life.

Conclusion

Why is it worth practicing Reiki? Perhaps because it is not something you must “believe in”—but something you can feel. Reiki does not promise miracles, but it teaches a miraculous way of seeing the ordinary. It is not a path of escape from life, but a return to it—a return to oneself, to one’s body, breath, emotions. In a world full of noise, intrusive messages, and runaway ambition, Reiki offers something radically simple: pause, place your hands on your heart, and ask—what do I feel right now? What in me is calling out to be healed?

Reiki is the art of gentleness—toward oneself, others, and reality. It is the practice of presence that requires no incense or rituals, though it excludes none. Intention is enough. A gesture is enough. A moment of silence is enough. When Mikao Usui created his method, he was not building a religion—he was drawing a map back to the source.

And here, the circle completes itself: 霊 – rei – the spiritual rain descending from the heavens, a subtle thread that connects us with the invisible. 気 – ki – the energy of breath, the life-force that flows between us and through us. Together, they form Reiki – a path of daily return to harmony, a path each of us can walk in our own way.

You do not need to believe. You do not need to understand.
It is enough to begin—just for today.

Perfection is not required. Presence is enough.

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"Strong Japanese Women"

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    未開    ソビエライ

 An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)

Personal motto:

"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)

  Mike Soray

   (aka Michał Sobieraj)

未開    ソビエライ

 An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)

Personal motto:

"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)

Mike Soray

(aka Michał Sobieraj)

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