October 13, 2026
Reiki
Reiju: What We Know and What We Don’t Know
What Reiju means, how its transmission has evolved, and what we can —and cannot— say about its history, its effects and lineage in Reiki.
In a quote often attributed to Nelson Mandela, it is said: “In life, you either win or you learn.” Yet this kind of quote tends to bring comfort and certainty when things are going well, but becomes far more difficult to accept during periods of deep suffering or failure.
In the world of sports, the phrase is often expressed differently: “In life, we lose far more than we win — and in sports, even more so,” as a way of teaching that defeats will outnumber victories.
Regardless of social status, age, beliefs, or background, every human being experiences moments of loss, failure, or desolation. Some are very real, such as when a project fails to move forward or when a relationship in which we had placed great hopes comes to an end. Others exist only in our minds, such as when the dreams we once saw so clearly drift away beyond return.
Both bring sadness and frustration. And many of them — especially those we continue clinging to as something that still could have been — create an additional layer of suffering.
The truth is that no one escapes these moments because they are part of life itself and of human nature: we think, project, dream, and choose paths that sometimes lead us where we hoped to go and sometimes do not.
Yet there are periods in life when not only a project or an illusion collapses, but when everything seems to fall apart. Everything. These are difficult, uncertain, and deeply painful times. Some people manage to endure them with a certain stoicism; others take refuge in alcohol, drugs, work, social media, sex, or video games. Some write about it. Others sing about it. Others simply cry.
Nor is it unusual for the darkest thoughts to begin occupying much of the mind: despair, guilt, resentment, or hatred. Many people even begin thinking about disappearing or ending their lives.
This reality — which we tend to ignore while everything appears stable — is experienced, sooner or later, by every human being. And it is almost always experienced in silence and solitude.
When we hear about a forest fire, we usually react with sadness and helplessness. It pains us to watch a forest burn.
The loss is real; it can be seen and smelled. What was once green and full of life is now fire, and tomorrow it will be ash. Ashes of a desolate grey that awaken no sympathy at all. If we had the power, we would probably never allow a forest to burn. And with that seemingly compassionate decision, we would end up killing it.
Natural low-intensity forest fires — not the uncontrolled fires caused or intensified by human action and climate change — fulfil an essential ecological role in the renewal of ecosystems. Fire clears accumulated undergrowth, accelerates the recycling of nutrients, allows certain seeds to germinate, and supports biodiversity.
The fire that destroys everything also makes possible a new beginning.
Our tendency toward comfort and conformity is not merely a moral weakness; it is also profoundly human. We seek what is familiar because it reduces uncertainty, fear, and exhaustion.
That is why many people remain for years in unsatisfying situations, exhausted relationships, or lives that long ago ceased to feel like their own. The familiar offers a false sense of safety.
The periods in which everything falls apart act like forest fires that sweep through without asking permission. And we feel them like fire against the skin.
But perhaps that very collapse is preparing us for a deep regeneration.
Fortunately, our nature is also resilient.
Human resilience is our capacity to adapt, recover, and grow in the face of adversity, trauma, or drastic change. Just as a forest is reborn after a fire, human beings possess an extraordinary psychological and emotional flexibility.
When everything falls apart, we are rarely able to think clearly. The conclusions we reach during those moments are usually deeply contaminated by pain and fear. Yet when life stabilises again and we look back, we often discover that within those periods of uncertainty lay the roots of many of the things we value and appreciate today.
Yes, we tend to resist movement, to cling, to remain where we are. And sooner or later, that leads us toward collapse, because the old must eventually make space for the new.
But we are also deeply resilient. And that capacity allows us not only to survive, but to build a life that is more conscious, more authentic, and perhaps more human.
When everything seems to be falling apart, life may actually be making space for something new. It destroys what has become obsolete, brings to an end what had already ended long ago, and creates space — vast space — for what is already beginning to emerge.
When everything collapses, something also begins to be built.
And it is precisely during those moments of pain and uncertainty that, if we choose not to escape and instead remain present, we gain not only understanding, but also empathy, serenity, depth, and wisdom.
Human beings pursue stability, certainty, and permanence with great determination, yet we grow through uncertainty, instability, and everything that inevitably changes.
Fortunately, life alternates constantly between both states. Because although suffering may transform us, suffering remains difficult.
And no one enjoys suffering.
The people who adapt best to major crises and changes are often those who manage to keep stable the only thing they can truly sustain: themselves.
In spiritual practice — whether religious, such as Christianity or Islam, or more philosophical, such as yoga, Reiki, or Zen — great emphasis is always placed on daily practice. Because practice itself, far more than belief or momentary inspiration, is what provides stability when everything appears to be falling apart.
Once, while speaking with some meditation and Reiki students about the importance of motivation in sustaining daily practice, a Zen monk friend of mine who had attended the class said something I never forgot.
After all the students had left, he approached me and said:
“You place a great deal of emphasis on motivation, and that is fine, but it carries a danger: it changes constantly. Sometimes it is there, and sometimes it is not.”
I asked him then how one could maintain a practice throughout an entire lifetime.
“Routine. Habit,” he replied simply.
I invited him to continue.
“Jordi,” he said, looking at me with great compassion, “I do not wake up every day at five in the morning because I feel motivated to meditate and enter into communion with the divine. I wake up at five because that is the time I wake up to meditate. Nothing more. It is what I have done for the last thirty years, and what I will continue doing. I do not question it. If it depended on motivation, many days I would hesitate, and many others I would not practise at all.”
Daily practices — praying, meditating, giving oneself a Reiki treatment, walking in nature, or simply drinking tea in silence at dawn — may appear small and insignificant, yet they support our lives in the same way beams support a roof.
The more consistency there is in healthy habits for the mind, body, and spirit, the less devastating the moment will be when everything falls apart. Because routines are chosen by us; the necessary changes of life are not.
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