“[To create] interior conditions for exterior achievements…[Do not aim] to perform a move successfully but, rather, to discover a ‘consistent feeling’…an index of interiority.”
~Duncan Wall, The Ordinary Acrobat, page 86.
~Duncan Wall, The Ordinary Acrobat, page 86.
In the last few weeks I’ve had the chance to introduce a few friends to slacklining and balance pipe. It was rewarding not only to share my passion, but also in watching my friends’ first steps—shaky uncertain steps—and to remember: to remember what it was like three years ago when I was just beginning, to remember how hard it was, to remember those first victories, and to remember those early lessons.
Honestly, my first experiences slacklining were highly disappointing: I’d wanted to try for longer than I could remember, I’d been in love with the idea since I was a child. I wanted to walk back and forth free from the ground. I wanted to turn and kneel, jump and dance. The reality: I could hardly stand up, let alone walk; when I put my foot on the line it shook wildly, and the more I told my foot to hold still, the more wildly the line oscillated.
Plenty of things in my life have come easy; I’ve just done them—no fuss, no muss, I just went ahead and did it. This, obviously, was not going to be one of those things: rope walking is a slowly learnt skill, often with very little visible success early on, which was—and is—a difficult thing for a perfectionist like myself to swallow. This has forced me to radically change how I define success—because if success is never wavering, flailing or falling, I’ve been a complete failure ever since that first time I tried to stand on a slackline.
Knowing the pitfalls of my perfectionist tendencies, I decided to keep it simple: I decided that mounting (stepping up) and getting my other foot on the line to take one additional step was a “success.” If I could do that much consistently, the rest would come. It was a goal that focused me on persistence aimed at consistency and proper technique, an ideal small goal that lays the foundation for the broader and bigger goals.
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That minimal goal also kept me motivated—a failed attempt took less than 10 seconds (prep, breath, step up, flail, fall, return), and I could immediately recommit and try again to achieve a success. For more than two weeks I kept that goal, slacklining almost every day. I frequently fell off before I ever got my other foot onto the line, but I got better. Often enough I went more than a step; occasionally I even went the length of the line. That was bonus; one solid step was success.
Those simple goals that redefine success as something readily achievable and build up naturally to bigger successes really do work. After weeks of sticking to my one step goal, the day came when the line shook under my foot, I told it to stop…and it did. It was a magical moment. I hope to be present someday when that moment happens for a friend of mine so I can see their faces. And you friends are always welcome to invite yourselves along for a balance session—and no worries about judgments on my part if you’re awkward and fall off constantly. I’ve been there. I’ve done that—and quite thoroughly. I remember.
I’ve tried to hold on to that early lesson even as I’ve progressed. Sometimes to keep myself motivated, I have to focus simply on putting in the time, and trying to find that consistent feeling, rather than focusing on any readily visible or measurable definition of success. Suddenly all those clichés about “finding joy in the journey” make so much more sense. I balance because I love trying as much as I love the capstone achievements. Success has been redefined as persistence, enjoying the practice, and finding that index of interiority—making my balance internal and instinctive.
Honestly, my first experiences slacklining were highly disappointing: I’d wanted to try for longer than I could remember, I’d been in love with the idea since I was a child. I wanted to walk back and forth free from the ground. I wanted to turn and kneel, jump and dance. The reality: I could hardly stand up, let alone walk; when I put my foot on the line it shook wildly, and the more I told my foot to hold still, the more wildly the line oscillated.
Plenty of things in my life have come easy; I’ve just done them—no fuss, no muss, I just went ahead and did it. This, obviously, was not going to be one of those things: rope walking is a slowly learnt skill, often with very little visible success early on, which was—and is—a difficult thing for a perfectionist like myself to swallow. This has forced me to radically change how I define success—because if success is never wavering, flailing or falling, I’ve been a complete failure ever since that first time I tried to stand on a slackline.
Knowing the pitfalls of my perfectionist tendencies, I decided to keep it simple: I decided that mounting (stepping up) and getting my other foot on the line to take one additional step was a “success.” If I could do that much consistently, the rest would come. It was a goal that focused me on persistence aimed at consistency and proper technique, an ideal small goal that lays the foundation for the broader and bigger goals.
Those simple goals that redefine success as something readily achievable and build up naturally to bigger successes really do work. After weeks of sticking to my one step goal, the day came when the line shook under my foot, I told it to stop…and it did. It was a magical moment. I hope to be present someday when that moment happens for a friend of mine so I can see their faces. And you friends are always welcome to invite yourselves along for a balance session—and no worries about judgments on my part if you’re awkward and fall off constantly. I’ve been there. I’ve done that—and quite thoroughly. I remember.
I’ve tried to hold on to that early lesson even as I’ve progressed. Sometimes to keep myself motivated, I have to focus simply on putting in the time, and trying to find that consistent feeling, rather than focusing on any readily visible or measurable definition of success. Suddenly all those clichés about “finding joy in the journey” make so much more sense. I balance because I love trying as much as I love the capstone achievements. Success has been redefined as persistence, enjoying the practice, and finding that index of interiority—making my balance internal and instinctive.
