This was partly because external circumstances were squeezing out the time I had to practice juggling. But more than that I think I’d got to a plateau in my learning, stopping at the thrill of achieving the first three ball ‘juggulation’.  Except I wasn’t just resting on my laurels.  I couldn’t work out how to move beyond the first juggulation to the wonder of a continuous juggling flow.

Gelb and Buzan recognise this as a common problem.  Here’s their solution to the challenge of getting stuck at the end of the first juggulation.

"Having achieved your first juggulation, celebrate and be prepared to move on.  The secret is to keep the emphasis on throwing.  In order to progress, you must be willing to start dropping the balls again, raising yourself to a higher level of chaos."

So that’s what I’m doing now.  I realised that I was kind of attached to the progress I’d made in the three-ball juggulation and didn’t want to see the balls falling on the floor again.  I’ve got to let that go – or stop where I am.  I realised that in some way I’m stopping myself and I need to find a way to break, to disrupt, to interrupt that block with the repeated, continuing command to throw, throw, throw.

Believing that after a while the catching will take care of itself.

I know, I know, it doesn’t take Einstein to read and apply the lessons from the art of juggling as a metaphor for life.  In fact, I’m constantly amazed by the relevance of each learning point for other areas of life, of work, of learning where I’ve got temporarily stuck.

The trick is deciding you’re not going to stay there.  Not stopping after the first juggulation.  Moving on when you’re stuck.  Resolving to keep throwing the balls.

This approach has a number of advantages, not least your ability to move up and down the learning curve.  If you start dropping all the balls again or throwing the balls wildly around the room you just step back and practice the exercise that went before.  It stops you from seeing juggling as an ‘all or nothing’ thing, that you can either do, or not do.  It’s a set of exercises, a process, a rhythm, a dance, it’s something that can be practiced and learned.  Breaking it down in this way stops you from giving up, declaring that you were right all along to say you couldn’t juggle.  There’s always somewhere else to go to learn – back a step, or sideways, experimenting with a different technique, or working out what’s happened to your throw.

It’s also worth tuning into what you’re telling yourself.  The words in the book are all about fun and curiosity and that’s been transmitted into the learning experience – it seems funny, not embarassing or ridiculous when a throw goes wrong.  The focus is on how you can improve it, not how dumb you were to drop the balls.  Then there’s what you tell yourself as you juggle: the instructions are to throw not catch.  I’ve also experimented with different words for ‘throw’ (like ‘arc’, or ‘fly’, or ‘release’) and counting (in different languages!).  It’s all about finding what works for you, and what gets you into the learning state.

The other change in the self talk is the story I’m telling myself about juggling.  It’s no longer a choice of narratives: being a ‘can juggle’ person or a ‘can’t juggle’ person.  I’ve become a person who is learning to juggle.

Anyway, so far so good.  I’m buying their argument that there’s lessons to be learned from the art of juggling for the wider lessons of life – and having just achieved my first three ball ‘juggulation’ there’s no way I’m stopping the learning now…