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…