Beginner's Mind

The Art of Learning

A first

Last night I went out to my first ever Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu training. For me this was a radical first. I went in there knowing nothing. I didn’t know how to tie my white belt around the Gi, nor the custom of stepping onto the mats. I was struck by the sheer weight of my ignorance. The known unknowns were dumbfounding, let alone the unknown ones.

The “basic skills” session was full of jargon I’d not heard before, body positions that I’d never been in. The elementary closed-guard position brought with it proximity to another man’s crotch that - even as a footballer - felt novel.

Encouragement in the warm up went a long way. I practiced rolling forwards over one shoulder then the other, scooting my hips out side wards while lying on my back. Body movements that felt new, awkward and humbling.

Then came the open mat session. An hour of freestyle beat-downs on the new boys. What a remarkable experience to find yourself utterly helpless as you are manipulated into submission.

And yet, the experience was totally exhilarating. It was a test of the outer-reaches of my capabilities; a willing but nervous foray into the dark periphery of my potential.

The sense of accomplishment I received from being humbled has made me hungry to immerse myself in the learning process.

Fortuitous to have found a BJJ gym with low ego, high openness and good teachers, I’ll be back; eager to pay down my ignorance as fast as possible. Hungry to immerse myself in the learning process.

The art of learning

A wonderful companion over the past fortnight has been the audiobook to The Art of Learning written and read by Josh Waitzkin. Waitzkin was a child chess prodigy whose rise through the global chess ranks formed the basis for a chess film called Searching for Bobby Fischer. Waitzkin’s success over the 64-square board, and as the acting protagonist in the film, heralded in a new era for chess popularity in America.

Having reached international master level in Chess, he faltered under the weight of expectation and attention, finding that success impeded his relationship to chess. He describes how fame caused him to start being aware of himself playing chess as if watching from third person, rather than in flow. He eventually moved away from Chess and channelled his love of learning into other disciplines. First Tai Chi, then Jiu-Jitsu and Hydro-foiling. He became masterful at each over decade-long engagements with the craft.

He rejects suggestions of genius, though it is clear that he has an incredible mind. He claims that his mastery is reached as a result of going all in on the process of learning: the application of mind, body and spirit to the art of the chosen practice.

His book is a meditation on the art of learning, which can be reduced to 1) intense presence 2) trial and error 3) embracing discomfort.

It is a contemplative and practical process that requires you to sustain the humility of the beginner as you go deep into the chosen domain. Learning brings new mental frameworks and body mechanics, which you begin to internalise and refine through repetition, until you reach a harmony that he calls flow.

As intimidating as his mastery of many domains may seem, the central message is one of hopeful action. His Tai Chi master would say: if I can do it, so can you. The humble student accepts that the burden of mastery lies at their own feet. There is no predetermined accomplishment, just an invitation to slowly and persistently bridge the gap of potential.

Pointing to somebody’s genius, preternatural talent, or genetic inheritance as the reason for their success does everybody a disservice. It denies that person the work required to get to where they are and it implies that our deficiency of said quality is the reason we can’t get there. It absolves us from the responsibility of trying.

Embracing change

One of the most liberating ideas I’ve encountered in recent months is that of a Growth Mindset. The premise is that everything, from our most basic traits to technical abilities, can be developed through dedication and hard work. In other words, deficiencies are not innate - they are skill deficits. This applies to drawing or singing as much as it does to the cultivation of “core traits” like courage and discernment. A courageous person has learned to exercise the skill of courage, and a person lacking in discernment has yet to cultivate that quality.

Imagine that. Anything you seek is just a skill to be learned. The only thing between that and your current capacity is focus and persistence.

This doesn’t deny the presence of innate qualities like gifts or talents. It merely says that they are only a starting point. It is true that the pursuit of a swimming gold medal would benefit from Phelpian lungs, wing span and ankle joints. But even those qualities are not sufficient for the desired result.

A growth mindset fosters a love of the learning process. A love of learning reorients us away from outcome based assessments of our capacity to act in the world. Whereas a Fixed Mindset presumes successes or failures are a reflection of an inherent (fixed) potential and dissuades us from seeking growth and change.

Our past successes and failures become determinative of what we imagine ourselves capable of (or not). It is easier to say I’m not good at drawing, say, than to reckon with the fact of having spent less than 5 hours in your life drawing.

“But a tiger never changes stripes”? Sure. There’s wisdom in that. A growth mindset assessment of that would suggest it’s because the tiger never tried. Most likely that’s due to the great inertia against change and the shear difficulty of applying passion, commitment and dedication to counteracting the grooves of past experience.

This idea has been on my mind a lot recently. When I first encountered it, I assumed it was for those dissatisfied with themselves and with a desire to change fundamentally: to become somebody they’re not. But that was itself a Fixed Mindset.

As a whole, dynamic and resourceful person - how is it possible to become anything other than yourself? In seeking to ascribe a confined set of characteristics to our Self, we limit our personhood. Who I am is more essential, expansive and transcendent than the set of traits and interests that I’ve cultivated in my life so far. A tiger’s stripes may be the result of the ecology to which they have evolved, they are not determinative of how they learn to move through and hunt in the world.

Our past is a set of experiences and impressions that have come about as we engaged with the world around. It is not a set guide to how we can be.

The concept of neuro-plasticity has had its moment in the sun, moving from quasi-science to increased legitimacy. Its central observation is this: our brains are shaped by our experiences, which differ every day. It follows that you can change the wiring of your brain by changing your day-to-day experiences. Note the two directional flow here between matter and mind.

At a time of change in my life, I don’t want to rely on the way I’ve done things. I’m not satisfied with the results of the things I’ve been doing: you can’t expect different results from the same processes. In trying to envision my desired future, it’s easy to confuse the past as a guidebook for what should be.

But the past doesn’t really exist. Seen differently, it is just a story of what I’ve so far experienced. Within it lie gems of truth, things I’ve loved and conditions in which I’ve thrived; memories that form the basis of my identity. It is not prescriptive of what’s to come.

A career transition or personal upheaval of any kind is a perfect context in which to adopt an openness to skill-acquisition. It is a perspective that blows open the possibility of what we can do and the true range of who we are.

The next job, field of study, friendship or romantic relationship will only be discovered through experimentation. Experimentation requires an openness to change and the humble joy of beginning again. And again, and again.