“I’ve been practicing my juggling every day, Jerry, but I feel like I need to do more tricks.”

The books warned me this would happen. At first, I was so excited, and intimidated, by the process that I didn’t think it would.  The idea of just juggling seemed so far off that I imagined that once I could actually do it I’d be able to spend hours throwing balls in the air in the old cascade pattern, never getting bored, delighting in the exercise of my new superpower.

Fast forward to October 2024.  It’s been almost 10 and a half months since I first picked up a set of juggling balls and started to throw them into the air.  I can’t say I’ve “mastered” the cascade pattern, but when I do throw juggling balls into the air there’s no telling how long I’ll go before I drop them–a hundred throws or more.  I’ve added little twists to make things more difficult–kneeling on my knees while juggling, disrupting my balance on purpose.  I’ve even started to throw balls in the air with one hand, creating a swirl of two balls to interrupt the cascade pattern.  And I’ve swapped out regular juggling balls for the more whimsical, and capricious, dry erasers This, That, and The Other Thing.  These are are more lightweight and irregularly shaped, and have a tendency to fly off into space with (I imagine) a mischievous cackle.  

Jerry demonstrated a simple trick–when I first looked at it I thought he was throwing one ball in the air more or less at random, disrupting the cascade pattern slightly only to return to it.  Seemed easy enough–but when I tried to replicate it he said I was doing it wrong.  Then he took This and That in one hand, juggling them in one hand only clockwise instead of counterclockwise.  I tried to do what he did and felt immediately that this was going to be more difficult than I’d thought.  My arms, my eyes, my whole sense of balance (proprioception, they call it) felt off. I recognized a familiar feeling–not frustration, yet (that comes after a few minutes of trying something and persistently, maddeningly almost doing it right only for The Other Thing to crash into another juggling ball and fly off behind a bookshelf) but a sense of futility.  How am I gonna do that?

So, for the next night’s practice, I took two juggling balls in my left hand (my dominant hand) and tried again.  Immediate failure.  Try again.  Immediate…except the ball didn’t fly quite as far this time.  Try again.  I managed to a least throw and catch once, before the juggling balls smashed into each other.  Try again.  After a few minutes of this I was able to complete a few throws with my left hand, tried to switch to my right…and the ball flew off into space, mocking me.

After about 2 bouts of practice I can at least see the light, the possibility of perfecting this new wrinkle.  The magic, as with juggling itself, seems to come when you push yourself to the brink of drop-kicking your materials as far away from you as you can, continue for another minute or so, and then quit for the day.  The next day you’ll find that the trick, the art, the skill you wanted to learn comes just a bit more easily to you.  Then rinse, repeat, and progress.

There will definitely be false starts, feelings of regression in the midst of all this.  Sometimes I’ll be tired.  Sometimes The Other Thing will be in rare form, performing tricks of his own without your permission.  But soon enough you’ll find yourself asking: What ELSE can I do?  How can I make this more difficult?  And if you learn a bit more with each act of frustration, each minor success will be a voice in your ear, almost more infuriating than your failure.  “This has become too easy,” it says. “Go out there, and make it harder.”