My early juggling went something like this: OK, I’m throwing one ball. When we start out with a skill like juggling, he suggested, novices pay attention to everything. The neuroscientist David Eagleman, who has researched people’s perception of time, offered me a compelling explanation of this slowing. The pattern was as clear as skywriting the balls seemed to hang in the air.
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As you sometimes hear a professional athlete describe it, I felt as though I had more time with the balls. Over time, she said, juggling would come to seem slower. Then she wanted me to reel off three of those throws, but let the balls simply fall. First, Wolf asked me to just throw a ball, with a relatively high arc, from one hand to the other. I could now keep the three scarves aloft for a number of repetitions, or what jugglers call runs. Good jugglers can do it blindfolded.īack in my living room, I was having better luck with the scarves. This has been confirmed by studies in which most of a juggler’s vision was blocked, except for a thin slice up near the parabola of the throwing arc, and they juggled just fine. Jugglers look to the apex of where things are thrown-that external focus again-and only ever have a peripheral sense of all those objects in flight. In juggling, unlike most sports, you don’t actually want to keep your eyes on the balls. F stands for the time a ball spends in flight D is the “dwell time,” or how much time it spends in the hand N is the number of balls H is the number of hands and V, for “vacant,” is how much time a hand spends empty. *Shannon even expressed juggling as a formula: (F + D)H = (V + D)N. We know, in our heads, that it’s broken, but we can’t help thinking, in our bodies, that it’s not. It’s ready for the escalator it’s predicted it.
That’s because your brain has trained itself, through many repetitions. When you first get on an escalator that has stopped working, you gingerly take a few steps. Our cerebellum has “canceled” the sensory input, suppressed neurons. But when we try to tickle ourselves, nothing happens, because we already know what it’s going to feel like. We trip on the sidewalk, our brain gets this news 100 milliseconds later, and we accusingly stare at the offending crack. When they fail, we look for explanations. These predictions help us get through daily life. Whatever we see now is actually about 100 milliseconds ago for the motor domain.” “Your brain receives feedback about what you’re doing, and that takes time-about 80 to 100 milliseconds,” he told me. We don’t have to think much about it, because our brain, running on virtual autopilot, is constantly making predictions-and most of its predictions are true.Īs Pablo Celnik, the genial Argentine-born director of Johns Hopkins University’s Human Brain Physiology and Stimulation Lab, told me, the brain does this for efficiency’s sake, but also because of an inherent time lag. When we become skilled at something, it becomes automatic. “The trick,” as Masters has described it, “is getting people to learn to move without knowing that they’re learning.” To learn to walk well, they’re going to have to learn implicitly.
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They must relearn how to walk, but because they’re self-conscious of how they now walk, they think about the mechanics of walking, which only makes it look more mechanical. People who have had a stroke, for instance, often suffer from an “asymmetrical gait,” or a limp. When we do try to think about an “overlearned” skill like walking, we’re likely to perform worse, under the theory of “reinvestment,” as proposed by the motor-learning expert Rich Masters. The problem with beginners is that they’re always thinking about themselves doing the skill. “The key to learning juggling,” she said, “is not thinking.” Wolf didn’t want me to think of the catches, either if I just kept throwing to the corners, my hands would move to where they needed to be for the catch. Don’t think of the overall pattern you’re throwing just throw. “I can do a bit of mind reading when I teach people to juggle,” Wolf said, “and I can tell you’re thinking of this as a pattern.” Just throw to the corners, she reiterated. This quickly became overwhelming, and my flurry of scarves looked as if I were frenetically ransacking a bargain bin at Macy’s. Then she wanted me to keep repeating the process. Next, she wanted me to throw and then catch the scarves, once. I did, and the scarves fluttered to the floor. As I held two scarves in my right hand and one in my (dominant) left, she asked me to simply throw the scarves, one after the other, to the top corners of an imaginary box positioned over my head.
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