Page 56 - The Art of Learning by Josh Waitzkin_Neat plip book

losses into wins, and I conveyed strategies for ho w to do thi s. Sometimes all the
kids needed was to take two or three deep br eaths or spl ash cold water on the ir

faces to snap out of bad states of mind. Other times, more dramatic actions
were called for—if I felt dull during a diffi lt struggl e, I woul d occasiona lly
leave the playing hall and sprint fifty yards out side. Thi s may ha ve seemed
strange to spectators, but it served as a complete physiological flushing, and I

returned, al beit a bit sweaty, i n a br and- new state of mind.
As an eighteen-year-old, I had not yet refined my metho do logy for sna ppi ng
into pure presence—this system is the subj ect of the chapter, Building Your
Trigger, in Part III—but I understood that avoidi ng the rippl e effect of

compounding errors had broad appl ication. Then somethi ng hap pe ne d in my
life that drove this rule into my soul .
It was my habit to walk the two miles to P.S. 116 every Wedne sda y,
planning my class and enjoying the city. One fall afterno on I was strolling east

along 33rd Street, lost in thought and headed toward the school. Everyone who
has grown up in Manhattan knows that it is impo rtant to look bo th ways
before crossing the street. Cars run light s and bi cyclists ride the wrong way
down one-way streets. Drivers are used to narrowly avoidi ng bus tling midt own

crowds, and most New Yorkers are unt roubl ed by the cacopho ny of sirens ,
blaring horns, and taxis speeding ten inches in front of our noses. Thi ngs
usually ow nicely, b ut the margin f or error is slim.
There I stood, within the maelstrom of the midt own rus h, waiting for the

light and thinking about the ideas that I woul d soon be di scussing with my
students. A pretty young woman stood a few feet away from me, wearing
headphones and moving to the mus ic. I noticed her because I coul d he ar the
drumbeat. She wore a grey knee-lengt h ski rt, a black sweater, and the typi cal

Manhattan office worker’s white sneaker s for the trek home. Sudde nl y she
stepped right into the oncoming traffic. I gues s she was conf us ed by the cha otic
one-way street, because I remember her looki ng the wrong way do wn
Broadway. Immediately, as she stepped forward, looking right, a bi cycle bo re

down on her from the left. The bi ker lur ched away at the last second and ga ve
her a solid but harmless bump. In my memory, time stops right he re. Thi s was
the critical moment in the woman’s life. She coul d hav e walked away uns cathe d
if she had just stepped back onto the pavement, but ins tead she tur ne d and

cursed the fast-pedaling bicyclist.