In his book, “Angry White Pyjamas,” the author Robert Twigger recounts his decision to throw himself into an intensive, one year aikido course at a center in Tokyo known for training instructors. [A small spoiler alert follows.] At one point during his training Robert has to pass a test by fighting a fellow student. He is convinced he has failed the exam but the lesson he came away with was not the precision of his execution but his attitude; his attitude from the moment he walked on conveyed to all that he truly owned the mat.
This story came to mind when the I watched a short video by Vanessa Wasche, a Speaking Coach (you can find her writing on Medium). In her video Vanessa speaks about habitual tools, and gives the example of the pressure a basketball player faces when stepping up to the free throw line. They might fiddle with their jersey, or kick their shoes. The important thing isn’t the specific habitual tool they employ, but that they always use it, even in practice. When the pressure is on the use of their tool reminds them, “I’ve been here before; I know what I’m doing.”
I hadn’t realized until just a second ago that I have employed a blend of Vanessa’s and Robert’s tactics when public speaking. I would look left and right, take in the view from the stage, and tell myself that this is my time so to just enjoy it. I would do this even when I rehearsed. I’m kicking myself that it had only occurred to do something like this when speaking. I hadn’t thought about different tactics for different situations. During much of my early life I had a rather binary and somewhat intricate approach to dealing with the pressures of the moment.
After reading about this idea in a book on neuroscience I would visualize my nerves, or my anxiety as a monster, and then I would slowly diminish it. I would explore what it looked like, what it sounded like, even what it smelt and felt like. A giant, vibrant red, scaly creature, with the roar of an avalanche, and a breath with the pungent odor of sulphur and burnt hair would, before my eyes, shrink to the size of a hamster. I’d hold it in my hand as its color turned to grey. I would peer closely at it and it would emit a single frightened squeak. It would smell of lavender and thyme.
My technique wasn’t particularly flexible, or fast. I recall using it during morning of persistent frustration. With every failure my performance worsened, the nerves and annoyance increased, and I’d use my technique with ever more seriousness, trying to picture the creature with ever more detail. I think I had already gone through the process nine times. When I got to the tenth I had just got to the point of imagining what my nerves would look if they were an animal when my friends yelled at me, “just take the bloody putt!” [What can I say? I get a bit competitive with myself!]
Getting older has also helped with these kinds of nerves. In part this is down to experience. During my first marathon I barely got any seep, arrived two hours before the start, went to the toilet three times, and spent the first half worrying whether I’d finish. By my tenth I woke up once in the middle of the night to have a snack, went right back to sleep, and was at the start line barely 15 minutes before the gun.
I also find myself caring less as I age. You begin to realize those who know you matter, and those who don’t matter don’t know you. Growing old isn’t always an option for us, but when it isn’t, perhaps some of the other ideas I have shared can help.
