However, whenever the problem that you’re trying to solve resides in reality, the epistemic process of “trying to create a map of someone else’s map of reality” is inherently misguided and likely to lead you astray. One of the most important aspects of this, in my experience, is that you cannot interact with someone else’s map of the territory in the same way you can interact with—say, run experiments on—territory.
Recently I’ve begun to ask Duncan, who used to teach taekwondo, to teach me a martial arts technique here or there. I did this tonight, and he taught me a certain way to respond when someone tries to punch your face.
I noticed that I was shutting down right away, a result (I’d guess) of complicated experiences with martial arts in my childhood. There were hints of it as I watched the characteristic karate-like way his body moved, but it was undeniable when he asked me to mimic his movements.
As soon as I recognized “something like frustration”, I asked Duncan to pause. I took several seconds to close my eyes, breathe, and notice what was going on in my head.
In my experience, mentorship relationships are incredibly intense in the martial arts, especially in one-on-one interactions. The other person is standing right in front of you just a couple feet away, looking you in the eye, moving toward you, touching you. Your thoughts in response are not hidden in the privacy of your skull. You don’t get to mull them over until you find just the right words, as you might with a chemistry tutor; instead, what you are thinking is written directly on your posture and movement quality, and your teacher is an expert at reading your movements.
As I stood there with my eyes closed, taking calming breaths, I noticed that the cluster of paralyzing and frustrated feelings seemed to exist in a triangle of me, Duncan, and his perceptions of my movements. At first I didn’t quite understand and didn’t know what to do about it. I just kept breathing until I felt a little better, and then asked him to continue.
I paused us many times in the few minutes we spent on this. Over the course of lesson, I seemed to figure out something about how to thaw this particular kind of being frozen.
The way out is to reach for my true intention. “Why,” I asked myself during one of the pauses, “do I want to learn this technique?” I can’t easily fit the answer into words, but at the heart is a feeling of desire for knowledge, power, and flexibility. I want to know how the technique works, I want to physically embody the knowledge, and I want to feel the fluidity and expansion of learning something new. I am curious about the technique.
There’s a nearby attractor, a pattern of thinking and attending toward which my mind automatically sinks when someone stands in front of me and tries to teach me how to block a punch. I find myself trying to do what they want me to do. Trying to move in the ways that will please them—or, ideally, in ways that will impress them. My thoughts are non-verbal and mostly pre-conscious, but if they weren’t, they might go, “Is this what he means? Does he think this is better? Like this?”
This is what it sounds like to try to map someone else’s map.
Reminding myself of my true intention was like a bridge over a deep chasm. Once I had found a glimmer of my curiosity, I could move from there into thoughts that sound quite different. I thought things like, “Would I turn more easily if my left foot stepped out wider? Maybe I will have more room to move my center of gravity forward if I keep my hands closer to my chest. Should I prepare for the step by shifting my weight to the other foot?”
This is what it sounds like to map the territory.
I sometimes had thoughts that involved Duncan—”What is he doing differently as he sweeps his arms up?”—but they were not about Duncan. They were about the technique, and how I could master it.
Thank you for writing this, Nora. I’ve been unable to interact with anything to do with martial arts for well over a decade, and have struggled with all kinds of similar situations, because of this paralysis that always comes over me. I’m so happy to have found a way to stay grounded and engaged, and I’m sure the hypothesis occurred to me because of this post.
Recently I’ve begun to ask Duncan, who used to teach taekwondo, to teach me a martial arts technique here or there. I did this tonight, and he taught me a certain way to respond when someone tries to punch your face.
I noticed that I was shutting down right away, a result (I’d guess) of complicated experiences with martial arts in my childhood. There were hints of it as I watched the characteristic karate-like way his body moved, but it was undeniable when he asked me to mimic his movements.
As soon as I recognized “something like frustration”, I asked Duncan to pause. I took several seconds to close my eyes, breathe, and notice what was going on in my head.
In my experience, mentorship relationships are incredibly intense in the martial arts, especially in one-on-one interactions. The other person is standing right in front of you just a couple feet away, looking you in the eye, moving toward you, touching you. Your thoughts in response are not hidden in the privacy of your skull. You don’t get to mull them over until you find just the right words, as you might with a chemistry tutor; instead, what you are thinking is written directly on your posture and movement quality, and your teacher is an expert at reading your movements.
As I stood there with my eyes closed, taking calming breaths, I noticed that the cluster of paralyzing and frustrated feelings seemed to exist in a triangle of me, Duncan, and his perceptions of my movements. At first I didn’t quite understand and didn’t know what to do about it. I just kept breathing until I felt a little better, and then asked him to continue.
I paused us many times in the few minutes we spent on this. Over the course of lesson, I seemed to figure out something about how to thaw this particular kind of being frozen.
The way out is to reach for my true intention. “Why,” I asked myself during one of the pauses, “do I want to learn this technique?” I can’t easily fit the answer into words, but at the heart is a feeling of desire for knowledge, power, and flexibility. I want to know how the technique works, I want to physically embody the knowledge, and I want to feel the fluidity and expansion of learning something new. I am curious about the technique.
There’s a nearby attractor, a pattern of thinking and attending toward which my mind automatically sinks when someone stands in front of me and tries to teach me how to block a punch. I find myself trying to do what they want me to do. Trying to move in the ways that will please them—or, ideally, in ways that will impress them. My thoughts are non-verbal and mostly pre-conscious, but if they weren’t, they might go, “Is this what he means? Does he think this is better? Like this?”
This is what it sounds like to try to map someone else’s map.
Reminding myself of my true intention was like a bridge over a deep chasm. Once I had found a glimmer of my curiosity, I could move from there into thoughts that sound quite different. I thought things like, “Would I turn more easily if my left foot stepped out wider? Maybe I will have more room to move my center of gravity forward if I keep my hands closer to my chest. Should I prepare for the step by shifting my weight to the other foot?”
This is what it sounds like to map the territory.
I sometimes had thoughts that involved Duncan—”What is he doing differently as he sweeps his arms up?”—but they were not about Duncan. They were about the technique, and how I could master it.
Thank you for writing this, Nora. I’ve been unable to interact with anything to do with martial arts for well over a decade, and have struggled with all kinds of similar situations, because of this paralysis that always comes over me. I’m so happy to have found a way to stay grounded and engaged, and I’m sure the hypothesis occurred to me because of this post.