The Art of Learning: An Inner Journey to Optimal Performance

by Josh Waitzkin

I also studied my opponents closely. Like myself, their psychological nuances in life manifested over the board. I would watch a rival tapping his feet impatiently while waiting for an elevator or carefully maneuvering around his peas on a dinner plate. If someone was a controlling person who liked to calculate everything out before acting, I would make the chess position chaotic, beyond calculation, so he would have to make that uncomfortable leap into the unknown.

Get under the sk .

intuitive, fast, and hungering for abstract creations, I would make the position precise, so the only solution lay in patient, mind-numbing math.

losing—I was no longer primarily refining the skill of playing chess, but was discovering myself through chess.

I realized how much there was to know. I emerged from each good work session in slightly deeper awe of the mystery of chess, and with a building sense of humility. Increasingly, I felt more tender about my work than fierce. Art was truly becoming for art’s sake.

limelight. Fans once again mobbed me at tournaments, and I was expected to perform—but I was in one of those vulnerable stages of growth, like the hermit crab between shells. While my new philosophical approach to chess was exciting spiritually, it was also a bit undermining for a young competitor. The youthful arrogance of believing I had the answers was gone. I was flexible and introspective but lacked that unique character and drive to my game that had made me a champion. As a lover and learner of chess, I was flying, but as an artist and performer I was all locked up.

I think a life of ambition is like existing on a balance beam. As a child, there is no fear, no sense for the danger of falling. The beam feels wide and stable, and natural playfulness allows for creative leaps and fast learning. You can run around doing somersaults and flips, always testing yourself with a love for discovery and new challenges. If you happen to fall off—no problem, you just get back on. But then, as you get older, you become more aware of the risk of injury. You might crack your head or twist your knee. The beam is narrow and you have to stay up there. Plunging off would be humiliating.

My chess career ended with me teetering on a string above leaping flames, and in time, through a different medium, I rediscovered a relationship to ambition and art that has allowed me the freedom to create like a child under world championship pressure. This journey, from child back to child again, is at the very core of my understanding of success.

I believe that one of the most critical factors in the transition to becoming a conscious high performer is the degree to which your relationship to your pursuit stays in harmony with your unique disposition. There will inevitably be times when we need to try new ideas, release our current knowledge to take in new information—but it is critical to integrate this new information in a manner that does not violate who we are. By taking away our natural voice, we leave ourselves without a center of gravity to balance us as we navigate the countless obstacles along our way. It might be interesting to examine, with a bit more detail, how this happened to me.

Key point. Success is never in violation of one's authentic voice. Always in harmony. Stages of development may be painful/vulnerable but the core must always be real.

His mildest comments feel like natural koans, and in conversation it is all too easy to let gems slip through your mind like a breeze.

chessboard comes out, Razuvaev’s face settles into a relaxed focus, his eyes become piercing, and a razor-sharp mind comes to bear. Analyzing with Razuvaev, I consistently felt as though he was penetrating the deepest wrinkles in my mind through my every chess move. After just a few hours of work with him, I had the impression he understood me more truly than almost anybody in my life. It was like playing chess with Yoda.