Lent Photo a Day: Practice

We’ve all heard the old joke: How do you get to Carnegie Hall? Practice, practice, practice.

Practice is often associated with discipline. When I think of the word “practice,” I immediately think of two things: musical instruments and sports. I spent countless hours practicing my flute and my French horn during my childhood. Every practice session began with boring warmup exercises, like long tones and scales and intervals. Only after going through a series of dull drills was I supposed to continue on with working on the pretty melodies and interesting pieces that I enjoyed playing. As I improved and matured, I understood how the boring parts of practicing served to make me a better player, and how they contributed greatly to my ability to play the “fun stuff,” and to play it well. But at the time, practice was a hated but necessary evil. Similarly, my friends who played sports began their practices with boring stretching exercises and repetitive and uninteresting skills drills. The boring parts of practice felt like the price we had to pay to get to do the fun stuff, and even when we understood that there was a valid reason why we did it, we never really liked it.

“Practice” is a word we use in our home quite a bit these days. We don’t do formal music lessons or sports yet, but my 5-year-old son has reached the age where he recognizes what he doesn’t know, and he’s frustrated by skills he hasn’t yet mastered. And every time he struggles with a new skill, I remind him that new things take practice.

In his preschool class, every morning begins with writing practice: the children carefully practice writing their full names on a chart. By the end of the week (or the month), you can see how much their practice has improved their letters: the first line is often wobbly, with letters of all different sizes, some facing backwards, some floating far above the line, some drooping below, a mix of lowercase and capital letters. But by the last line, the letters are neater and more uniform, showing more confidence and mastery. The charts are visible proof that practice makes, if not perfect, at least marked improvement.

Even as adults, we sometimes need to practice new skills. If we are laid off after a decade at the same job, we may need to practice our resume-writing skills, or our interview skills. If we learn a new skill, like knitting or skiing or digital photo editing, the only way to become proficient is to practice. Practice is, even in adulthood, a necessary evil. But it is also the only road to mastery. 

After all, the only way to get to Carnegie Hall, whether you’re 7 or 77, is practice, practice, practice.

Practice.

What a Difference a Year Makes

I'm sure I've blogged on this topic before. I've probably even used this exact title before. But when you have small children, you are struck again and again by how much they grow and change (and by how much they change YOU) over the course of 12 months.

One year ago, my then just-turned-2-year-old daughter began taking gymnastics classes. And, like her brother before her, she was a trial to her teacher. Even with me by her side, she didn’t listen, she didn’t follow her classmates, she wanted to play on every piece of equipment except the one she was supposed to be playing on. I spent more time chasing her around the gym than actually doing exercises with her.

She did improve over the course of the year, at least to the point where I was able to get her to cooperate by telling her to instead of by physically chasing her around or bodily picking her up and slinging her into line with the other kids. But I couldn’t imagine what it would be like putting her in a class without me by her side after three months of being away from class.

Well, here it is the next fall, and her second week of class without me. I’d be lying if I said she was perfectly behaved. I would be lying if I said she paid attention to her teacher all the time. I’d be lying if I said she wasn’t the least focused child in the class a good bit of the time. But I’d also be lying if I said the improvement wasn’t far above and beyond what I’d ever imagined or even hoped.

She runs right into the warmup circle at the start of class. She sits when she’s told to sit (most of the time), she gets into line with everyone else (some of the time), she waits patiently for her turn (occasionally – although she does at least wait impatiently a good deal of the time), she listens to what her teacher says and tries to do it (almost all of the time).

Well, she's not standing on her dot, but she's in the general vicinity of the circle,
she's not racing around on other equipment, and she seems to be listening to the
teacher. I'd call that a win.

But best of all, she doesn’t think twice about leaving me behind at the top of the stairs when class begins. She doesn’t look up to the windows during class to reassure herself that I’m still there. And although she’s happy to see me at the end of class, it’s not because she’s upset or scared, but because she can’t wait to tell me all about all the exciting things that she just did.

What a difference a year makes. And viva la difference!!

On Again, Off Again

Yesterday afternoon, Ryan mastered the light switch. He’s been curious about them for a while, and will often reach for one and poke it with the tip of his finger, but yesterday was the first time he managed to flip the switch at will – and recognize the results. The look of amazement on his face was priceless.

Unlike doorknobs (which he is also trying desperately to master), our house has very few light switches that are within his reach. There are a couple he can almost reach if he climbs on the back of the couch (which is highly discouraged), but there’s also one at the bottom of the basement stairs that he can reach if he stands on his tiptoes or stretches really hard. Or if Mummy lets him climb on her lap while she sits on the stairs (which is pretty common, since it’s the best way to stop him from climbing all the way up the stairs). And since that particular light switch is a double switch, it’s even more exciting!

The two lights that it controls are directly overhead and right behind him, so it definitely helps him make the connection between flipping the switch and seeing the light go on or off. We spent a long time this morning with him flipping the switch as I announced, “On!” or “Off!”, looking at the light that just went on or off, and then giggling. I love watching him delight in his “power” to make light. He would very solemnly look at the switch and deliberately flip it up, then throw his head back to see the light bulb that just went on and grin in amazement. Then he would look at me as if to say, “See what I just did?” And then he’d flip it down and do the same thing. Over and over and over again, on and off and on and off and on and off, light and dark and light and dark and light and dark.

I’m sure it’s not particularly good for either the light bulbs or the light switches, but I’d be happy to rewire half the house just to see Ryan’s fascinated expression. It’s not just the bulb that lights up, it’s also that adorable little face. And, I suspect, the adoring big face that’s watching.

Fractals and Vectors

My sister and I have always been fascinated by physics. And between my college physics courses and her reading books by people like Carl Sagan and Stephen Hawking, we can usually come up with a reasonably scientific explanation for most physical phenomena. But every once in a while we come across something that defies explanation (to us, anyway). And when that happens, we always have the same response: “It’s fractals and vectors!” Anything we describe as “fractals and vectors” is beyond our comprehension.


Ryan has been studying physics in his own baby way of late. He’s discovered that balls rolls down a ramp but blocks don’t. He’s discovered that balls and things with wheels can be rolled back and forth between people. And just this morning he discovered that if he throws one of his stacking rings at the floor hard enough, it bounces. He spent twenty minutes throwing rings at the floor and curiously watching them bounce. Sometimes they would bounce directly back at him. Sometimes they would bounce away from him. Sometimes they would land on their sides and roll a few inches or even a few feet. And each time, he would pick the ring up, study it intently for a moment, wave it in the air a few times, and then bounce it off the floor once again. His curiosity was mixed with puzzlement. I could imagine him wondering, “Why does it sometimes come back and sometimes roll away?” And they I could imagine him deciding, “Oh! It must be because of fractals and vectors!”

At this stage in his life, everything must seem like fractals and vectors to him. He can’t possibly understand yet that round things roll and square things don’t. He hasn’t made the connection that sometimes he slips on the floor because he’s wearing socks and sometimes he sticks because his feet are bare. He hasn’t figured out that gravity is what makes him fall on his bottom when he lets go of the furniture, or what makes his toys fall on the floor when he lets go of them. He doesn’t have any idea why grabbing onto a book that’s sitting on the couch doesn’t stop him from falling over but grabbing onto the couch itself does. So many things that are easily explainable by an adult are a complete mystery to him.

And yet, I can tell that he’s slowly putting the pieces of the puzzle together. He’s no longer surprised that blocks don’t roll down the slide, or that the ball bounces off the wall when he pushes it, or that when he drops his toys they fall to the floor. He doesn’t understand why quite yet, but he does understand that things behave in repetitive, predictable ways. And that’s the beginning of understanding why they do what they do. For now, it’s enough. It’s fractals and vectors!

I, Robot

This morning Herb was surfing YouTube and came across an amazing video of a prototype robot which moves in a very humanlike way and can even get up off the floor if it’s knocked over. We watched a series of videos of highly-advanced robots that can climb stairs, pick up objects, and walk around obstacles. And we were both astounded at the incredibly complicated technology it must entail.


And then I stopped to think about Ryan. While these brilliant engineers were welding together silicon and steel, designing and programming tiny computer chips, balancing and testing and tweaking their robots, he was learning exactly those same skills. In just a few short months, he has learned to pick up objects, to pull himself into a standing position, even to more around an object that’s in his way (well, sort of). And judging from his curious looks up the stairwell, he’s well on his way to mastering stair climbing. And yet, we don’t put that into the same category of astounding as we do the development of a robot that can do the same things.

When you think about all the skills that a human being develops in the first year of his life, it really is astounding. He learns to control his limbs, to propel himself around (by various means), to communicate through both speaking and listening. He learns to recognize people. He learns to feed himself. He learns to express his desires. He learns to control his emotions. He learns to understand the tone of voice and facial expressions of others. How many dozens of years has it taken for man to invent a robot who can do half of those things, half as well?

The human body – and even more, the human mind – is an amazing and astounding thing. We take it for granted all too often. But from now on, every time Ryan learns a new skill, I’ll be looking at it from a new perspective. And being amazed, yet again!